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diff --git a/old/22121-h.htm.2021-01-25 b/old/22121-h.htm.2021-01-25 new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8e9b3db --- /dev/null +++ b/old/22121-h.htm.2021-01-25 @@ -0,0 +1,19920 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Olive, by Dinah Maria Craik, AKA: Dinah Maria Mulock + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 2em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + pre { font-family: Times; font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + // +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +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] +Last Updated: March 6, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLIVE *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + OLIVE + </h1> + <h3> + A NOVEL <br /> <br /> BY DINAH MARIA CRAIK, <br /> AKA: Dinah Maria Mulock + <br /> <br /> <br /> “BY THE AUTHOR OF 'JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN'” <br /> <br /> + <br /> WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY G. BOWERS <br /> <br /> <br /> 1875 <br /> <br /> + FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1850. + </h3> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> + <img src="images/p0005-frontispiece.jpg" width="100%" alt="Frontispiece " /> + </div> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> + <img src="images/titlepage.jpg" width="100%" alt="Titlepage " /> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <big><b>OLIVE.</b></big> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXIV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XXXV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XXXVI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XXXVII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XXXVIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XXXIX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XLI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER XLII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER XLIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER XLIV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0045"> CHAPTER XLV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0046"> CHAPTER XLVI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0047"> CHAPTER XLVII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0048"> CHAPTER XLVIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0049"> CHAPTER XLIX. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>Illustrations</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkimage-0001"> Frontispiece </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkimage-0002"> Titlepage </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkimage-0003"> Page 5, How Daur Ye Speak So </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkimage-0004"> Page 45, Olive, Little Noticed, Sat on the + Hearthrug </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkimage-0005"> Page 88, She Walked out Into Her Favourite + Meadow </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkimage-0006"> Page 205 his Anger Had Vanished </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkimage-0007"> Page 314, Now, My Bairn, Lift up Your Face + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkimage-0008"> Page 401, Olive and Harold </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + OLIVE. + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> + <p> + “Puir wee lassie, ye hae a waesome welcome to a waesome warld!” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my good—— excuse me, but I forget your name.” + </p> + <p> + “Elspeth, or mair commonly, Elspie Murray. And no an ill name, doctor. The + Murrays o' Perth were”—— + </p> + <p> + “No doubt—no doubt, Mrs. Elsappy.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Elspie</i>, sir. How daur ye ca' me out o' my name, wi' your unceevil + English tongue!” + </p> + <p> + “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, + </p> + <p> + “I'll thank ye no to speak ill words in the ears o' this puir innocent + new-born wean. It's no canny.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In short, Olive Rothesay shared with many a king and hero the honour of + her place of nativity. She was born at Stirling. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>my</i> + mountains,” or “This is <i>my</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Our sweet young patient is doing well, I think, nurse,” said he, at last, + in his most benevolent tones. + </p> + <p> + “Ye may say that, doctor—ye suld ken.” + </p> + <p> + “I might almost venture to leave her, except that she seems so lonely, + without friend or nurse, save yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I have not the slightest doubt of Captain Rothesay's respectability,” + answered Dr. Johnson. <i>Respectability</i>! 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And the father is gone abroad?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It's no a' richt,” cried the nurse, in a tone trembling between anger and + apprehension. “Doctor, see!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Aweel?” said Elspie, inquiringly. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Eh, what?” said the nurse. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to say that the child is <i>deformed</i>—slightly so—very + slightly I hope—but most certainly deformed. Hump-backed.” + </p> + <p> + At this terrible sentence Elspie sank back in her chair. Then she started + up, clasping the child convulsively, and faced the doctor. + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> + <img src="images/p0005-frontispiece.jpg" width="100%" + alt="Page 5, How Daur Ye Speak So " /> + </div> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “My poor woman!” mildly said the doctor, “I am really concerned.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + A faint call from the inner room startled both doctor and nurse. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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'?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “She has two eyes, so soft and brown— + She gives a side-glance and looks down.” + </pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “They do say that,” replied Elspie, with another and a heavier sigh; as + she bent closer over her work. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Elspie started up. “Tak' tent, tak' tent! ye'll hurt it, maybe, the puir + wee——Oh, what was I gaun to say!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mrs. Rothesay! And are ye no proud o' your husband's family?” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>am</i> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Smitten with a sudden pang, poor Elspie cried, “Oh, my leddy, dinna think + o' the future. Dinna!”—— and she stopped, confused. + </p> + <p> + “Really, how strange you are. But go on. We'll have no more Christinas nor + Isobels.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Ne'er a ane o' the Rothesay line, man or woman, that wasna fair to see.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “It's a strange, heathen name, Mrs. Rothesay.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Dream! Are ye sure it was i' the morning-tide?” cried Elspie, aroused + into interest. + </p> + <p> + “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!'” + </p> + <p> + While Mrs. Rothesay spoke, her thoughtless manner had once more softened + into deep feeling. Elspie watched her with wondering eagerness. + </p> + <p> + “It was nae dream; it was a vision. God send it true!” said the old woman, + solemnly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Sassenach</i> niece. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + The doctor bowed a smiling assent, and walked to the window. Thither + Elspie followed him. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He shook her off with an uneasy look. He had never felt in a more + disagreeable position. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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;”—— + </p> + <p> + “Certainly—but how grave you are about it.” + </p> + <p> + “I have a painful duty—a very painful duty,” he replied. But Elspie + pushed him aside. + </p> + <p> + “Ye're just a fule, man!—ye'll kill her. Say your say at ance!” + </p> + <p> + The young mother turned deadly pale. “Say <i>what</i> Elspie? What is he + going to tell me? Angus”—— + </p> + <p> + “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”—— + </p> + <p> + “Is, I grieve to say it, deformed,” added Dr. Johnson. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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—— + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Ye maun kiss and bless your dochter. Nae tongue but her mither's suld ca' + her by her new-christened name.” + </p> + <p> + “What name?” + </p> + <p> + “The name ye gied her yer ain sel.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “She's yer ain dochter—Olive Rothesay,” answered Elspie, less + harshly. “She may be an angel to ye yet.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The fatal secret she had not dared to tell him. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> + <p> + 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—<i>fretted</i> + 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 <i>him</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It will never do for the people here; they're '<i>unco gude</i>,'” said + the doctor's English wife, who had imbibed a few Scottish prejudices by a + residence of thirty years. “Nobody ever dances in Stirling.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Olive</i>. + </p> + <p> + A feeble, trembling voice answered from the little bed, “Yes, please, + mamma!” + </p> + <p> + “There, you hear, Elspie! Now don't torment me any more about her. But I + must go down stairs.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In the midst of the dizzy round the door opened, and, like some evil + spectre, in stalked Elspie Murray. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>mutch</i> 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, + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Rothesay, your husband's come!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Ye may gang your gate, ye heathens! Awa wi' ye, for Captain Rothesay's + come hame!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “So, the young lady I saw whirling madly in some man's arms—was you, + Sybilla—was <i>my wife</i>.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Just as much a child as ever, I see,” said Angus Rothesay, with a rather + wintry smile. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Come, Sybilla, let us go and see our little Olive.” + </p> + <p> + “O Angus!” and the mother turned deadly white. + </p> + <p> + Captain Rothesay seemed alarmed. “Don't trifle with me, Sybilla—there + is nothing the matter? The child is not ill?” + </p> + <p> + “No; quite well.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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”—— + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me! Is that—that miserable creature—our daughter, Olive + Rothesay?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot come. I dare not even look at you. You are so angry.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “Cheat!—lie! Oh, Angus! What cruel, wicked words!” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry I used them, then. I will choose a lighter term—deceit. + Why did you so <i>deceive</i> your husband?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “God forbid! No, it is not the misfortune—it is the falsehood which + stings me.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I did not mean to pain you thus deeply, Sybilla. I do not say that you + have ceased to love me!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The jest was ill-timed; he was in too bitter a mood. “Excuse me—you + exact too much, Mrs. Rothesay.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Mrs. Rothesay!</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you told <i>me</i>? Is there nothing you have kept back from me + these five years?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot—I cannot!” and Sybilla hung back, weeping anew. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I am glad of it,” answered Sybilla. But she lived to rue the day when her + husband made this one promise. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “Nurse,” said the child, suddenly fixing on Elspie's face her large eyes, + “was that my papa I saw?” + </p> + <p> + “It was just himsel, my sweet wee pet,” cried Elspie, trying to stop her + with kisses; but Olive went on. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Nurse, I wish to see Miss Olive Rothesay.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do ye no see, Captain Angus,” she whispered, “'tis your ain bonnie face—ay, + and your Mither's. Ye mind her yet?” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + How Elspie then prided herself for the continual tutoring which had made + the image of the absent father an image of love! + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + “Papa is glad to see you, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What does she mean?” said Captain Rothesay. + </p> + <p> + “Puir bairn! I tauld her, when her father was come hame, he wad tak' her + in his arms and kiss her.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Is papa going?” said Olive, with a troubled look. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Be a good child, my dear, and say your prayers every night, and love + nurse Elspie.” + </p> + <p> + “And papa too, may I?” + </p> + <p> + He seemed to struggle violently against some inward feeling, and then + answered with a strong effort, “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + “God guide us! it's a' come richt at last.” + </p> + <p> + Poor, honest, humble soul! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> + <p> + 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 <i>laisser-aller</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But it was something new for Sybilla to think at all. It did her good in + spite of herself. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “We will quit that subject, if you please.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” <i>Business</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “My dear Sybilla, I wish to consult with you on a subject of some + importance.” + </p> + <p> + She looked up with a pretty, childish surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Consult with me! O Angus! pray don't tease me with any of your hard + business matters; I never could understand them.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “Now, Angus, begin—I am all attention.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we send Olive away?” said the mother. + </p> + <p> + “No, let her stay—she is of no importance.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Sybilla,” suddenly resumed Captain Rothesay, “what I have to say is + merely, how soon you can arrange to leave Stirling?” + </p> + <p> + “Leave Stirling?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I have taken a house.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed! and you never told me anything about it,” said Sybilla, with a + vexed look. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “We <i>were</i> not, but we are now, I am happy to say,” answered Captain + Rothesay, with some triumph. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “No; it wasn't.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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, <i>deceived</i> her. + </p> + <p> + At the term the husband rose up sternly. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Rothesay, who was it that deceived me?” + </p> + <p> + He pointed to the child, and the glance of both rested on little Olive. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Olive has done nothing wrong? Papa and mamma, you are not angry with poor + little Olive?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The child had better go away to bed,” said Captain Rothesay. + </p> + <p> + Olive was carried out nestling closely in her mother's arms. + </p> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + “There is no quarrel between us, Angus?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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,— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “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.” + </pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0004" id="linkimage-0004"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> + <img src="images/p045.jpg" width="100%" + alt="Page 45, Olive, Little Noticed, Sat on the Hearthrug " /> + </div> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>is</i>, but always is to + come! Blessed Childhood! spent in peace and loneliness and dreams; hidden + therein lay the germs of a whole life. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Go to your bed again, dear nurse,” anxiously cried Olive. “You should not + walk about. Nay, you are not worse?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, Elspie dear, you are weak with being ill; but you will get + better soon. Oh, yes, very soon!” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “Unto God,” said Elspie, solemnly.—“Dearie, I wadna grieve ye, but + I'm aye sure this sickness is unto death.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I am little Olive—indeed I am,” cried the terrified child. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I go and call the maids? But that dark dark passage—I dare + not.” + </p> + <p> + “It's no matter, bide ye till the daylight,” said Elspie, as she sank + again into heavy sleep. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 “<i>Deliver us from evil</i>” 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Will she die?” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “No—no,” Olive said in a frightened whisper; “let me look at her—let + me touch her hand.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Come and tell me when there is <i>any change</i>.” + </p> + <p> + <i>Any change!</i> 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”? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>not</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Olive, dearest,” said Mrs. Rothesay, herself subdued into weeping. + </p> + <p> + “I know, mamma,” was the answer. “Now I have no one to love me but you.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Where shall Miss Rothesay sleep to-night?” was the whispered question of + the maid. Olive burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + “She shall sleep with me. Darling, do not cry for your poor nurse, will + not mamma do instead?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + How often, in our human fate, does the very Hand that taketh, give! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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—<i>for ever</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Angus Rothesay was a disappointed man. At five-and-twenty he had taken a + beautiful, playful, half-educated child, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “His bride and his darling to be,” + </pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + But between those two stood the yet scarce recognised tie which bound them + together—the little deformed child. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. + </h2> + <p> + “Captain Rothesay?