summaryrefslogtreecommitdiff
path: root/old/22121-h.htm.2021-01-25
blob: 8e9b3db57d5345d25aceea55c44f6329f492a931 (plain) 
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
4553
4554
4555
4556
4557
4558
4559
4560
4561
4562
4563
4564
4565
4566
4567
4568
4569
4570
4571
4572
4573
4574
4575
4576
4577
4578
4579
4580
4581
4582
4583
4584
4585
4586
4587
4588
4589
4590
4591
4592
4593
4594
4595
4596
4597
4598
4599
4600
4601
4602
4603
4604
4605
4606
4607
4608
4609
4610
4611
4612
4613
4614
4615
4616
4617
4618
4619
4620
4621
4622
4623
4624
4625
4626
4627
4628
4629
4630
4631
4632
4633
4634
4635
4636
4637
4638
4639
4640
4641
4642
4643
4644
4645
4646
4647
4648
4649
4650
4651
4652
4653
4654
4655
4656
4657
4658
4659
4660
4661
4662
4663
4664
4665
4666
4667
4668
4669
4670
4671
4672
4673
4674
4675
4676
4677
4678
4679
4680
4681
4682
4683
4684
4685
4686
4687
4688
4689
4690
4691
4692
4693
4694
4695
4696
4697
4698
4699
4700
4701
4702
4703
4704
4705
4706
4707
4708
4709
4710
4711
4712
4713
4714
4715
4716
4717
4718
4719
4720
4721
4722
4723
4724
4725
4726
4727
4728
4729
4730
4731
4732
4733
4734
4735
4736
4737
4738
4739
4740
4741
4742
4743
4744
4745
4746
4747
4748
4749
4750
4751
4752
4753
4754
4755
4756
4757
4758
4759
4760
4761
4762
4763
4764
4765
4766
4767
4768
4769
4770
4771
4772
4773
4774
4775
4776
4777
4778
4779
4780
4781
4782
4783
4784
4785
4786
4787
4788
4789
4790
4791
4792
4793
4794
4795
4796
4797
4798
4799
4800
4801
4802
4803
4804
4805
4806
4807
4808
4809
4810
4811
4812
4813
4814
4815
4816
4817
4818
4819
4820
4821
4822
4823
4824
4825
4826
4827
4828
4829
4830
4831
4832
4833
4834
4835
4836
4837
4838
4839
4840
4841
4842
4843
4844
4845
4846
4847
4848
4849
4850
4851
4852
4853
4854
4855
4856
4857
4858
4859
4860
4861
4862
4863
4864
4865
4866
4867
4868
4869
4870
4871
4872
4873
4874
4875
4876
4877
4878
4879
4880
4881
4882
4883
4884
4885
4886
4887
4888
4889
4890
4891
4892
4893
4894
4895
4896
4897
4898
4899
4900
4901
4902
4903
4904
4905
4906
4907
4908
4909
4910
4911
4912
4913
4914
4915
4916
4917
4918
4919
4920
4921
4922
4923
4924
4925
4926
4927
4928
4929
4930
4931
4932
4933
4934
4935
4936
4937
4938
4939
4940
4941
4942
4943
4944
4945
4946
4947
4948
4949
4950
4951
4952
4953
4954
4955
4956
4957
4958
4959
4960
4961
4962
4963
4964
4965
4966
4967
4968
4969
4970
4971
4972
4973
4974
4975
4976
4977
4978
4979
4980
4981
4982
4983
4984
4985
4986
4987
4988
4989
4990
4991
4992
4993
4994
4995
4996
4997
4998
4999
5000
5001
5002
5003
5004
5005
5006
5007
5008
5009
5010
5011
5012
5013
5014
5015
5016
5017
5018
5019
5020
5021
5022
5023
5024
5025
5026
5027
5028
5029
5030
5031
5032
5033
5034
5035
5036
5037
5038
5039
5040
5041
5042
5043
5044
5045
5046
5047
5048
5049
5050
5051
5052
5053
5054
5055
5056
5057
5058
5059
5060
5061
5062
5063
5064
5065
5066
5067
5068
5069
5070
5071
5072
5073
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078
5079
5080
5081
5082
5083
5084
5085
5086
5087
5088
5089
5090
5091
5092
5093
5094
5095
5096
5097
5098
5099
5100
5101
5102
5103
5104
5105
5106
5107
5108
5109
5110
5111
5112
5113
5114
5115
5116
5117
5118
5119
5120
5121
5122
5123
5124
5125
5126
5127
5128
5129
5130
5131
5132
5133
5134
5135
5136
5137
5138
5139
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144
5145
5146
5147
5148
5149
5150
5151
5152
5153
5154
5155
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163
5164
5165
5166
5167
5168
5169
5170
5171
5172
5173
5174
5175
5176
5177
5178
5179
5180
5181
5182
5183
5184
5185
5186
5187
5188
5189
5190
5191
5192
5193
5194
5195
5196
5197
5198
5199
5200
5201
5202
5203
5204
5205
5206
5207
5208
5209
5210
5211
5212
5213
5214
5215
5216
5217
5218
5219
5220
5221
5222
5223
5224
5225
5226
5227
5228
5229
5230
5231
5232
5233
5234
5235
5236
5237
5238
5239
5240
5241
5242
5243
5244
5245
5246
5247
5248
5249
5250
5251
5252
5253
5254
5255
5256
5257
5258
5259
5260
5261
5262
5263
5264
5265
5266
5267
5268
5269
5270
5271
5272
5273
5274
5275
5276
5277
5278
5279
5280
5281
5282
5283
5284
5285
5286
5287
5288
5289
5290
5291
5292
5293
5294
5295
5296
5297
5298
5299
5300
5301
5302
5303
5304
5305
5306
5307
5308
5309
5310
5311
5312
5313
5314
5315
5316
5317
5318
5319
5320
5321
5322
5323
5324
5325
5326
5327
5328
5329
5330
5331
5332
5333
5334
5335
5336
5337
5338
5339
5340
5341
5342
5343
5344
5345
5346
5347
5348
5349
5350
5351
5352
5353
5354
5355
5356
5357
5358
5359
5360
5361
5362
5363
5364
5365
5366
5367
5368
5369
5370
5371
5372
5373
5374
5375
5376
5377
5378
5379
5380
5381
5382
5383
5384
5385
5386
5387
5388
5389
5390
5391
5392
5393
5394
5395
5396
5397
5398
5399
5400
5401
5402
5403
5404
5405
5406
5407
5408
5409
5410
5411
5412
5413
5414
5415
5416
5417
5418
5419
5420
5421
5422
5423
5424
5425
5426
5427
5428
5429
5430
5431
5432
5433
5434
5435
5436
5437
5438
5439
5440
5441
5442
5443
5444
5445
5446
5447
5448
5449
5450
5451
5452
5453
5454
5455
5456
5457
5458
5459
5460
5461
5462
5463
5464
5465
5466
5467
5468
5469
5470
5471
5472
5473
5474
5475
5476
5477
5478
5479
5480
5481
5482
5483
5484
5485
5486
5487
5488
5489
5490
5491
5492
5493
5494
5495
5496
5497
5498
5499
5500
5501
5502
5503
5504
5505
5506
5507
5508
5509
5510
5511
5512
5513
5514
5515
5516
5517
5518
5519
5520
5521
5522
5523
5524
5525
5526
5527
5528
5529
5530
5531
5532
5533
5534
5535
5536
5537
5538
5539
5540
5541