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear, what have you to say?” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you would not be always reading, it makes the evening so dull.” + </p> + <p> + “Does it?” and he turned over another leaf of Adam Smith, and leisurely + settled himself for its perusal. + </p> + <p> + “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— + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Only tired with his journey,” put in the sweet little awdiator. “Is it + not so papa?” + </p> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + “Well, child, what do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Ere long, Captain Rothesay sent for little Olive, to read the evening + newspaper to him in his study. + </p> + <p> + “Go, love,” said Mrs. Rothesay; and she went—without fear, too; for + her father never said a harsh word to <i>her</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, it is quite settled; the ball shall be at Merivale, on the + 20th of next month.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! is that you, Olive?” was all he said, beginning to turn over his + papers, as if to make a show of occupation. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I bring your candle, dear papa? It is eleven o'clock and more.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is your mother, Olive?” + </p> + <p> + “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, + </p> + <p> + “You are not like your mother; you are like <i>mine</i>—ay, and seem + more so as you grow to be a woman.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Captain Rothesay relapsed hastily into his cold manner. “Child, how do you + know?” + </p> + <p> + “I know nothing, and want to know nothing, that papa does not wish to tell + me,” answered Olive, gently. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Olive, how old are you?—I forget.” + </p> + <p> + “Fifteen, dear papa.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I had forgotten,” muttered Captain Rothesay to himself. “Of course, she + will never marry. Poor child!—poor child!” + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + “Mamma is sure to wake; she always does when you come in. Kiss mamma, + too.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Only, just when she was falling asleep, the thought floated across Olive's + mind— + </p> + <p> + “I wonder why papa said that, of course, I should never marry!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. + </h2> + <p> + “Dear mamma, is not this a pretty house, even though it is in a town?—so + pretty, one need hardly pine after Merri-vale.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + Olive answered neither <i>yes</i> nor <i>no</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Olive, this night, was peculiarly successful in her little <i>ruse</i> 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— + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, my dear; it amuses me, and I can talk with you the while.” + </p> + <p> + But Mrs. Rothesay did not talk much; she was continually falling into a + reverie. Once she broke it with the words— + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear old Merivale!” said Olive, with a sigh. It seemed ages since she had + left the familiar place. + </p> + <p> + “Do not call it <i>dear</i>. It was a dreary home. I did not think so at + first, but I did afterwards.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, mamma. And what made you dislike sweet Merivale?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>her</i>, 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— + </p> + <p> + “Don't—pray! You are very cruel, Bob.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The evening was very fine,” she said; “and it was rather dull, walking in + the garden all alone.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Sara</i>, 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, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My pensive Sarah! thy soft cheek reclined, etc. +</pre> + <p> + At which Miss Sara Derwent laughed, and asked who wrote that very pretty + poetry? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + We also have been in Arcadia. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + Poor little Olive! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. + </h2> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Now, reader, be not alarmed lest we should indulge you with the same. Go + back into your own <i>repertoire</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>will</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed. Who was that?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Times''</i> “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>to love</i> rather than <i>to + be loved</i>. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Has anything happened?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + And in truth she looked so. Was there ever a very young girl who did not, + on receiving her first love-letter? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Olive?” said the latter. + </p> + <p> + Olive threw her arms round her friend's neck and kissed her, feeling + almost ready to cry. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Do! Why, if you love him, you must tell him so, and give him your whole + life-long faith and affection.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Sara, Sara!” murmured Olive, “how happy you ought to be!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Olive did not notice it; she was too much occupied in tying up a rare + bouquet—a birthday gift for Sara. + </p> + <p> + “Well, are you quite satisfied with my dress, dearest mamma?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “'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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Oh, blessed adversity! oh, sweetness, taught by suffering! How marvellous + was the change wrought in Sybilla's heart. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I like far better to sit here quietly with you,” murmured the faithful + little cavalier. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Lyle; still, they all look so merry, I almost wish some one + had asked me to dance.” + </p> + <p> + “You dance, Miss Rothesay! What fun! Why nobody would ever dance with + you,” cried rude Bob. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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”— + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>cadet</i> In the midst of which the two belligerents—poor, + untaught, motherless lads—were hurried off to bed. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Too early seen unknown, and known too late. +</pre> + <p> + “What! tired of dancing already?” cried Sara, flitting to the corner where + Olive sat. + </p> + <p> + “I have not danced once yet,” Olive answered, rather piteously. + </p> + <p> + “Come—shall I get you a partner?” said Sara, carelessly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Sara consented with a tolerably good grace; but there was a slight shadow + on her face, which somewhat pained her friend. + </p> + <p> + “Is she ashamed of me, I wonder?” thought Olive. “Perhaps, because I am + not beautiful. Yet, no one ever told me I was <i>very</i> disagreeable to + look at. I will see.” + </p> + <p> + As they danced, she watched in the tall mirror Sara's graceful, floating + image, and the little pale figure that moved beside her. There <i>was</i> + 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: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “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!” + </pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I laughed to see you dancing with that little Olive Rothesay, Miss + Derwent. For my part, I hate dancing with girls—and as for <i>her</i>—But + I suppose you wanted to show the contrast.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay, that's ill-natured,” answered Sara, “She is a sweet little creature, + and my very particular friend.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know she is your friend, and Mr. Charles Geddes' great friend too; + if I were you, I should be almost jealous.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not; nobody would fall in love with her! But there is a waltz, + I must run away. Will you come?” + </p> + <p> + “Presently—when I have looked in the other room for Olive?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Sara appeared confused, and with a quick impulse kissed and fondled her + little friend: “You are not vexed, or pained, Olive?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Not hate you; but”—— + </p> + <p> + “Well, go on—nay, I <i>will</i> know all!” said Olive firmly; though + gradually a thought—long subdued—began to dawn painfully in + her mind. + </p> + <p> + “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”—— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I see as I never saw before—so little I thought of myself. Yes, it + is quite true—quite true.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke beneath her breath, and her eyes seemed fascinated into a hard, + cold gaze. Sara became almost frightened. + </p> + <p> + “Do not look so, my dear girl; I did not say that it was a positive <i>deformity</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Olive faintly shuddered: “Ah, that is the word! I understand it all now.” + </p> + <p> + She paused a moment, covering her face. But very soon she sat down, so + quiet and pale that Sara was deceived. + </p> + <p> + “You do not mind it, then, Olive—you are not angry with me?” she + said soothingly. + </p> + <p> + “Angry with you—how could I be?” + </p> + <p> + “Then you will come back with me, and we will have another dance.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, no!” And the cheerful good-natured voice seemed to make Olive + shrink with pain. “Sara, dear Sara, let me go home!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. + </h2> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Olive answered quietly, “Every one said it was pleasant.” + </p> + <p> + “But you,” returned the mother, with an anxiety she could scarce disguise—“who + talked to you?—who danced with you?” + </p> + <p> + “No one, except Sara.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor child!” was the half involuntary sigh; and Mrs. Rothesay drew her + daughter to her with deep tenderness. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Is that your father come home? He said he might, today or to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What, my child, are you not pleased?—It will make the house less + dull for you.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + She spoke with much agitation. Mrs. Rothesay burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Olive! how wretched you make me, to talk thus. Unhappy mother that I + am! Why should Heaven have punished me thus?” + </p> + <p> + “Punished you, mother?” + </p> + <p> + “Nay, my child—my poor, innocent child! I did not mean that,” cried + Mrs. Rothesay, embracing her with a passionate revulsion of feeling. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0005" id="linkimage-0005"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> + <img src="images/p088.jpg" width="100%" + alt="Page 88, She Walked out Into Her Favourite Meadow " /> + </div> + <p> + “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”—— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + And so—mournful, yet serene—Olive Rothesay reached her home. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>him</i>, + eh, Olive?” + </p> + <p> + But Olive was in no jesting mood. She only shook her head. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Another arrow in poor Olive's heart! + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + She fell on Sara's neck and wept. “You do care for me a little—only + a little.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, true! And everybody cares for you. No wonder,” answered Olive. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Nay, let some of the servants do that, not you, my child.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you stay up for me? I don't want anybody to sit up,” grumbled + Captain Rothesay, without looking at her. + </p> + <p> + “But I liked to wait for you, papa.” + </p> + <p> + “What, is that you, Olive?” and he stepped in with a lounging, heavy gait. + </p> + <p> + “Did you not see me before? It was I who opened the door.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad to see you are not much tired, papa. I thought you were—you + walked so wearily when you first came in.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Papa,” said Olive, timidly, “will that be quite right, after what you + told me of our being now so much poorer than we were?” + </p> + <p> + “Did I? Pshaw! I don't remember. However, I am a rich man now; richer than + I have ever been.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it?” + </p> + <p> + “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”—— + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no—never!” interrupted Olive, turning away with bitter pain. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He seemed annoyed, and slightly confounded. “Come, simpleton, why do you + stare at me?—there is nothing the matter. Go away to bed.” + </p> + <p> + Olive did not move. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter, little fool? Cannot your father take care of himself? + Give me the brandy again.” + </p> + <p> + But she held it fast, and made no answer. + </p> + <p> + “Olive, I say—do you insult me thus?” and his voice rose in anger. + “Go to bed, I command you! Will you not?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “You are very rude to your poor father; you—almost the only comfort + he has left!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Now, papa, it is time to go to bed. Pray, come upstairs.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “My daughter! how dare you call yourself so, you white-faced, mean-looking + hunchback!”—— + </p> + <p> + At the word, Olive recoiled—a strong shudder ran through her frame; + one long, sobbing sigh, and no more. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Olive!” he muttered, in a repentant, humbled tone. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, papa.” + </p> + <p> + “I am quite ready. If you like, I'll go to bed now.” + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + “Child, you are not vexed about anything I said?” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + “O God! teach me to endure!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. + </h2> + <p> + “What is the matter with the child to-day?” said Captain Rothesay to his + wife, with whom, oh rare circumstance! he was sitting <i>tête-à -tête</i>. + 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? + </p> + <p> + “How dull the girl seems!” again observed Captain Rothesay, looking after + his daughter, with a tenderness of which he afterwards appeared rather + ashamed. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “More fool he!” muttered Captain Rothesay. + </p> + <p> + “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”—— + </p> + <p> + Captain Rothesay turned round quickly. + </p> + <p> + —“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.” + </p> + <p> + “There is no silliness in that, I hope, Mrs. Rothesay?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, here is the name—Alison Balfour: do you know it?” + </p> + <p> + “I did once, when I was a boy.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Rothesay understood neither one state of feeling nor the other, so + she said, cheerfully, “Come, now for the story of Alison Balfour.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Really, Angus, I shall grow jealous,” said Mrs. Rothesay, half in jest, + half in earnest. “She must have been an old love of yours.” + </p> + <p> + Her husband frowned. “Folly, Sybilla! She was a woman, and I a schoolboy!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do you really care so much about me, Sybilla?” said he, half mournfully. + </p> + <p> + She did not spring to his arms, like the young wife at Stirling, but she + kissed his hand affectionately, and called him “Angus!” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + In the grey of the morning, when he stood despatching a hasty breakfast, + he was startled by a light touch on his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Little Olive!—why, I thought you were fast asleep.” + </p> + <p> + “I could not sleep when papa was going away; so I rose and dressed. You + will not be angry?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “No; I had writing to do.” As he spoke his countenance darkened. “Olive,” + he said, looking at her with sorrowful, questioning eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Well, dear papa.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing—nothing. Is the carriage ready?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet. You will have time just for one little thing—'twill take + only a minute,” said Olive, persuasively. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, little one?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Olive, my child in whom I trust, always remember I did love you—you + and your mother.” + </p> + <p> + These were the last words she heard him utter, ere he went away. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “That must surely be my landmark,” thought Captain Rothesay; and he made + an inquiry to that effect of a man passing by. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Where grew the turf in many a mouldering heap. +</pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>you</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You were gardening, I see?” said Captain Rothesay, making the first + ordinary remark that came to his mind to break the awkward pause. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Angus Rothesay! how strange this seems!—like a dream—a dream + of thirty years. Well, let us go in.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Strange that she could thus speak that name! But over how many a buried + grief does the grass grow green in thirty years! + </p> + <p> + In the hall they encountered a young man. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Such was the young man with whom Captain Rothesay shook hands, + congratulating his old friend on having such a son. + </p> + <p> + “You are more fortunate than I,” he said; “my marriage has only bestowed + on me a daughter.” + </p> + <p> + “Daughters are a great comfort sometimes,” answered Mrs. Gwynne; “though, + for my part, I never wished for one.” + </p> + <p> + The quick, reproachful glance of Harold sought his mother's face; and + shortly afterwards he re-entered his study. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>He</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I will stay at home with Captain Rothesay,” observed Mrs. Gwynne. Her + guest made a courteous disclaimer, which ended in something about + “religious duties.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet you have not forgotten her?” + </p> + <p> + “Do I ever forget?” said Alison, as she turned her face towards him. And + looking thereon, he felt that such a woman never could. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Your son is not like yourself—does he resemble Mr. Gwynne?” + observed Rothesay. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>my</i> son—“has + no remembrance of his father.” + </p> + <p> + Alas! that there should be some whose memories are gladly suffered to + perish with the falling of the earth above them. + </p> + <p> + A thought like this passed through the mind of Angus Rothesay. “I fancy,” + said he, “that I once met Mr. Gwynne; he was”—- + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Is it so? Strange! And yet I do but talk to you as I often did when we + were young together.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “A noble desire.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Angus looked at Mrs. Gwynne, and thought that a woman's will might + sometimes be as strong and daring as a man's. + </p> + <p> + 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”—— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I said you were a noble woman, Alison Balfour.” + </p> + <p> + “I was a mother, and I had a noble son.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “On such a stormy night as this!” said Angus Rothesay. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>to</i> him, for he is so reserved—that + is, so occupied with his clerical studies. But there never was a better + son than my Harold.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sure of it,” said Captain Rothesay. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Then he had already decided on entering the Church?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gwynne paused, and then went on, as though speaking more to herself + than to her listener. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And he has never repented?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That is clear, otherwise I had never seen Alison Balfour quitting the + kirk for the church.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Harold!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She often called him <i>my son</i> with a beautiful simplicity, that + reminded one of the holy Hebrew mothers—of Rebekah or of Hannah. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>you</i> know, what pleasure my mother + takes in your society.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You are thinking of your son and his marriage,” said Angus. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “To work such results, it must be an ardent love.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + When she came in again, Captain Rothesay was pacing the room uneasily. + </p> + <p> + “No ill news, I hope?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my kind friend—not exactly ill news, though vexatious enough. + But why should I trouble you with them!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “You <i>shall</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + He clasped her hand with as much emotion as was in his nature to show. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + “No, no; nothing amiss. Only Mr. Fludyer would have me go to the Hall to + see his new horses; and there I found”—— + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, Captain Rothesay busied, or seemed to busy himself, with his + numerous letters, and very wisely kept nearly out of sight. + </p> + <p> + As soon as her son appeared a little recovered from his vexation, Mrs. + Gwynne said, + </p> + <p> + “Now, Harold, if you are quite willing, I want to talk to you for a few + minutes. Shall it be now or this evening?” + </p> + <p> + “This evening I shall ride over to Waterton.” + </p> + <p> + “What! not one evening to spare for your mother, or”——she + corrected herself, “for your beloved books?” + </p> + <p> + He moved restlessly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He rarely spoke to her so freely, and, despite her pain, the mother was + touched. + </p> + <p> + “Go, then, go to Sara; and the matter I wished to speak upon we will + discuss now.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “He <i>shall</i>—I mean, he will,” answered the mother. + </p> + <p> + “But not until I have secured him in some way.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + Harold did sign. The instant after, glad to escape, he quitted the room. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Yet he omitted not again and again to thank Mrs. Gwynne, and with excited + eagerness to point to all the prospects now before him. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + “But I will say no more. You shall see or hear from me in a few days at + farthest.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow!” He remembered not the warning, “Boast not thyself of + to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. + </h2> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + She stooped down; moved almost to tears. + </p> + <p> + “Why are you always so sad? why do you never laugh, like Sara or the other + young ladies we know?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + And speaking rather loudly and energetically, he was answered by a burst + of derisive laughter from behind the wall. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I will kill Bob, I will! Never mind him, sweet, dear, beautiful Miss + Rothesay; I love you, and I hate him.” + </p> + <p> + “Hush! Lyle, hush! that is wrong.” And then she was silent. The little boy + stood by her side, his face still burning with indignation. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But you will forgive all, you will not think of anything that would + grieve you?” said Lyle, hesitatingly. + </p> + <p> + Olive promised, with a patient smile. + </p> + <p> + “And to prove this, will you kiss your little knight once again?” + </p> + <p> + Her soft drooping hair swept his cheek; her lips touched his. Lyle Derwent + never forgot this kiss of Olive Rothesay's. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Not yet, Olive—not yet! None receive the guerdon, save those who + have won the goal! + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Wyld, I thought it was my father. I am sorry that he is not at home + to receive you.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “From papa?” cried Olive, eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “No, not exactly; that is—. But can I see Mrs. Rothesay?” + </p> + <p> + “She is at church. She will be at home in half-an-hour, probably. Will you + wait?” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Nay, there is nothing wrong?” + </p> + <p> + “Don't alarm yourself, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + Olive shrank from the touch of his hand, as he led her into the parlour. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I can listen now. Tell me everything!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, at once!” She rose and walked to the door, guiding herself by + the wall. + </p> + <p> + “Nay, Miss Rothesay, what are you doing? You forget we cannot go without + your mother.” + </p> + <p> + “My mother! O, Heaven! it will kill my mother!” + </p> + <p> + And the thought brought tears, the first that had burst from her. It was + well. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “What is all this, my dear!—why do you look so strange! Is not your + papa come home? Let us go to him.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Olive!” The shrill terror of Mrs. Rothesay's voice rung through the room. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + But her mother had fainted. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Dearest mamma, do not try—I will think for us both. Be content; you + are quite safe with your own daughter.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Hush, mamma! don't talk; rest quiet here.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “I will, until death!” was Olive's inward vow. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Know what? Is there more trouble coming?” answered Olive, sighing + bitterly. “But tell me all.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>All</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I thank her deeply, as she knows.” + </p> + <p> + “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”—— + </p> + <p> + “The paper—give me the paper!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wyld pulled out his pocket-book, and produced a torn and blotted + scrap, whereon was written, in characters scarcely legible, the name + “Harold.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know any one who bears that name, Miss Rothesay?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “What is to be done?” cried Olive. “Shall I tell my mother?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you say?” asked Olive, looking up at him with her innocent eyes. + He could not meet them; his own fell confused. + </p> + <p> + “What did I say, Miss Rothesay? Oh, nothing—nothing at all; only + that if I had a commission—to—to hunt out this secret.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “As you will” He gathered up his blue bag and its voluminous contents, and + made his adieux. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Still more did these remorseful feelings awake, when, her task being + almost done, she found one letter addressed thus: + </p> + <p> + “For my daughter, Olive. Not to be opened till her mother is dead, and she + is alone in the world.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * <i>Was</i>. It is no more, now. +</pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It is of no use, Olive.” + </p> + <p> + “What is of no use, mamma?” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot see to thread my needle. I really must be growing old.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>was</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “She seems to make quite a pet of you, my child.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And her brother.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>somebody's</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Rothesay shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Excellent! madam. Your features are the very thing—they are + perfect.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. <i>You</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. “<i>My</i> work, <i>my</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + “When shall I sit?” timidly inquired Mrs. Rothesay, still too much of a + woman not to be pleased by a painter's praise. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I had been.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “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.” + </pre> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well, dear, the letter!” said Mrs. Rothesay, as they passed from the + studio to their own apartment. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Now, dear mamma,” she whispered, when Mrs. Rothesay was a little + composed, “we must answer the letter at once. What shall we say!” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing! That cruel man deserves no reply at all.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Rothesay assented. + </p> + <p> + “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).” + </p> + <p> + “He does, indeed, my child—but, go on.” And Olive read: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “'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 <i>intended</i> 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.'” + </pre> + <p> + “You have said nothing of Sara. I wonder if she knows this!” said the + mother, as Olive folded up her letter. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Harold Gwynne!</i> Oh, mamma! how different names look! I cannot bear + the sight of this! I hate it.” + </p> + <p> + Years after, Olive remembered these words. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It is a great thing to be an artist,” said Olive, musingly. + </p> + <p> + “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.!” + </p> + <p> + “You seem quite learned in Art, Miss Vanbrugh. I wish you would impart to + me a little of your knowledge.'' + </p> + <p> + “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.”. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + “Miss Meliora, do people ever grow <i>rich</i> as artists?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Yet some women have been painters.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But labouring secretly and without encouragement, Olive found her progress + in drawing—she did not venture to call these humble efforts <i>Art</i>—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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + —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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Your presumption!” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Let us go to Michael, let us go to Michael,” was all the happy little + woman said. So they went. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw—a woman make an artist! Ridiculous!” was the answer. “Ha! + don't come near my picture. The paint's wet Get away.” + </p> + <p> + And he stood, flourishing his mahl-stick and palette—looking very + like a gigantic warrior guarding the shrine of Art with shield and spear. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, brother—perhaps it will be better for you to look at the + sketches another time. Come, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Then, brother, since your day is spoiled, don't you think if you were to + look”—— + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Here Meliora slyly looked at Olive with an encouraging smile, and then, by + no means despairing of her kind-hearted mission, she vanished. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>as</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Rothesay, what put it into your head that you wanted to be an + artist?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He did not seem to mind it at all, but went on talking, as he sometimes + did, in a sort of declamatory monologue. + </p> + <p> + “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,' + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Upon the mountain's dizzy brink she stood.</i> +</pre> + <p> + Good! Bold enough, too!” + </p> + <p> + And the painter settled himself into a long, silent examination of the + sketch. Then he said— + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + “There!” cried Vanbrugh, his countenance glowing with a fierce inspiration + that made it grand through all its ugliness—“there! what woman could + paint <i>that</i>?—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!” + </p> + <p> + He gazed reverently at the majestic head of Buonarotti, which loomed out + from the shadowy corner of the studio. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Vanbrugh came back, and continued his painting, talking all the while. + </p> + <p> + “I said that it was impossible for a woman to become an artist—I + mean a <i>great</i> 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!” + </p> + <p> + Vanbrugh lifted off his velvet cap and reverently bared his head; then he + continued: + </p> + <p> + “This is what an artist should <i>be</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + After a few minutes of thought, Michael again burst forth. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>may</i> be his in life, <i>must</i> + be, after death. For love”—— + </p> + <p> + Here the old artist paused a moment, and there was something heavenly in + the melody of his voice as he continued— + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI. + </h2> + <h3> + Olive Rothesay's desire, + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Like all strongest hopes, + By its own energy fulfilled itself. +</pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Such a destiny lay open before Olive Rothesay. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>as</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + “Nay, mother; I am quite safe everywhere. Remember, I am not like other + girls. Who would notice <i>me</i>?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Olive assented, and confessed it was rather strange that out of her + chiefest trouble should have arisen her chiefest joy. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't let us talk about Mr. Gwynne; it is a disagreeable subject, my + child,” was Mrs. Rothesay's answer. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The lesson was impressed more deeply by a little incident that chanced + about this time. + </p> + <p> + Miss Vanbrugh sometimes took Olive with her on those little errands of + charity which were not unfrequent with the gentle Meliora. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you would come with me to-day,” she said once, “because, to tell + the truth, I hardly like to go alone.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Olive consented at once; there was in her a certain romance which, putting + all sympathy aside, quite gloried in such an adventure. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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, <i>Christal</i>.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Ma mie</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, my good woman, I only meant to offer you sympathy, or any help + you might need in your illness.” + </p> + <p> + The woman refused both. “I tell you we want for nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Ma mie</i>, I am so hungry!” said little Christal, in a tone between + complaint and effrontery. “I will have something to eat.” + </p> + <p> + “You should not speak so rudely to your mother, little girl,” interposed + Miss Meliora. + </p> + <p> + “My mother! No, indeed; she is only <i>ma mie</i>. My mother was a rich + lady, and my father a noble gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + “Hear her, Heaven! oh, hear her!” groaned the woman on the floor. + </p> + <p> + “But I love <i>ma mie</i> 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 <i>ma mie</i> says, they were drowned together in the deep sea, + years ago.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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 “<i>ma mie</i>.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “And is the person you call <i>ma mie</i> any relation to you?” + </p> + <p> + “The neighbours say she is my aunt, from the likeness. I don't know.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I will see you another day, Mrs. Manners, but we cannot really stay now. + Come, my dear Miss Rothesay.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Olive wanted to return. + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear, she would only insult you. Besides, I will <i>go</i> myself + to-morrow. Poor wretch! she is plainly near her end. We must be merciful + to the dying.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Beautiful and beloved! She thought of the poor creature whose fierce words + yet rang in her ear. Beautiful and beloved! <i>She</i> had been both, and + what was she now? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Now her fate seemed plain before her—within her home she saw the + vista of a life of filial devotion blest in + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A constant stream of love that knew no fall.” + </pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>ma mie</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>protégée</i> + away to school The only place she could think of was an old-fashioned <i>pension</i> + 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 <i>pension</i>, + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>levée</i> 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 <i>but</i> 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! + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>your</i> picture is + not finished. Never mind, love. You have been a good, attentive daughter, + and it will end all for the best.” + </p> + <p> + Olive smiled faintly, and said she knew it would. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so; and, indeed, I will be quite patient and content.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Good news—good news!” + </p> + <p> + “What? Mr. Vanbrugh has sold his picture, as you hoped to Mr.——.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, I cannot!” + </p> + <p> + “He has sold <i>yours!</i>” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My brother managed all, even to the payment. The full price you will have + when you have completed the picture. And, meanwhile, look here!” + </p> + <p> + She had filled one hand with golden guineas, and now poured a Danäe-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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Take them, darling—my first earnings; and kiss me: kiss your happy + little girl!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You will be quite rich now, my child.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>We</i> will be,” said Olive, softly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>I will!</i>” 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!” + </p> + <p> + And Olive, flinging her arms round her mother's neck, hid her face there, + and was a simple, trembling child once more. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The mother sighed. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But not that they should go to redeem my father's honour?” said Olive, + still gently. She had her will. + </p> + <p> + When her picture was finished, and its price received, Olive, with a + joyful heart, enclosed the sum to their long-silent creditor. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + The letter went, and an answer arrived in due form, not to Mrs., but to + Miss Rothesay: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “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.” + </pre> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Look, the envelope is edged and sealed with black.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + The two letters were put by in her desk; and thus, for a season at least, + the Harbury correspondence closed. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>must</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My child, how very merry you are, you and Miss Vanbrugh!” said Mrs. + Rothesay, from her corner. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I was; but,” she added whisperingly, “you know I have not sold my + Academy picture yet, and mamma <i>must</i> go into the country this + autumn.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you know she asked you, dear mamma.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but only for courtesy. She would scarcely be troubled with a guest + so helpless as I,” said Mrs. Rothesay, half sighing. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The determination was soon called into exercise; for the next half-hour, + to the surprise of all parties, Mrs. Fludyer appeared. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I should like to go, Olive,” she said, appealingly. “I feel dull, and + want a change.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Meliora explained that she believed Olive's family was Scottish, and that + her father was a Captain Angus Rothesay. + </p> + <p> + “Captain Angus Rothesay! I think that was the name mentioned by my + friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I call Olive? Perhaps she knows your friend,” observed Meliora. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What was <i>he</i> like?” said Olive smiling. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + Olive laughed merrily. + </p> + <p> + “Do you hear, mamma, how she runs on? What a bewitching young hero!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Come in,” said Olive; and Mr. Vanbrugh entered. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Brother—dear Michael, you are pleased with something; you have had + good news.” + </p> + <p> + He passed Meliora by, and walked up to Miss Rothesay. + </p> + <p> + “My pupil, rejoice with me; I have found at length appreciation, my life's + aim has won success—I have sold my 'Alcestis.'” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Michael Vanbrugh continued, + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “I do, indeed, my dear and noble master.” + </p> + <p> + “And, brother, brother—you will be very rich. The price you asked + for the 'Alcestis' was a thousand pounds,” said Meliora. + </p> + <p> + He smiled bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “You women always think of money.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.) + </p> + <p> + “And how long shall you stay, brother?” + </p> + <p> + “Stay?—Until my heart grows pulseless, and my brain dull. Why should + I ever come back to this cold England? + </p> + <p> + “No: let me grow old, die, and be buried under the shadow of the eternal + City.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Michael, if you will take me, I should like to go too.” + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Lord Arundale is an honour to his rank, a <i>noble man</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + Here Olive looked at Meliora and smiled. “Was his friend, then, as + agreeable as himself?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “How so?” said Olive, with growing interest. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “And do you know his name? Will he come here again?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “But who is he, brother?” inquired Meliora. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Meliora ran to the mantelpiece, and brought one to her brother. “Is this + it?” He nodded. She ran for the light, and read aloud— + </p> + <p> + “<i>The Reverend Harold Gwynne</i>.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, my dear! it is wrong to talk so. Remember, too, that he is Sara's + husband.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>in society</i>—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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, + “<i>A wife who loved her husband</i>.” 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The house is on fire—the bolt has struck it Oh Olive, Olive, save + me!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Is this Miss Vanbrugh's house—is there any one here?” she asked; + her accent being slightly foreign. + </p> + <p> + Olive invited her to enter. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you; forgive my intrusion, but I am frightened—half drowned. + The thunder is awful; will you take me in till Miss Vanbrugh returns?” + </p> + <p> + A light was quickly procured, and Olive came to divest the stranger of her + dripping garments. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, no! I can assist myself—I always do.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>tournure</i> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I am quite well, thank you, madam. A friend of Mrs. Rothesay's I + suppose?” was poor Meliora's bewildered reply. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>incognito</i> she had kept, for her black eyes sparkled + with fun. + </p> + <p> + “I am happy to see you, madam,” again stammered the troubled Meliora. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>protégée</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But between her and Miss Rothesay glided the young stranger. The bright + colour paled from Christa's face—her smile passed into a frown. + </p> + <p> + “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”—— + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Another time, another time, my dear,” said the painter's sister, growing + very much confused. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>protégée</i>, declaring that she would never part with + her. + </p> + <p> + “But,” she added, with a sudden thought, a thought of intense alarm, “what + will Michael say?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>pension</i>. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Rothesay, confused with all that had happened, did not ask many + questions, but only said as she retired, + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Hers is a very pretty hand, mamma. It is quite classic in shape—like + poor papa's—which I remember so well!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Are you quite comfortable?—do you want anything?” + </p> + <p> + “Who's there? Oh! come in, Miss Rothesay.” + </p> + <p> + Olive entered, and found, to her surprise, that the candle was + extinguished. + </p> + <p> + “I thought I heard you moving about, Miss Manners.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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!'” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXV. + </h2> + <p> + 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 <i>protégée</i>—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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Let me help you, dear Miss Vanbrugh. Why should you tire yourself thus, + after all the fatigues of the day?” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps; if you will come back from Rome, and visit me here?” said Olive, + smiling; for she was glad to encourage any cheerful hope. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Her affectionate companion followed her for some time; but Miss Vanbrugh + did not seem disposed to talk, so Olive returned to the house. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “There, that will do. Now bring me the great treasure of all—the + bust of Michael the Angel.” + </p> + <p> + She climbed on a chair, and lifted it down, carefully and reverentially, + so as greatly to please the artist. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, my pupil; you are very useful; I cannot tell what I should do + without you.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He looked surprised and annoyed. “Nonsense, child! If I am going to Rome, + you are going too. I thought Meliora would arrange all that.” + </p> + <p> + Olive shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “No, Mr. Vanbrugh; indeed, it is impossible.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>ours</i>, 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!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0006" id="linkimage-0006"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> + <img src="images/p205.jpg" width="100%" + alt="Page 205 his Anger Had Vanished " /> + </div> + <p> + His rapid and excited language softened into something very like emotion; + he threw himself into his painting-chair, and waited for Olive's answer. + </p> + <p> + It came brokenly—almost with tears. + </p> + <p> + “My dear, my noble master, to whom I owe so much, what can I say to you?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Olive answered nothing but, “My mother, my mother—she would not quit + England; I could not part from her.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He motioned young pupil to sit down, and then said to her, + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He paused a moment, and seeing that no answer came, continued, + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Utterly astounded, Olive heard. “Your wife—I—your wife!” was + all she murmured. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot answer—I am bewildered.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + He walked up to her, and took her hand, gravely, though not without + gentleness; but she shrank away. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot, I cannot; it is impossible.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + There was silence. Afterwards Michael Vanbrugh felt his sleeve touched, + and saw beside him the small, delicate figure of his pupil. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Vanbrugh, my dear master and friend, look at me, and listen to what I + have to say.” + </p> + <p> + He moved his head assentingly, without turning round. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And you are in the same mind still?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “As you will, as you will. I thought you a kindred genius—I find you + a mere <i>woman</i>. Jest on at the old fool with his grey hairs—go + and wed some young, gay”—— + </p> + <p> + “Look at me?” said Olive, with a mournful meaning in her tone; “am I + likely to marry?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Olive went up to him. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + He stooped and kissed her forehead. It was the first and last kiss that, + since boyhood, Michael Vanbrugh ever gave to woman. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVI. + </h2> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind the neighbourhood, dear, since we are settled, you say, in + such a pretty house. Tell me, is it like Woodford Cottage?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “As long as ever you like, darling. And now shall I show you the house?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But I am weary, love. I wish I were in bed, and at rest.” + </p> + <p> + This was soon accomplished; and Olive sat down by her mother's side, as + she often did, waiting until Mrs. Rothesay fell asleep. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>last time</i>. For to all things + on earth must come a last time. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>last time</i>. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Olive approached, but the child, a thoughtful-looking little creature of + about eight years old, did not see her until she came quite close. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Are you fond of coming here, my child?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And why had you rather come and sit here than play?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But your mamma—you could surely tell mamma; I always tell + everything to mine.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But how long will her body lie there? and will it ever wake?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it will surely wake, though how soon we know not, and be taken up to + heaven and to God.” + </p> + <p> + The child looked earnestly in Olive's face. “What is heaven, and what is + God?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My poor child,” she said, “do you not know who is God?—has no one + told you?” + </p> + <p> + “No one.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I will.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Papa—it is papa.” With a look of shyness almost amounting to fear, + the child slid from the tombstone and ran away. + </p> + <p> + Olive stood face to face with the father. + </p> + <p> + He was a gentleman—a true <i>gentleman</i>; 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She was relieved when the sound of his voice broke the pause. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What words?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But not beyond the reverent faith of a Christian,” Olive ventured to say. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Do you</i> believe in God?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + “Let me thank you for talking so kindly to my little daughter. I trust I + have sufficiently explained why I interrupted your lessons.” + </p> + <p> + “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? + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Please, papa, grandmamma wants to see you before she goes out. She is + going to John Dent's, and to Farnwood, and”—— + </p> + <p> + “Hush, little chatterbox! this lady cannot be interested in our family + revelations. Bid her 'good-afternoon' and come!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “SARA, + Wife of the Reverend Harold Gwynne, + Died—, Aged 21.” + </pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She felt glad that the mystery was now solved—that she had at last + seen Harold Gwynne. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVII. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Thus it was that Olive received the first greeting of Harold's mother. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Your son!” echoed Olive; and then, half-bewildered by all these + adventures, coincidences, and <i>éclaircissements</i>, she told how she + had already met him, and how that meeting had shown to her her old + companion's grave. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + She walked up, and laid her hand on Olive's shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>the man</i>, even while she was constrained to respect the + intellect of the preacher. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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:— + </p> + <p> + “<i>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!</i>” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Miss Rothesay was late in quitting the church. As she did so, she felt her + arm lightly touched, and saw beside her Mrs. Gwynne. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And does Ailie never go to church?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Harold, Miss Rothesay is here.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He showed this when, after an hour's pleasant visit, Miss Rothesay moved + to depart. Harold requested her to remain a few minutes longer. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You are exact in keeping your word,” observed Miss Rothesay, by way of + saying something. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, always; when I say <i>I will</i>, it is generally done. The road is + uneven and rough, will my arm aid you, Miss Rothesay?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Olive crossed the grass with a quick and noiseless step,—Harold + following. “Mamma, darling!” + </p> + <p> + A light, bright as a sunburst, shone over Mrs. Rothesay's face—“My + child! how long you have been away. Did Mrs. Gwynne”— + </p> + <p> + “Hush, darling!”—in a whisper—“I have been at the Parsonage, + and Mr. Gwynne has kindly brought me home. He is here now.” + </p> + <p> + Harold stood at a distance and bowed. + </p> + <p> + Olive came to him, saying, in a low tone, “Take her hand, she cannot see + you, she is blind.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + Olive Rothesay, turning, beheld that look. It never afterwards faded from + her memory. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He went away, promising to pay another visit soon. + </p> + <p> + “I am quite charmed with Mr. Gwynne,” said Mrs. Rothesay. “Tell me, Olive, + what he is like.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVIII. + </h2> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Who</i> will be here soon?” asked Olive, considerably surprised. “Are + you speaking of Mr. Gwynne?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I see you do not remember me, Miss Rothesay. Of course I could not expect + it. But I have not forgotten you.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is indeed I!” cried the young man. “Oh, Miss Rothesay, you can't + tell how glad I am to meet you again.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + But she could not reach it, he was grown so tall. She seemed startled to + think how time had flown. + </p> + <p> + “He is quite a man now, mamma,” said Olive; “you know we have not seen him + for many years”—— + </p> + <p> + Lyle added, blushing deeper than before—“The last time—I + remember it well—was in the garden, one Sunday in spring—nine + years ago.