5542
5543
5544
5545
5546
5547
5548
5549
5550
5551
5552
5553
5554
5555
5556
5557
5558
5559
5560
5561
5562
5563
5564
5565
5566
5567
5568
5569
5570
5571
5572
5573
5574
5575
5576
5577
5578
5579
5580
5581
5582
5583
5584
5585
5586
5587
5588
5589
5590
5591
5592
5593
5594
5595
5596
5597
5598
5599
5600
5601
5602
5603
5604
5605
5606
5607
5608
5609
5610
5611
5612
5613
5614
5615
5616
5617
5618
5619
5620
5621
5622
5623
5624
5625
5626
5627
5628
5629
5630
5631
5632
5633
5634
5635
5636
5637
5638
5639
5640
5641
5642
5643
5644
5645
5646
5647
5648
5649
5650
5651
5652
5653
5654
5655
5656
5657
5658
5659
5660
5661
5662
5663
5664
5665
5666
5667
5668
5669
5670
5671
5672
5673
5674
5675
5676
5677
5678
5679
5680
5681
5682
5683
5684
5685
5686
5687
5688
5689
5690
5691
5692
5693
5694
5695
5696
5697
5698
5699
5700
5701
5702
5703
5704
5705
5706
5707
5708
5709
5710
5711
5712
5713
5714
5715
5716
5717
5718
5719
5720
5721
5722
5723
5724
5725
5726
5727
5728
5729
5730
5731
5732
5733
5734
5735
5736
5737
5738
5739
5740
5741
5742
5743
5744
5745
5746
5747
5748
5749
5750
5751
5752
5753
5754
5755
5756
5757
5758
5759
5760
5761
5762
5763
5764
5765
5766
5767
5768
5769
5770
5771
5772
5773
5774
5775
5776
5777
5778
5779
5780
5781
5782
5783
5784
5785
5786
5787
5788
5789
5790
5791
5792
5793
5794
5795
5796
5797
5798
5799
5800
5801
5802
5803
5804
5805
5806
5807
5808
5809
5810
5811
5812
5813
5814
5815
5816
5817
5818
5819
5820
5821
5822
5823
5824
5825
5826
5827
5828
5829
5830
5831
5832
5833
5834
5835
5836
5837
5838
5839
5840
5841
5842
5843
5844
5845
5846
5847
5848
5849
5850
5851
5852
5853
5854
5855
5856
5857
5858
5859
5860
5861
5862
5863
5864
5865
5866
5867
5868
5869
5870
5871
5872
5873
5874
5875
5876
5877
5878
5879
5880
5881
5882
5883
5884
5885
5886
5887
5888
5889
5890
5891
5892
5893
5894
5895
5896
5897
5898
5899
5900
5901
5902
5903
5904
5905
5906
5907
5908
5909
5910
5911
5912
5913
5914
5915
5916
5917
5918
5919
5920
5921
5922
5923
5924
5925
5926
5927
5928
5929
5930
5931
5932
5933
5934
5935
5936
5937
5938
5939
5940
5941
5942
5943
5944
5945
5946
5947
5948
5949
5950
5951
5952
5953
5954
5955
5956
5957
5958
5959
5960
5961
5962
5963
5964
5965
5966
5967
5968
5969
5970
5971
5972
5973
5974
5975
5976
5977
5978
5979
5980
5981
5982
5983
5984
5985
5986
5987
5988
5989
5990
5991
5992
5993
5994
5995
5996
5997
5998
5999
6000
6001
6002
6003
6004
6005
6006
6007
6008
6009
6010
6011
6012
6013
6014
6015
6016
6017
6018
6019
6020
6021
6022
6023
6024
6025
6026
6027
6028
6029
6030
6031
6032
6033
6034
6035
6036
6037
6038
6039
6040
6041
6042
6043
6044
6045
6046
6047
6048
6049
6050
6051
6052
6053
6054
6055
6056
6057
6058
6059
6060
6061
6062
6063
6064
6065
6066
6067
6068
6069
6070
6071
6072
6073
6074
6075
6076
6077
6078
6079
6080
6081
6082
6083
6084
6085
6086
6087
6088
6089
6090
6091
6092
6093
6094
6095
6096
6097
6098
6099
6100
6101
6102
6103
6104
6105
6106
6107
6108
6109
6110
6111
6112
6113
6114
6115
6116
6117
6118
6119
6120
6121
6122
6123
6124
6125
6126
6127
6128
6129
6130
6131
6132
6133
6134
6135
6136
6137
6138
6139
6140
6141
6142
6143
6144
6145
6146
6147
6148
6149
6150
6151
6152
6153
6154
6155
6156
6157
6158
6159
6160
6161
6162
6163
6164
6165
6166
6167
6168
6169
6170
6171
6172
6173
6174
6175
6176
6177
6178
6179
6180
6181
6182
6183
6184
6185
6186
6187
6188
6189
6190
6191
6192
6193
6194
6195
6196
6197
6198
6199
6200
6201
6202
6203
6204
6205
6206
6207
6208
6209
6210
6211
6212
6213
6214
6215
6216
6217
6218
6219
6220
6221
6222
6223
6224
6225
6226
6227
6228
6229
6230
6231
6232
6233
6234
6235
6236
6237
6238
6239
6240
6241
6242
6243
6244
6245
6246
6247
6248
6249
6250
6251
6252
6253
6254
6255
6256
6257
6258
6259
6260
6261
6262
6263
6264
6265
6266
6267
6268
6269
6270
6271
6272
6273
6274
6275
6276
6277
6278
6279
6280
6281
6282
6283
6284
6285
6286
6287
6288
6289
6290
6291
6292
6293
6294
6295
6296
6297
6298
6299
6300
6301
6302
6303
6304
6305
6306
6307
6308
6309
6310
6311
6312
6313
6314
6315
6316
6317
6318
6319
6320
6321
6322
6323
6324
6325
6326
6327
6328
6329
6330
6331
6332
6333
6334
6335
6336
6337
6338
6339
6340
6341
6342
6343
6344
6345
6346
6347
6348
6349
6350
6351
6352
6353
6354
6355
6356
6357
6358
6359
6360
6361
6362
6363
6364
6365
6366
6367
6368
6369
6370
6371
6372
6373
6374
6375
6376
6377
6378
6379
6380
6381
6382
6383
6384
6385
6386
6387
6388
6389
6390
6391
6392
6393
6394
6395
6396
6397
6398
6399
6400
6401
6402
6403
6404
6405
6406
6407
6408
6409
6410
6411
6412
6413
6414
6415
6416
6417
6418
6419
6420
6421
6422
6423
6424
6425
6426
6427
6428
6429
6430
6431
6432
6433
6434
6435
6436
6437
6438
6439
6440
6441
6442
6443
6444
6445
6446
6447
6448
6449
6450
6451
6452
6453
6454
6455
6456
6457
6458
6459
6460
6461
6462
6463
6464
6465
6466
6467
6468
6469
6470
6471
6472
6473
6474
6475
6476
6477
6478
6479
6480
6481
6482
6483
6484
6485
6486
6487
6488
6489
6490
6491
6492
6493
6494
6495
6496
6497
6498
6499
6500
6501
6502
6503
6504
6505
6506
6507
6508
6509
6510
6511
6512
6513
6514
6515
6516
6517
6518
6519
6520
6521
6522
6523
6524
6525
6526
6527
6528
6529
6530
6531
6532
6533
6534
6535
6536
6537
6538
6539
6540
6541
6542
6543
6544
6545
6546
6547
6548
6549
6550
6551
6552
6553
6554
6555
6556
6557
6558
6559
6560
6561
6562
6563
6564
6565
6566
6567
6568
6569
6570
6571
6572
6573
6574
6575
6576
6577
6578
6579
6580
6581
6582