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I should not even have gone to college,” said Lyle, “but for the kindness + of my brother-in-law, Harold Gwynne.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Charles!” she murmured. “But tell me more.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>him</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “What did he do?” asked Olive, eagerly. Strange that her question and her + thoughts were not of Sara, but of Harold. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>a lie!</i> When you took your marriage oath, you + vowed <i>a lie!</i> Every day since, that you have smiled in my face, you + have looked <i>a lie!</i> Henceforth I will never trust you—or any + woman. '” + </p> + <p> + “And what followed?” cried Olive, now so strongly interested that she + never paused to think if she had any right to ask these questions. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Alas! he died too.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What! did you not love your sister?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't say <i>Mr. Derwent</i>. Pray call me Lyle, as you used to do.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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 '<i>teens</i>.' “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. + </p> + <p> + They spoke on trivial subjects, until it was time to return to the house. + Just as they were entering, Lyle said: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It is not likely I shall ever have the opportunity. Mr. Gwynne seems a + very reserved man.” + </p> + <p> + “He is so; and of these matters he now never speaks at all.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “What! did you not know me, brother Harold? How funny!” And he laughed: + his laugh was something like Sara's. + </p> + <p> + It seemed to ring jarringly on Mr. Gwynne's ear. “I was not aware, Miss + Rothesay, that you knew my brother-in-law.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Miss Rothesay and I were friends almost ten years ago. She was our + neighbour at Oldchurch.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You seem to have taken a sudden passion for riding, Christal,” said + Olive, with a smile, when they were alone. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>Olive</i> of late. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Miss Rothesay, when she entered, “what have you to say to me, + my dear child?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly; you know it was by your consent, Christal.” + </p> + <p> + “O yes, because it will save me trouble. Well, all I wanted to say was, + that I wish to keep a horse.” + </p> + <p> + “To keep a horse!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “You cannot, indeed, my dear,” answered Olive mildly. “Think of all the + expenses it would entail—expenses far beyond your income.” + </p> + <p> + “I myself am the best judge of that.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That still is my own affair—no one has a right to control me.” + Olive was silent. “Do you mean to say <i>you</i> have? Because you are in + some sort my guardian, are you to thwart me in this manner? I will not + endure it.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember, you were good to me then,” answered Christal, a little + subdued. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do not let this conversation make any division between us, Christal.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It is never too late,” cried Olive. But Christal's emotion had passed, + and she resumed her lofty manner. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIX. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>You</i> will go, my child.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Olive never spoke, never dreamed of any other possibility than this. + </p> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “I never shall, darling!” she answered. And she felt that this was true. + Her heart was absorbed in her mother. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>different</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “How kind you are, Miss Rothesay; and to come all through the wintry + forest, too! It was scarcely fit for you.”. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, when what we do know of Him commands love. Does Ailie, even Ailie, + thoroughly know her father? And yet she loves him.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” A start, and a dark look. “Well, Miss Rothesay, what have you to + say?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But—suppose that your child should be taken away, would you have + her die as she lives now, utterly ignorant of all holy things?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Do you!</i>” + </p> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + They had now reached John Dent's cottage. Olive asked if he would not + enter with her. + </p> + <p> + “No, no; you are a far better apostle than your clergyman. Besides, I have + business at home, and must return. Good morning, Miss Rothesay.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXX. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “John, John—the lad!—hast thee found the lad?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “The lad!—dun ye know aught o' the lad? Poor Reuben!—he wunnot + come back no more! Alack! alack!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Filled with deep pity Olive sat down by the miserable grandmother; but the + poor soul refused to be comforted. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At last there was a tramp of many feet on the frozen ground, the latch was + lifted, and John Dent burst in. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Why dunnot ye stir, ye fools! Get t' blanket—pull't off the ould + woman. I tell 'ee the lad's alive.” + </p> + <p> + No one moved, and then the frantic father began to curse and swear. He + rushed into old Margery's room. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Tak' heart, tak' heart, John!” said one of the men. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “John Dent, mon!” whispered one old keeper; “say thy prayers; thee doesna + often do't, and thee'll want it now.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + It was not far to Harbury, but, in less time than Olive had expected, + Harold Gwynne appeared. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Rothesay, you sent for me!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “What do you wish me to do!” + </p> + <p> + “What a minister of God is able—nay, bound to do—to speak + comfort in this house of misery.” + </p> + <p> + The poor old woman echoed the same entreaty— + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mr. Gwynne, you that be a parson, a man of God, come and help us.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Read to him—pray with him,” whispered Olive. “Speak to him of God—of + heaven—of immortality.” + </p> + <p> + “God—heaven—immortality,” echoed Harold, vacantly, but he + never stirred. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Dun ye talk to me of God? I know nought about him, parson—ye never + learned me.” + </p> + <p> + 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.'” + </p> + <p> + “Mercy! ye mun easy say that; why did He let the poor lad die i' the snow, + then?” + </p> + <p> + And Harold's lips hesitated over those holy words “The Lord gave and the + Lord taketh away.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + He looked on the corpse fixedly for some minutes, and then a new thought + seemed to strike him. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + John Dent passed him by, and came to the side of Olive Rothesay. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>there were no God</i>. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay, you did attempt some.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, I tried to preach faith with my lips, and could not, because there + was none in my heart. No, nor ever will be!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do not speak to me yet, I pray you.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “You are ill, I am sure; and there is something that rests on your mind,” + said Olive, in a quiet, soft tone. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay, what have I to pardon? Oh, Mr. Gwynne, if I might be indeed your + friend—if I could but do you any good!” + </p> + <p> + “You do good to <i>me?</i>” 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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”—— + </p> + <p> + “Ay, tell me what I am—that is, what you think I am. + </p> + <p> + “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”—— + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + Olive's arm fell from him. + </p> + <p> + “Do you shrink from me, then? Good and pious woman, do you think I am + Satan standing by your side?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, no!” She made an effort to restrain herself; it failed, and she + burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + Harold looked at her. + </p> + <p> + “Meek and gentle soul! It would, perhaps, have been good for me had Olive + Rothesay been born my sister.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He ceased, and looked upwards with his piercing eyes—piercing, yet + full of restless sorrow. Then he approached his companion. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we walk on, or do you utterly renounce me?” said he, with a + touching, sad humility. + </p> + <p> + “Renounce you!” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>not</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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”—— + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I <i>will</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Infidel as he was, she could have clung to Harold Gwynne, and called him + brother. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He paused to look at her. + </p> + <p> + “I am listening, speak on,” said Olive Rothesay. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But why did you still keep up this awful mockery?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “It was a great sin.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>there!</i>” + </p> + <p> + She made no answer. + </p> + <p> + After a few minutes, Mr. Gwynne said, “You must forgive me, Miss + Rothesay.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Hush; do not talk any more.” And then she stood beside him for some + minutes quite silent, until he grew calm. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + He said this with a mournful emphasis, to which she could not reply. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXI. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + She arose—her determination taken. “No,” she thought, as standing at + the window she watched the sun rise gloriously—“No, Lord! <i>my</i> + Lord and <i>my</i> God!—I am not afraid.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!'” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + It was true. Let us draw the picture which lived in Olive's memory + evermore. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Darling, kiss me! or I shall fear you are growing quite an angel—an + angel with wings.” + </p> + <p> + There lurked a troubled tone beneath the playfulness; she rose up quickly, + and began to talk to Mr. Gwynne. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + “How terrible for one's child to die first. But I shall never know that + pang. Go on, Mr. Gwynne.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + After he concluded, they were all three very silent. What thoughts were in + each heart? Then Mrs. Rothesay said, + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Where shall I read, mamma?” + </p> + <p> + “Where I think we have come to—reading every night as we do—the + last few chapters of the Revelations.” + </p> + <p> + Olive read them—the blessed words, the delight of her childhood—telling + of the heavenly kingdom, and the afterlife of the just. And <i>he</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The mother and daughter were alone. They clasped their arms round each + other, and sat a little while listening to the wild March wind. + </p> + <p> + “It is just such a night as that on which we came to Farnwood, is it not, + darling?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Tired, are you? I wish I could carry you, darling: I almost think I + could.” + </p> + <p> + “You carry me in your heart, evermore, Olive! You bear all my feebleness, + troubles, and pain. God ever bless you, my daughter!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXII. + </h2> + <h3> + “My child!” + </h3> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, darling,” she answered, in a sleepy, happy voice, thinking it a + continuation of the dream. + </p> + <p> + “Olive, I feel ill—very ill! I have a dull pain here, near my heart. + I cannot breathe. It is so strange—so strange!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And suddenly it entered into Olive's mind that her mother felt herself + about to die. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Hush, love, hush!” was the soft reproof. “Be content, Olive; he will come + in time. I shall recover, if it so please God.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course—of course you will. Don't talk in that way, mamma!”—she + dared not trust herself to say <i>darling</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “You are Miss Rothesay, I believe,” he answered, indirectly. + </p> + <p> + “I am.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there no one to help you in nursing your mother—are you here + quite alone?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite alone.” + </p> + <p> + 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”—— + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + There was one little low sigh; and then upon her great height of woe she + rose—rose to a superhuman calm. + </p> + <p> + “You would tell me, then, that there is no hope?” + </p> + <p> + He looked on the ground, and said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “And how long—how long?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Does <i>she</i> know? Did you tell her?” + </p> + <p> + “I did. She asked me, and I thought it right.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + With a step so soft that it could have reached no ear but that of a dying + woman, Olive re-entered the room. + </p> + <p> + “Is that my child!” + </p> + <p> + “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, + </p> + <p> + “My child, are you content—quite content?” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, darling.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + When Olive came back, Mrs. Rothesay roused herself and asked for some + wine. Her daughter gave it. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>lose</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Toward morning Mrs. Rothesay said, “My child, you are tired. Lie down here + beside me.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I will. And is there no one else to whom I shall give your love, mamma?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My child, are you still there?”. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, darling.” + </p> + <p> + “That is well. All is well now. Little Olive, kiss me.” + </p> + <p> + Olive bent down and kissed her. With that last kiss she received her + mother's soul. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Alas, Miss Rothesay, what can I say to you?” + </p> + <p> + She shed a few tears, less for her own sorrow than because she was touched + by his kindness. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “God,” she whispered, “has helped me. He has taken from me the desire of + my eyes, and yet I have peace—perfect peace!” + </p> + <p> + Harold looked at her with astonishment. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me,” he muttered, involuntarily, “whence comes this peace!” + </p> + <p> + “From God, as I feel him in my soul—as I read of Him in the + revelation of his Word.” + </p> + <p> + Harold was silent. His aspect of hopeless misery went to Olive's heart. + </p> + <p> + “Oh that I could give to you this peace—this faith!” + </p> + <p> + “Alas! if I knew what <i>reason</i> you have for yours.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “To you, not to me! You forget the gulf between us!” + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” Olive said, earnestly; “you believe, as I do, in one God—the + Creator and Ruler of this world?” + </p> + <p> + Harold made solemn assent. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Your argument contradicts itself,” was the desponding answer. “Can <i>you</i> + speak thus—you, whose heart yet bleeds with recent suffering?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my mother!—my mother!” She bowed her head upon her knees, and + for some minutes wept bitterly. Then she rose somewhat calmer. + </p> + <p> + “I am going upstairs”—— Her voice failed. + </p> + <p> + “I know—I know,” said Harold. + </p> + <p> + “She spoke of you: they were almost her last words. You will come with me, + friend?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + Then she went in composedly, and uncovered the face of the dead; Harold + standing beside her. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>my mother</i>.” + </p> + <p> + 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. <i>His</i> she + scarcely seemed to feel, but continued, speaking in the same tranquil + voice: + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>my mother</i> only this?” + </p> + <p> + She turned from the bed, and met Harold's eye—intense, athirst—as + if his soul's life were in her words. + </p> + <p> + “You are calm—very calm,” he murmured. “You stand here, and have no + fear of death.” + </p> + <p> + “No; for I have seen my mother die. Her last breath was on my mouth. I <i>felt</i> + her spirit pass, and I knew that it was passing unto God.” + </p> + <p> + “And you can rejoice?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Harold Gwynne fell on his knees at the bedside, crying out: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, God! that I could believe!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIII. + </h2> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + But <i>she did not forget</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>could not</i> + forget her child. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Harold Gwynne was not singular in this. Scarcely ever was there an + unbeliever who desired to see his own scepticism reflected in his child. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gwynne continued—“I don't think I can ever sufficiently thank + you, my dear Miss Rothesay.” + </p> + <p> + “Say <i>Olive</i>, as you generally do.” + </p> + <p> + For her Christian name sounded so sweet and homelike from Harold's mother; + especially now. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Olive</i>, 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope so too.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Mr. Gwynne</i> than as + <i>Harold</i>. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “So have I, more than once,” said Olive. “But I thought at the time how + idle was the rumour.” + </p> + <p> + “It was idle, my dear; but I did not quite think so then.