6583
6584
6585
6586
6587
6588
6589
6590
6591
6592
6593
6594
6595
6596
6597
6598
6599
6600
6601
6602
6603
6604
6605
6606
6607
6608
6609
6610
6611
6612
6613
6614
6615
6616
6617
6618
6619
6620
6621
6622
6623
6624
6625
6626
6627
6628
6629
6630
6631
6632
6633
6634
6635
6636
6637
6638
6639
6640
6641
6642
6643
6644
6645
6646
6647
6648
6649
6650
6651
6652
6653
6654
6655
6656
6657
6658
6659
6660
6661
6662
6663
6664
6665
6666
6667
6668
6669
6670
6671
6672
6673
6674
6675
6676
6677
6678
6679
6680
6681
6682
6683
6684
6685
6686
6687
6688
6689
6690
6691
6692
6693
6694
6695
6696
6697
6698
6699
6700
6701
6702
6703
6704
6705
6706
6707
6708
6709
6710
6711
6712
6713
6714
6715
6716
6717
6718
6719
6720
6721
6722
6723
6724
6725
6726
6727
6728
6729
6730
6731
6732
6733
6734
6735
6736
6737
6738
6739
6740
6741
6742
6743
6744
6745
6746
6747
6748
6749
6750
6751
6752
6753
6754
6755
6756
6757
6758
6759
6760
6761
6762
6763
6764
6765
6766
6767
6768
6769
6770
6771
6772
6773
6774
6775
6776
6777
6778
6779
6780
6781
6782
6783
6784
6785
6786
6787
6788
6789
6790
6791
6792
6793
6794
6795
6796
6797
6798
6799
6800
6801
6802
6803
6804
6805
6806
6807
6808
6809
6810
6811
6812
6813
6814
6815
6816
6817
6818
6819
6820
6821
6822
6823
6824
6825
6826
6827
6828
6829
6830
6831
6832
6833
6834
6835
6836
6837
6838
6839
6840
6841
6842
6843
6844
6845
6846
6847
6848
6849
6850
6851
6852
6853
6854
6855
6856
6857
6858
6859
6860
6861
6862
6863
6864
6865
6866
6867
6868
6869
6870
6871
6872
6873
6874
6875
6876
6877
6878
6879
6880
6881
6882
6883
6884
6885
6886
6887
6888
6889
6890
6891
6892
6893
6894
6895
6896
6897
6898
6899
6900
6901
6902
6903
6904
6905
6906
6907
6908
6909
6910
6911
6912
6913
6914
6915
6916
6917
6918
6919
6920
6921
6922
6923
6924
6925
6926
6927
6928
6929
6930
6931
6932
6933
6934
6935
6936
6937
6938
6939
6940
6941
6942
6943
6944
6945
6946
6947
6948
6949
6950
6951
6952
6953
6954
6955
6956
6957
6958
6959
6960
6961
6962
6963
6964
6965
6966
6967
6968
6969
6970
6971
6972
6973
6974
6975
6976
6977
6978
6979
6980
6981
6982
6983
6984
6985
6986
6987
6988
6989
6990
6991
6992
6993
6994
6995
6996
6997
6998
6999
7000
7001
7002
7003
7004
7005
7006
7007
7008
7009
7010
7011
7012
7013
7014
7015
7016
7017
7018
7019
7020
7021
7022
7023
7024
7025
7026
7027
7028
7029
7030
7031
7032
7033
7034
7035
7036
7037
7038
7039
7040
7041
7042
7043
7044
7045
7046
7047
7048
7049
7050
7051
7052
7053
7054
7055
7056
7057
7058
7059
7060
7061
7062
7063
7064
7065
7066
7067
7068
7069
7070
7071
7072
7073
7074
7075
7076
7077
7078
7079
7080
7081
7082
7083
7084
7085
7086
7087
7088
7089
7090
7091
7092
7093
7094
7095
7096
7097
7098
7099
7100
7101
7102
7103
7104
7105
7106
7107
7108
7109
7110
7111
7112
7113
7114
7115
7116
7117
7118
7119
7120
7121
7122
7123
7124
7125
7126
7127
7128
7129
7130
7131
7132
7133
7134
7135
7136
7137
7138
7139
7140
7141
7142
7143
7144
7145
7146
7147
7148
7149
7150
7151
7152
7153
7154
7155
7156
7157
7158
7159
7160
7161
7162
7163
7164
7165
7166
7167
7168
7169
7170
7171
7172
7173
7174
7175
7176
7177
7178
7179
7180
7181
7182
7183
7184
7185
7186
7187
7188
7189
7190
7191
7192
7193
7194
7195
7196
7197
7198
7199
7200
7201
7202
7203
7204
7205
7206
7207
7208
7209
7210
7211
7212
7213
7214
7215
7216
7217
7218
7219
7220
7221
7222
7223
7224
7225
7226
7227
7228
7229
7230
7231
7232
7233
7234
7235
7236
7237
7238
7239
7240
7241
7242
7243
7244
7245
7246
7247
7248
7249
7250
7251
7252
7253
7254
7255
7256
7257
7258
7259
7260
7261
7262
7263
7264
7265
7266
7267
7268
7269
7270
7271
7272
7273
7274
7275
7276
7277
7278
7279
7280
7281
7282
7283
7284
7285
7286
7287
7288
7289
7290
7291
7292
7293
7294
7295
7296
7297
7298
7299
7300
7301
7302
7303
7304
7305
7306
7307
7308
7309
7310
7311
7312
7313
7314
7315
7316
7317
7318
7319
7320
7321
7322
7323
7324
7325
7326
7327
7328
7329
7330
7331
7332
7333
7334
7335
7336
7337
7338
7339
7340
7341
7342
7343
7344
7345
7346
7347
7348
7349
7350
7351
7352
7353
7354
7355
7356
7357
7358
7359
7360
7361
7362
7363
7364
7365
7366
7367
7368
7369
7370
7371
7372
7373
7374
7375
7376
7377
7378
7379
7380
7381
7382
7383
7384
7385
7386
7387
7388
7389
7390
7391
7392
7393
7394
7395
7396
7397
7398
7399
7400
7401
7402
7403
7404
7405
7406
7407
7408
7409
7410
7411
7412
7413
7414
7415
7416
7417
7418
7419
7420
7421
7422
7423
7424
7425
7426
7427
7428
7429
7430
7431
7432
7433
7434
7435
7436
7437
7438
7439
7440
7441
7442
7443
7444
7445
7446
7447
7448
7449
7450
7451
7452
7453
7454
7455
7456
7457
7458
7459
7460
7461
7462
7463
7464
7465
7466
7467
7468
7469
7470
7471
7472
7473
7474
7475
7476
7477
7478
7479
7480
7481
7482
7483
7484
7485
7486
7487
7488
7489
7490
7491
7492
7493
7494
7495
7496
7497
7498
7499
7500
7501
7502
7503
7504
7505
7506
7507
7508
7509
7510
7511
7512
7513
7514
7515
7516
7517
7518
7519
7520
7521
7522
7523
7524
7525
7526
7527
7528
7529
7530
7531
7532
7533
7534
7535
7536
7537
7538
7539
7540
7541
7542
7543
7544
7545
7546
7547
7548
7549
7550
7551
7552
7553
7554
7555
7556
7557
7558
7559
7560
7561
7562
7563
7564
7565
7566
7567
7568
7569
7570
7571
7572
7573
7574
7575
7576
7577
7578
7579
7580
7581
7582
7583
7584
7585
7586
7587
7588
7589
7590
7591
7592
7593
7594
7595
7596
7597
7598
7599
7600
7601
7602
7603
7604
7605
7606
7607
7608
7609
7610
7611
7612
7613
7614
7615
7616
7617
7618
7619
7620
7621
7622
7623