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed!” There was a little quick gesture of surprise; and Olive, ceasing + her work, looked inquiringly at Mrs. Gwynne. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>friend</i>, never dreamed of her being anything more? + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that so mournful, then?” said Olive, more as if thinking aloud than + speaking. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Really, we shall be quite desolate without a single soul left at + Farnwood, shall we not, Olive?” observed Mrs. Gwynne. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + At Olive's mechanical affirmative, Lyle Derwent brightened up amazingly. + “Miss Rothesay, I—I don't intend going away, believe me!” + </p> + <p> + Christal turned quickly round. “What are you saying, Mr. Derwent?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + She trembled, and dared not answer the question. + </p> + <p> + At the Dell they parted from Lyle. “I shall see you once again before you + leave, I hope,” he said to Christal. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; you will not get rid of your tormentor so easily.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Io ti voglio ben assai, + Ma tu non pensi a me!” + </pre> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “This accident is most unfortunate,” said Miss Rothesay, “How will you + manage your journey to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall not be able to go,” said Christal in a piteous voice, though over + her averted face broke a comical smile. + </p> + <p> + “Are you really so much hurt, my dear?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you doubt it?” was the sharp reply. “I am sorry to trouble you; but I + really am unable to leave the Dell.” + </p> + <p> + Very often did she try Olive's patience thus; but the faithful daughter + always remembered those last words, “Take care of Christal.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIV. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + They were letters which at intervals during his various absences she had + received from Harold Gwynne. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Let us judge, extracting portions from them at will. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>friends</i>? 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.'” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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? + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>that</i>, first? Above all, I am to look to the only earthly + manifestation of Divine perfection—Jesus Christ, the Saviour of all + men? <i>I will</i>. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + ... “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 <i>yet </i>; 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Novel</i>” 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 <i>that</i>? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXV. + </h2> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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”—— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You are not painting, Miss Rothesay; you are thinking,” suddenly cried + Lyle Derwent. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you? Then 'reap the misery of a granted prayer' for there is a knock + It may be my worthy brother-in-law himself.” + </p> + <p> + “If so, for charity's sake, give me your arm and help me into the next + room. I cannot abide his gloomy face.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Harold entered. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no! only weary with a long morning's work. But will you sit!” + </p> + <p> + He received, as usual, the quiet smile—the greeting gentle and + friendly. He was deceived by them as heretofore. + </p> + <p> + “Are you better than when last I was at the Parsonage? I have seen nothing + of you for a week, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You never trouble me.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “It is God's world, and as He made it—good; but I often doubt + whether He meant it to be altogether happy.” + </p> + <p> + “Why so?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Decided what? It is so sudden. I do not quite understand,” said Olive, + faintly. + </p> + <p> + “To leave England for ever. What do you think of the plan?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You know best. If good for you, it is a good plan.” + </p> + <p> + He seemed relieved and yet disappointed. “I am glad you say so. I + imagined, perhaps, you might have thought it wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “Why wrong?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I—I have heard so,” said she, slowly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Miss Rothesay?” he asked, when they had nearly reached the + Parsonage, “what are you thinking of?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet I have friends to leave—one friend at least—<i>yourself</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + He made no reply, and they went in at the hall door. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I shall have the finest dahlias in the country next year,” said the + delighted old lady. + </p> + <p> + Next year! It seemed to Olive as if she were talking of the next world. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>love</i>. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But not alone, my dear. You will surely wait until Harold comes in?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “You are a brave little creature, my dear. Well, do as you will.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, mother, mother! why did you go and leave me? I should never have + loved any one if my mother had not died!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It might be the <i>certainty</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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, <i>deformed</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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? + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It was already night—but the mist had quite gone—there was + only the sky and its stars. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVI. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>the man</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>your</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + “How long? how long? Oh, that this would cease, or else I die!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Then he knew of the letter?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, to tell the truth, I believe he originated the plan. He saw you + wanted change—he has such a regard for you, Olive.” + </p> + <p> + Then <i>he</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + She told him so when he came in. He seemed much pleased; and said, with + more than his usual frankness, + </p> + <p> + “I should like you to know aunt Flora. You see, I call her <i>my</i> aunt + Flora, too, for she is of some distant kin, and I have dearly loved her + ever since I was a boy.” + </p> + <p> + It was something to be going to one whom Harold “dearly loved.” Olive felt + a little comfort in her proposed journey. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>her</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, that is kind, and like yourself, my son. How thoughtfully you have + been planning everything for Olive.” + </p> + <p> + “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, “<i>Miss Rothesay</i>” in a distinct, + cold, and formal tone. Very soon afterwards he went away. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “So soon back from Brighton! Who would have thought it!” said Mrs. Gwynne, + smiling. + </p> + <p> + Lyle put on his favourite sentimental air, and muttered something about + “not liking gaiety, and never being happy away from Farnwood.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Rothesay is scarcely of your opinion; at all events, she is going to + try the experiment by leaving us for a while.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Rothesay leaving us!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You promise that?” cried Lyle, eagerly. + </p> + <p> + Olive promised; with a sorrowful thought that none asked this pledge—none + needed it—save the affectionate Lyle! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + There he still talked of her departure, but his affectations were now + broken by real feeling. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you would write to me while you are away, Miss Rothesay; or, at + all events, let me write to you.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Is that all? Will you not care to hear about <i>me</i>? Oh, Miss + Rothesay,” cried Lyle, “I often wish I was again a little boy in the dear + old garden at Oldchurch.” + </p> + <p> + “Why so?” + </p> + <p> + “Because—because”—and the quick blood rose in his cheek. “No, + no, I cannot tell you now; but perhaps I may, some time.” + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + “No, I am glad I lived to comfort <i>her.</i>” 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.” + </p> + <p> + Unable to talk more with Lyle, Olive re-entered the Parsonage. Harold sat + reading. + </p> + <p> + “Have you long come in?” she asked in a somewhat trembling voice. + </p> + <p> + He answered, “About an hour.” + </p> + <p> + “I did not see you enter.” + </p> + <p> + “It was not likely; you were engaged with my brother-in-law. Therefore I + would not disturb you, but took my book.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Nay—it is such a rainy night—perhaps”—— + </p> + <p> + “Very well, since you choose it so,” and he sat down again. But Olive saw + she had wounded his pride, <i>only</i> his pride; she said this to her + heart, to keep down its unconscious thrill. She replied, hesitatingly: + </p> + <p> + “Still, as we shall not have many more walks together, if”—— + </p> + <p> + “I will come,” he said, smiling. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Chance! when she would have controlled all accidents, provided against all + hindrances, woven together all purposes, to be with him for one single + day! + </p> + <p> + At once the thought broke through the happy spell which, for the time, his + kindness had laid upon her. She felt that it was <i>only</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Olive instinctively hinted some excuse. She was ever prone to do so, when + any shadow of blame fell on Harold. + </p> + <p> + “You are always good, my dear. But still he might have come, even for the + sake of proper courtesy to you.” + </p> + <p> + Courtesy! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It was very wrong and unkind,” said Mrs. Gwynne in real annoyance. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Olive laid her thin cheek to the rosy one of Harold's daughter; she wept, + but could not speak. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVII. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Is that Olive Rothesay, Angus Rothesay's only child? Welcome to Scotland—welcome, + my dear lassie!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “So they called you 'Olive,' my dear,” said Mrs. Flora. “A strange name! + the like of it is not in our family.” + </p> + <p> + “My mother gave it me from a dream she had.” + </p> + <p> + Olive. + </p> + <p> + “Now, my bairn, lift up your face.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0007" id="linkimage-0007"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> + <img src="images/p314.jpg" width="100%" + alt="Page 314, Now, My Bairn, Lift up Your Face " /> + </div> + <p> + “Ay, I mind it; Harold Gwynne told me, saying that Mrs. Rothesay had told + <i>him</i>. 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!” + </p> + <p> + “They do not harm me, Aunt Flora.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Aunt to which of you?” said Olive, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I think,” said the quiet Miss Anstruther, lifting up her brown eyes, + “that in all <i>our</i> 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!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed, for who else would have had patience with her cross old + brother Sir Andrew, until he died?” said Janet M'Gillivray. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Olive laughed; and afterwards said, thoughtfully, “She has then lived a + happy life—has this good Aunt Flora!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Yours must have been a noble woman's life.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And you have been content—nay happy!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVIII. + </h2> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad you are happy, my dear niece,” answered Mrs. Flora; “yet others + should not forget you.” + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes;” said Olive, “we have always been good friends.” + </p> + <p> + “I know that. It was not little that we talked about you. He told me all + that happened long ago between your <i>father</i> and himself. Ah, that + was a strange, strange thing!” + </p> + <p> + “We have never once spoken of it—neither I nor Mr. Gwynne.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Olive disclaimed this, affirming, and with her whole heart, that she was + never so happy as when with her good Aunt Flora. + </p> + <p> + “'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.” + </p> + <p> + The carriage stopped in Abercromby Place. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed! Did Aunt Flora say”—— + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she tell you?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I think I guess, too. But let me hear, that is, if I <i>may</i> hear?” + </p> + <p> + “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 Græme (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.” + </p> + <p> + “And this 20th of September must have been the day <i>he</i> died,” said + Olive. + </p> + <p> + “I believe so. But she never says a word, and never did.” + </p> + <p> + 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 + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The smile of one, God-satisfied; and earth-undone. +</pre> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “With me; surely you forget! Oh no, Marion, not with me; that would be + impossible!” + </p> + <p> + 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”—— + </p> + <p> + “Nay, Marion, you have talked quite enough of me.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it so? Then I am very happy!” And the smile sat long upon her face. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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!'” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + “I did not expect to see you here!” + </p> + <p> + “Possibly not; but I—I had business in Edinburgh. However, it will + not, I think, detain me long.” He said this sharply even bitterly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + His somewhat vexed tone went to Olive's heart. But she only answered, + </p> + <p> + “You were not quite right there. I never forget my friends.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen Aunt Flora?” said Olive, as they stood together in the + parlour. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled. “Little doubt of that, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you! And now I will say good-night,” observed Harold, rising. + </p> + <p> + Ere he went, however, he looked down curiously into Olive's face. + </p> + <p> + “You seem quite strong and well now, Miss Rothesay. You have been happy + here?” + </p> + <p> + “Happy—oh, yes! quite happy.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought it would be so—I was right! Though still—But I am + glad, very glad to hear it. Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIX. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>was</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + So thinking, she left her chamber. + </p> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + “You were always fond of heliotropes, Miss Rothesay.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Harold stood and gazed. + </p> + <p> + “How beautiful and calm this is! It looks like a quiet nest—a <i>home</i> + for a man's tired heart and brain. Tell me, friend, do you think one could + ever find such in this world?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Harold made no immediate reply; but after a while he said, + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The braes ascend like lofty wa's, +</pre> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + His eyes, bent on her, spoke more than mere curiosity; but Olive, unaware, + looked up and smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Why, I am getting elderly myself; but I heed it not. One need mind + nothing if one's heart does not grow old.” + </p> + <p> + “Does yours?” + </p> + <p> + “I hope not. I would like to lead a life like Aunt Flora's—a quiet + stream that goes on singing to the end.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + Olive's eyes sank on the ground. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What was it?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.'” + </p> + <p> + “As you will.” + </p> + <p> + “A cold acquiescence. You think, perhaps, the matter is either above or + beneath <i>me</i>—that I can have no interest therein?” And his + eyes, bright, piercing, commanding, seemed to force an answer. + </p> + <p> + It came, very quietly and coldly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I said so, did I? Well, you give my opinions—what think you <i>of + me</i>? Answer truly—like a friend.” + </p> + <p> + She did so. She never could look in Harold's eyes and tell him what was + not true. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, if it is for your good. If leaving Harbury would give you rest on + that one subject of which we never speak.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, tell me all. You know I like to hear.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Not your mother, who loves you so?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>me</i> with this love?” + </p> + <p> + And once more Olive taught herself to answer calmly, “I do think so.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “O yes! I like to hear of young people's happiness.” + </p> + <p> + “But he was not quite happy. He did not know whether the woman he loved + loved him. He had never asked her the question.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “There were several reasons. First, because he was a proud man, and, like + many others, had been deceived <i>once</i>. He would not again let a girl + mock his peace. And he was right. Do you not think so?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, if she were one who would act so cruelly. But no true woman ever + mocked at true love. Rarely, <i>knowingly</i>, 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know—I understand. Tell me more. That is, if I may hear.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he imagine, even in his lightest thought, that she loved him?” + </p> + <p> + “He could not tell. Sometimes it almost seemed so.” + </p> + <p> + “Then he was wrong—cruelly wrong! He thought of his own pride, not + of <i>her</i>. 