7624
7625
7626
7627
7628
7629
7630
7631
7632
7633
7634
7635
7636
7637
7638
7639
7640
7641
7642
7643
7644
7645
7646
7647
7648
7649
7650
7651
7652
7653
7654
7655
7656
7657
7658
7659
7660
7661
7662
7663
7664
7665
7666
7667
7668
7669
7670
7671
7672
7673
7674
7675
7676
7677
7678
7679
7680
7681
7682
7683
7684
7685
7686
7687
7688
7689
7690
7691
7692
7693
7694
7695
7696
7697
7698
7699
7700
7701
7702
7703
7704
7705
7706
7707
7708
7709
7710
7711
7712
7713
7714
7715
7716
7717
7718
7719
7720
7721
7722
7723
7724
7725
7726
7727
7728
7729
7730
7731
7732
7733
7734
7735
7736
7737
7738
7739
7740
7741
7742
7743
7744
7745
7746
7747
7748
7749
7750
7751
7752
7753
7754
7755
7756
7757
7758
7759
7760
7761
7762
7763
7764
7765
7766
7767
7768
7769
7770
7771
7772
7773
7774
7775
7776
7777
7778
7779
7780
7781
7782
7783
7784
7785
7786
7787
7788
7789
7790
7791
7792
7793
7794
7795
7796
7797
7798
7799
7800
7801
7802
7803
7804
7805
7806
7807
7808
7809
7810
7811
7812
7813
7814
7815
7816
7817
7818
7819
7820
7821
7822
7823
7824
7825
7826
7827
7828
7829
7830
7831
7832
7833
7834
7835
7836
7837
7838
7839
7840
7841
7842
7843
7844
7845
7846
7847
7848
7849
7850
7851
7852
7853
7854
7855
7856
7857
7858
7859
7860
7861
7862
7863
7864
7865
7866
7867
7868
7869
7870
7871
7872
7873
7874
7875
7876
7877
7878
7879
7880
7881
7882
7883
7884
7885
7886
7887
7888
7889
7890
7891
7892
7893
7894
7895
7896
7897
7898
7899
7900
7901
7902
7903
7904
7905
7906
7907
7908
7909
7910
7911
7912
7913
7914
7915
7916
7917
7918
7919
7920
7921
7922
7923
7924
7925
7926
7927
7928
7929
7930
7931
7932
7933
7934
7935
7936
7937
7938
7939
7940
7941
7942
7943
7944
7945
7946
7947
7948
7949
7950
7951
7952
7953
7954
7955
7956
7957
7958
7959
7960
7961
7962
7963
7964
7965
7966
7967
7968
7969
7970
7971
7972
7973
7974
7975
7976
7977
7978
7979
7980
7981
7982
7983
7984
7985
7986
7987
7988
7989
7990
7991
7992
7993
7994
7995
7996
7997
7998
7999
8000
8001
8002
8003
8004
8005
8006
8007
8008
8009
8010
8011
8012
8013
8014
8015
8016
8017
8018
8019
8020
8021
8022
8023
8024
8025
8026
8027
8028
8029
8030
8031
8032
8033
8034
8035
8036
8037
8038
8039
8040
8041
8042
8043
8044
8045
8046
8047
8048
8049
8050
8051
8052
8053
8054
8055
8056
8057
8058
8059
8060
8061
8062
8063
8064
8065
8066
8067
8068
8069
8070
8071
8072
8073
8074
8075
8076
8077
8078
8079
8080
8081
8082
8083
8084
8085
8086
8087
8088
8089
8090
8091
8092
8093
8094
8095
8096
8097
8098
8099
8100
8101
8102
8103
8104
8105
8106
8107
8108
8109
8110
8111
8112
8113
8114
8115
8116
8117
8118
8119
8120
8121
8122
8123
8124
8125
8126
8127
8128
8129
8130
8131
8132
8133
8134
8135
8136
8137
8138
8139
8140
8141
8142
8143
8144