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!” + </p> + <p> + And utterly forgetting herself, forgetting all but the compassion learnt + from sorrow, Olive spoke with strong agitation. + </p> + <p> + Harold watched her intently. “Your words are sympathising and kind. Say + on! What should he, this lover, do?” + </p> + <p> + “Let him tell her that he loves her—let him save her from the misery + that wears away youth, and strength, and hope.” + </p> + <p> + “What! and bind her by a promise which it may take years to fulfil?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Die!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. If so, far better that he should never have spoken—that his + secret should go down with him to the grave.” + </p> + <p> + “What, you mean that he should die, and she never know that he loved her! + O Heaven! what misery could equal that!” + </p> + <p> + As Olive spoke, the tears sprang into her eyes, and, utterly subdued, she + stood still and let them flow. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + For a moment Olive's senses seemed to reel. But his eyes were upon her—those + truthful, truth-searching eyes. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Dropping her head, she answered, in one word—“Yes!” + </p> + <p> + “And, with a woman like you, to love once is to love for evermore?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + She stooped, she leaned her brow upon the two clasped hands—her own + and his—and wept as if her heart were breaking. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + His words ceased, somewhat tremulously; and she felt, for the first time, + Harold's lips touch her hand. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XL. + </h2> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + “It is all over—quite over. There can be no doubt now.” + </p> + <p> + And then she knew, by this utter death of hope, that it must have lived <i>once</i>—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, + </p> + <p> + “Poor little Olive! Poor, crushed, broken thing!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + There was a little comfort for her the minute she went downstairs. + Entering the drawing-room, she met Mrs. Flora's brightest smile. + </p> + <p> + “My dear lassie, welcome! Have you been sleeping after your weary walk + this morning?” + </p> + <p> + “This morning!” echoed poor Olive. She had half forgotten what had + happened then, there had come such a death-like cloud between. + </p> + <p> + “Ye were both away at the Hermitage, Harold said. Ah! poor Harold!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Harold is gone away.” + </p> + <p> + “Gone away,” repeated Olive, slowly, as her cold hands fell heavily on her + lap. She gave no other sign. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “He was here, then?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + For many days after <i>that</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Bide here with me, my dear niece. Come and dwell among your ain folk, + your father's kin.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + A few days before Olive's journey Mrs. Flora called her into her own room. + </p> + <p> + “I have something to say to ye, lassie. Ye'll listen to the auld wife?” + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Flora!” said Olive, in affectionate reproach, and, sitting down at + her feet, she took the withered hand, and laid it on her neck. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “In a month, Auntie Flora.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, dear aunt, let me hear it.” + </p> + <p> + “'Tis anent the worldly gear that I will leave behind me. I have been aye + careful of the good things Heaven lent me.” + </p> + <p> + —She paused; but Olive, not quite knowing what to say, said nothing + at all Mrs. Flora continued: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>her</i> + in time. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I am wae to think,” continued the old lady, “that ye are the last of the + Rothesay line. The <i>name</i> must end, even should Olive marry.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall never marry, Aunt Flora! I shall live as you have done—God + make my life equally worthy!” + </p> + <p> + “Is it so? I thought it was different. Then, Olive, my child! may God + comfort thee with his peace.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but he does need it; you little know how sorely!” cried Olive. + </p> + <p> + “Eh, my dear? He, a minister!” + </p> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Misery aye follows sin,” said Mrs. Flora, almost sternly, “Am I deceived + in him, my dear Harold—poor Alison's son?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Flora wrapped her arms round her niece without speaking—nor did + she again refer to the subject. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The Lord bless thee and keep thee! + The Lord cause His face to shine upon thee! + <i>The Lord give thee thy heart's desire, and fulfil all thy mind</i>.” + </pre> + <p> + Olive rose with an indescribable sense of hope and peace. As she left the + room she looked once more at her aunt. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It was indeed so. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLI. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. <i>No one else!</i> Olive saw that + in one moment, and blamed herself for having wished—what she had no + right to hope—what had best not be. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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”—— + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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 £1000 a year, and a little estate + to match!” + </p> + <p> + “I am so glad! for his sake, good dear Lyle!” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Dear</i> 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Lyle would thank you if he knew.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>him.</i>” But now a faint fear repelled her. + However, Harold's mother, understanding her looks, observed, + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “He is gone, then, to America?” + </p> + <p> + “America!—who mentioned America?” said Mrs. Gwynne, sharply. “Has he + told you more than he told me?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Was it a sudden journey?—is it long since he went?” said Olive, + shading her eyes from the fire-light. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no! oh no!” The hand was pressed down closer over the eyes. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And for how long?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite, quite willing;—nay, very glad!” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>was</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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—“<i>To + his daughter Olive when she was quite alone in the world</i>.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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>I + did love your mother</i>. Would to Heaven she had loved me, or shown her + love, only a little more! + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + “In the West Indies there was one who had loved me, in vain,—mark + you, I said <i>in vain</i>,—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. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + “But she had not; and so the end came! Olive, you are not my <i>only</i> + child. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>her</i>—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 <i>murderer</i>. + </p> + <p> + “Nevertheless, I believe that they are still alive—these wretched + two. If I did not, I should almost go mad at times. + </p> + <p> + “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—<i>she</i>, 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! + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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>I + loved</i>, 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, + </p> + <p> + “Angus Rothesay. + </p> + <p> + “Celia Manners was her name. Her child she called <i>Christal</i>.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLII. + </h2> + <p> + 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—<i>her sister</i>. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + With a natural revulsion of feeling, Olive thrust the letter from her. Its + touch seemed to pollute her fingers. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she stopped, aghast at thinking that she was thus speaking of the + dead—the dead from whom her own life had sprung. + </p> + <p> + “I am bewildered,” she murmured. “Heaven help me! I know not what I say or + do.” And Olive fell on her knees. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + How all the souls that were, were forfeit once; And He who might the + vantage best have took Found out the remedy. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she heard from the next room Christal's happy, unconscious voice, + singing merrily. + </p> + <p> + “My sister!” Olive gasped. “She is my sister—my father's child.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + While she struggled in this conflict, she heard a voice at the door. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + Olive sprang to her desk and hid the letter therein. Then, without + speaking—she had no power to speak—she mechanically unlocked + the door. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, what have you been doing?” + </p> + <p> + Olive instinctively answered the truth. “I have been sitting here alone—thinking + of old times—reading old letters.” + </p> + <p> + “Whose? nay, but I will know,” answered Christal, half playfully, half in + earnest, as though there was some distrust in her mind. + </p> + <p> + “It was my father's—my poor father's.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>her sister</i>. + </p> + <p> + “O Christal! let us love one another—we two, who have no other tie + left to us on earth.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But Olive did hear, and shuddered at the hearing. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “It <i>was</i> 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. <i>Her + sister</i>! 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIII + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “It is very strange for you to ask me these questions.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + He snatched it eagerly. “How I love to hear you speak thus! Oh, if I could + but tell you all.” + </p> + <p> + “You may, indeed,” said Olive, gently. “I am sure, my dear Lyle, you can + trust me. Tell me the whole story.” + </p> + <p> + —“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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what was it?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Olive thought a minute, and then said, very seriously, “Was it Christal + Manners?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you tell her of your feelings?” + </p> + <p> + “Only in some foolish verses, which she laughed at.” + </p> + <p> + “You should not have done that. It is very wicked to make any pretence + about love.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>yourself</i>.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Lyle, you are mocking me,” said Olive, sadly. + </p> + <p> + “Mocking you! It is very cruel to tell me so,” and he turned away with an + expression of deep pain. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>her</i>, + his senior by some years, many years older than he in heart; pale, worn, + <i>deformed</i>. 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lyle, why talk to me in this way? You do not know how deeply it + grieves me.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Lyle turned very pale. “That means to say that you think me unworthy to be + yours.” + </p> + <p> + “No—no—I did not say you were unworthy; you are dear to me, + you always were, though not in <i>that</i> way. It goes to my very heart + to inflict even a momentary pain; but I cannot, cannot marry you!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “No, never!” + </p> + <p> + “Are you quite sure?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite sure.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I am too late,” he continued, bitterly. “You may already love + some one else. Tell me, I have a right to know.” + </p> + <p> + She blushed crimson, and then arose, not without dignity. “I think, Lyle, + you go too far; we will cease this conversation.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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”—— + </p> + <p> + “I shall never marry,” said Olive, uttering the words she had uttered many + a time, but never more solemnly than now. + </p> + <p> + Lyle regarded her for a long and breathless space, and then laying his + head on her knees, he wept like a child. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Christal walked up to her. “Now tell me—for I <i>will</i> know—what + has passed between you and—him who just now went hence.” + </p> + <p> + “Lyle Derwent?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Repeat every word—every word!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Christal—Christal! Hush!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You love him?” + </p> + <p> + “You stole him from me—you bewitched him with your vile flatteries. + How else could he have turned from <i>me</i> to <i>you</i>?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What am I to do—how am I to convince you? How hard this is!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You consider me a mere girl. But I learned to be a woman early. I had + need.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor child!—poor child!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, Christal, if you never did really love him”—— + </p> + <p> + “Who told you that? Not I!” she cried, her broken and contradictory speech + revealing the chaos of her mind. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you, no! Never till this day did he breathe one word of love to + me. I can show you his letters.” + </p> + <p> + “Letters! He wrote to you, then, and I never knew it. Oh! how I hate you! + I could kill you where you stand!” + </p> + <p> + She went to the open desk, and began searching there with trembling hands. + </p> + <p> + “What—what are you going to do?” cried Olive, with sudden terror. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “More wicked devices against me!” cried the girl, passionately. “But I + will find out this plot too,” and she began to unfold the paper. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>will</i> read!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Trembling, Olive crept up and touched her; Christal recoiled, and stamped + on the ground, crying: + </p> + <p> + “It is all a lie, a hideous lie! <i>You</i> have forged it—to shame + me in the eyes of my lover.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Sister!</i> 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Christal looked at her sister for a moment,—without pity or remorse, + but in motionless horror. Then she unlocked the door and fled. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIV. + </h2> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>then</i>. So strong was the + delusion, that she feebly uttered his name. + </p> + <p> + “It is Harold's mother, my dear. Were you dreaming about my son?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you have been ill for some days. I have been nursing you.” + </p> + <p> + “And what has happened in this house, the while? Oh, where is Christal,—poor + Christal?” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Everything! But, Olive, we must not talk.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</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!” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, hush!” murmured Olive. + </p> + <p> + “She told me everything. But all is safe, for I have possession of the + letter; and I have nursed you myself, alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how good, how wise, how faithful you have been!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Good tidings, my dear; tidings from Harold. But you are trembling.” + </p> + <p> + “Everything sudden startles me now. I am very weak, I fear,” murmured + Olive. “But you look so pleased!—All is well with him?” + </p> + <p> + “All is quite well. He has written me a long letter, and here is one for + you!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gwynne regarded Olive for a moment, as <i>his</i> mother naturally + would, jealous over her own claim, yet not blaming the one whose only + blame was “loving where <i>she</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>we both</i> + are to hear from him,” said Mrs. Gwynne, with a light but kindly emphasis. + And then Olive was left alone. + </p> + <p> + Oh that Harold had seen her as she sat! Oh that <i>he</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “He is that, and will be always! I am content, quite content;” and she + gazed down, calmly smiling at the letter on her knee. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + But Christal declared no power should induce her to meet Olive more. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But when afterwards her room was searched, they found a letter addressed + to Miss Rothesay. It ran thus: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “One thing only I regret; that, in justice to my own mother, I must no + longer think tenderly of <i>yours</i>. For yourself all is ended between + us. Pardon I neither ask nor grant; I only say, Farewell. + </p> + <p> + “Christal Manners.” + </p> + <p> + The letter was afterwards apparently re-opened, and a hasty postscript + added: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLV. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not quite understand,” said Olive, yet she changed colour a little. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Then trust him in this. I think he has almost a right—or one day he + may have.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>Olive's sake</i>. + </p> + <p> + “I said that, my dear,” observed Mrs. Gwynne, “because I know his strong + regard for you, and his anxiety for your happiness.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + From that time his letters came frequently and regularly. Passages from + them will best show how his work of mercy sped. + </p> + <p> + “Paris, Jan.—I have had no difficulty in gaining admittance to the + <i>pension</i>, 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 <i>milord</i>. 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.” + </p> + <p> + ... “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.” + </p> + <p> + ... “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.” + </p> + <p> + ... “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. + </p> + <p> + “I have heard much about your sister to-day from a girl who is a <i>pensionnaire</i> + 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 <i>miladi</i>, when she is + nobody at all, as I told her once,' said the triumphant little French + girl. + </p> + <p> + “'And what did she answer?' asked I. + </p> + <p> + “'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 <i>only</i> the teacher—a + poor penniless <i>Anglaise</i>.' + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + ... “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.” + </p> + <p> + ... “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.” + </p> + <p> + —“'She was <i>un petit diable</i> 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.' + </p> + <p> + “'But,' said I, 'you might at least find her some other situation.' + </p> + <p> + “'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 + <i>nobody</i>.' + </p> + <p> + “'Yet you took her as a pupil.' + </p> + <p> + “'Oh, Monsieur, that was a different matter; and then I was so liberally + paid. Now, if you should be a relative'—— + </p> + <p> + “'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.' + </p> + <p> + “'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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “'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?' + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “'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?' + </p> + <p> + “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.' + </p> + <p> + “'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.) + </p> + <p> + “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, + </p> + <p> + “'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?' + </p> + <p> + “'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 '—— + </p> + <p> + “'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 <i>right</i> + I had to know? I answered her as, after a struggle with myself, I thought + best—<i>how</i>, 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. + </p> + <p> + “'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!' + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “'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. + </p> + <p> + “'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. + </p> + <p> + “'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.' + </p> + <p> + “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.' + </p> + <p> + “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.' + </p> + <p> + “'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.' + </p> + <p> + “'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.' + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>my</i> God!'” + </p> + <p> + —“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. '<i>Poor little Olive</i>.' She calls you so.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “She was climbing the parapet to leap into the arms of Death! + </p> + <p> + “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!' + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + ... “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.' + </p> + <p> + “Christal looked for a moment like her own scornful self. '<i>Us + Protestants?</i>' 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.' + </p> + <p> + “She thought, perhaps, I should have blamed her for this long course of + religious falsehood. I blame <i>her!</i> (Olive, for God's sake do not let + my mother read all I write to you. She shall know everything soon, but not + now.) + </p> + <p> + “'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.' + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + ... “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>the first</i> she + wrote.” + </p> + <p> + “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. <i>Home!</i> + Thank God!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0046" id="link2HCH0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLVI. + </h2> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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, <i>Olive</i>? Written, it + looked most beautiful in her sight; but when spoken, it must be a music of + which the world could hold no parallel. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It must be finished before Harold comes home,” said Harold's mother. “I + told him of it in my letters, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed. I do not remember that. And yet for this long while you have let + me see all your letters, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + For a while longer these two loving hearts waited anxiously for Harold's + coming. At last he came. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + Then, all emotion having passed away, she went back quietly to Harold and + his mother. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” was Mrs. Gwynne's low answer. But Olive heard it. It was the lonely + heart's first welcome home. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + She answered, “Still, tell me all.” And she felt that, so listening, the + heaviest worldly sorrow would have fallen light. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Were they so poor then? I feared this,” said Olive compassionately. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Starved! oh, no! you cannot mean that!” + </p> + <p> + “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.'” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Meliora! But you were very kind to her—you went to see her + often?—I knew you would.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Harold paused—but Olive was too much moved to speak. He went on— + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But you saw him again?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “You told me so once before,” answered Harold, in a low tone. “Do you + remember? It was at the Hermitage of Braid.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, you need not, when you are already tired. It is still early. I + had much rather go home alone.” + </p> + <p> + Harold sat down again at once. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Great he was, but not happy. I think I had rather be the poor little + sister who spent her life for him.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, in a foolish affection which was all in vain.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no—nothing—only good night.” And he hastily walked away. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>that</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I am awake and safe; the fire is not in my room. Tell me, what must I + do?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Quick—quick! I cannot rest till I have you safe. Olive! for God's + sake, come! Bring with you anything you value, only come!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0008" id="linkimage-0008"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> + <img src="images/p401.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page 401, Olive and Harold " /> + </div> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And my life, too. Oh! it is so sweet to owe you all!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “You must not stay here,” he said. “Come with me home!” + </p> + <p> + “Home!” and she looked wistfully at the ruins of her own. 2 D + </p> + <p> + “Yes—to my home—my mother's. You know for the present it must + indeed be yours. Come!” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0047" id="link2HCH0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLVII. + </h2> + <p> + “He has given his life in saving mine. Oh, would that I had died for thee—my + Harold—my Harold!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I angry, because it was in saving you that this happened to my son? No, + Olive, no! Whatever God sends, we will bear together.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My dear, how long have you been here?” + </p> + <p> + “All night.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor child—poor child!” + </p> + <p> + “It is all I can do for him and you. If I could only”—— + </p> + <p> + “I guess what you would say. No, no! He must be perfectly quiet; he must + not see or hear <i>you.</i>” 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: + </p> + <p> + “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”—— + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” answered Olive. She knew what the anxious mother meant, and + dared not utter the longing at her heart. + </p> + <p> + “I hardly know what to do,” said Mrs. Gwynne, restlessly. “He has been + asking to see you.” + </p> + <p> + “To see me! And—may I!”—— + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She took her to the door, but quitted her there, perhaps remembering the + days when she too was young. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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—— + </p> + <p> + “I cannot—I cannot It would be more than I could bear.” And from the + depth of her heart rose a heavy sigh. + </p> + <p> + Harold seemed to hear it. He moved a little, and said, faintly. “Who is + there?” + </p> + <p> + “It is I.” + </p> + <p> + “Olive—little Olive.” His white cheek flushed, and he held out his + hand. + </p> + <p> + She, remembering his mother's caution, only whispered, “I am so glad—so + glad!” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I am so happy to think you are better.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank God! thank God! But you are weak, and must not speak.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “While you can!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes, always!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “How could you think so? Oh! Harold—Harold!” + </p> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “Ever—from the first, you only—none but you!” + </p> + <p> + “Kiss me, then, my own faithful one,” he said faintly. + </p> + <p> + Olive leaned over him, and kissed him on the eyes and mouth. He tried to + fold his arms round her, but failed. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But I am strong,” Olive answered. She put her arm under his head, and + made him lean on her shoulder. He looked up smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, this is sweet, very sweet! I could sleep—I could almost die—thus”—— + </p> + <p> + “No, God will not let you die, my Harold,” whispered Olive; and then + neither spoke again. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “O God, I thank Thee, for Thou hast given me my heart's desire!” + </p> + <p> + Soon after, Mrs. Gwynne entered the room. But no blush came to Olive's + cheek—too solemn was her joy. + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” she whispered; “do not wake him. He loves me—I know it now. + You will not be angry?—I have loved him always.” + </p> + <p> + “I knew it, Olive.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Mother!—is not that my mother?” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0048" id="link2HCH0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLVIII. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do you like to hear it, or shall I close the window?” said Olive, coming + towards him. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Harold moved restlessly. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>her</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Mother—mother!” His hands were crushed together, and with a look of + pain. Olive stole to his side. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps we are talking too much. Shall we go away, Harold, and leave you + to sleep?” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, Olive! hush!” he whispered. “I have thought of this before. I knew + I must tell it to her—all the truth.” + </p> + <p> + “But not now—not now. Wait till you are stronger; wait a week—a + day.” + </p> + <p> + “No, not an hour. It is right!” + </p> + <p> + “What are you talking to my son about?” said Mrs. Gwynne, with a quick + jealousy, which even yet was not altogether stilled. + </p> + <p> + Neither of the betrothed spoke. + </p> + <p> + “You are not hiding anything from me, Harold; from me, your mother!” + </p> + <p> + “My mother—my noble, self-denying, mother!” murmured Harold, as if + thinking aloud. “Surely, if I sinned for her, God will forgive me!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Stand aside, Olive. Let me see his face. Not even you have a right to + interpose between me and my son.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + She pressed his hand, and went away to the other end of the room. + </p> + <p> + Then Harold said, tenderly, “Mother, I want to tell you something.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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, + <i>then</i>—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.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” said Mrs. Gwynne, hurriedly. “I had a fear once—a bitter + fear. But no matter! Go on!” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>not his + mother's.</i>” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him, and then looked away again. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + A faint groan—only one—broke from the depth of the mother's + heart, but she never spoke. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “And this hypocrite in man's sight—this blasphemer in the face of + God—is my son Harold?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Olive kept aloof, until, seeing what a ghastly paleness was coming over + the face of her betrothed, she came and stood beside him, saying, + </p> + <p> + “Do not talk more, you are too weak. Let me tell the rest.” + </p> + <p> + “You there, Olive? Go! Leave my son to me; you have no part here.” + </p> + <p> + But Harold held his betrothed fast. “Nay, mother. Take her and bless her, + for it was she who saved your son.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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”—— + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Gwynne resumed. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Leave Harbury! your dear old home, from which you have often said you + could never part! Oh, mother, mother!” + </p> + <p> + “It is nothing—do not think of it, my son! Afterwards, what must you + do?” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot tell. Olive, think for me!” said Harold, looking helplessly + towards her. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “But I shall grow strong now, I know. Mother—Olive! my heart is + lightened of the load of years!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + After tea, Harbury bells broke out in their evening chime. Mrs. Gwynne + rose; Olive asked if she were thinking of going to church! + </p> + <p> + “Yes—to thank God!” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Little Olive—good little Olive, she always comes when I most need + her,” he said, fondly. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Do not jest, Olive; I cannot. If I go abroad, I must go alone. What will + become of my mother and Ailie?” + </p> + <p> + “They shall stay and comfort me. Nay, you will not forbid it. How could I + go on with my painting, living all alone?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + He spoke hurriedly, like the proud Harold of old—ay, the pride + mingled with a stronger passion still. But Olive smiled both down. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “Nay, there is nothing to forgive. The joy has blotted out all the pain.” + </p> + <p> + “It shall do so when you are once mine. That must be soon, Olive—soon.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Darling! why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I have no beauty; and, besides—I cannot speak it, but you + know—you know!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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, + </p> + <p> + “I am content, since I am fair in your sight, my Harold—my only + love!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0049" id="link2HCH0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIX. + </h2> + <p> + 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 <i>she</i>, walking by the streams of living waters, + needed those of earth no more. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + No, reader! Neither you nor any one else will ever see Olive <i>Rothesay</i> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “I leave her this and <i>no more</i>, that she may understand how deeply I + reverenced her true woman's nature, and how dearly I loved herself.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>end</i>?—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, <i>that</i> is the true love—the + tie which God created from the beginning, making man and woman to be one + flesh, and pronouncing it “good.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That I will, my pet. Come, tell me what shall I say—word for word, + 'Alison'”——— + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that is it—my beautiful long name—which I like so much, + though no one ever calls me by it—<i>Alison Sara Gwynne.</i>” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + A <i>Mother!</i>—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 <i>him</i>. + If souls can behold and rejoice in the happiness of those beloved on + earth, mother, look down from heaven and bless my husband!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Since they came home to Morningside, they had constantly sought at St. + Margaret's for news of Christal Manners. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “She will not, then?” said Olive, sighing. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Then she gave a wild start, the old angry flush mounted to her temples, + and sank. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But not to me—oh, not to me, my sister!” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + She told her rosary over once, twice, and then turned to Olive, subdued. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “But I cannot leave you, my sister.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + “You suffer! happy as they tell me you are—you, with your home and + your husband!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Christal, even my husband grieves—my husband, who would do + anything in the whole world for your peace. You have forgotten Harold.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Not with me—not with me. But I desire not to talk of myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I talk then about your friend Harold—your <i>brother</i>? 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + One only doubt troubled her. After considering for a long time she + ventured to say: + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you have forgotten”—— + </p> + <p> + “Forgotten all. It was but a dream of my old vain life—it troubles + me no more.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Olive walked on quickly, for the afternoon was closing. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + <i>My husband!</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + Harold met her with a smile. “I have been waiting long—I could not + let my little Olive walk home alone.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + “No—no!” he cried, pressing her hand close to his heart. The mute + gesture said enough—Olive desired no more. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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! + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + And on her part, Olive with her clinging sweetness, her upward gaze, was a + type of true woman. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + He planted his foot firmly on the ground, lifted his proud head, and + looked out fearlessly with his majestic eyes. + </p> + <p> + “And I,” said Olive, “thus.” + </p> + <p> + She stole her two little cold hands under his plaid, laid her head upon + them, close to his heart, and, smiling, nestled there. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + THE END. <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Olive, by +Dinah Maria Craik, (AKA Dinah Maria Mulock) + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLIVE *** + +***** This file should be named 22121-h.htm or 22121-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/2/1/2/22121/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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