8145
8146
8147
8148
8149
8150
8151
8152
8153
8154
8155
8156
8157
8158
8159
8160
8161
8162
8163
8164
8165
8166
8167
8168
8169
8170
8171
8172
8173
8174
8175
8176
8177
8178
8179
8180
8181
8182
8183
8184
8185
8186
8187
8188
8189
8190
8191
8192
8193
8194
8195
8196
8197
8198
8199
8200
8201
8202
8203
8204
8205
8206
8207
8208
8209
8210
8211
8212
8213
8214
8215
8216
8217
8218
8219
8220
8221
8222
8223
8224
8225
8226
8227
8228
8229
8230
8231
8232
8233
8234
8235
8236
8237
8238
8239
8240
8241
8242
8243
8244
8245
8246
8247
8248
8249
8250
8251
8252
8253
8254
8255
8256
8257
8258
8259
8260
8261
8262
8263
8264
8265
8266
8267
8268
8269
8270
8271
8272
8273
8274
8275
8276
8277
8278
8279
8280
8281
8282
8283
8284
8285
8286
8287
8288
8289
8290
8291
8292
8293
8294
8295
8296
8297
8298
8299
8300
8301
8302
8303
8304
8305
8306
8307
8308
8309
8310
8311
8312
8313
8314
8315
8316
8317
8318
8319
8320
8321
8322
8323
8324
8325
8326
8327
8328
8329
8330
8331
8332
8333
8334
8335
8336
8337
8338
8339
8340
8341
8342
8343
8344
8345
8346
8347
8348
8349
8350
8351
8352
8353
8354
8355
8356
8357
8358
8359
8360
8361
8362
8363
8364
8365
8366
8367
8368
8369
8370
8371
8372
8373
8374
8375
8376
8377
8378
8379
8380
8381
8382
8383
8384
8385
8386
8387
8388
8389
8390
8391
8392
8393
8394
8395
8396
8397
8398
8399
8400
8401
8402
8403
8404
8405
8406
8407
8408
8409
8410
8411
8412
8413
8414
8415
8416
8417
8418
8419
8420
8421
8422
8423
8424
8425
8426
8427
8428
8429
8430
8431
8432
8433
8434
8435
8436
8437
8438
8439
8440
8441
8442
8443
8444
8445
8446
8447
8448
8449
8450
8451
8452
8453
8454
8455
8456
8457
8458
8459
8460
8461
8462
8463
8464
8465
8466
8467
8468
8469
8470
8471
8472
8473
8474
8475
8476
8477
8478
8479
8480
8481
8482
8483
8484
8485
8486
8487
8488
8489
8490
8491
8492
8493
8494
8495
8496
8497
8498
8499
8500
8501
8502
8503
8504
8505
8506
8507
8508
8509
8510
8511
8512
8513
8514
8515
8516
8517
8518
8519
8520
8521
8522
8523
8524
8525
8526
8527
8528
8529
8530
8531
8532
8533
8534
8535
8536
8537
8538
8539
8540
8541
8542
8543
8544
8545
8546
8547
8548
8549
8550
8551
8552
8553
8554
8555
8556
8557
8558
8559
8560
8561
8562
8563
8564
8565
8566
8567
8568
8569
8570
8571
8572
8573
8574
8575
8576
8577
8578
8579
8580
8581
8582
8583
8584
8585
8586
8587
8588
8589
8590
8591
8592
8593
8594
8595
8596
8597
8598
8599
8600
8601
8602
8603
8604
8605
8606
8607
8608
8609
8610
8611
8612
8613
8614
8615
8616
8617
8618
8619
8620
8621
8622
8623
8624
8625
8626
8627
8628
8629
8630
8631
8632
8633
8634
8635
8636
8637
8638
8639
8640
8641
8642
8643
8644
8645
8646
8647
8648
8649
8650
8651
8652
8653
8654
8655
8656
8657
8658
8659
8660
8661
8662
8663
8664
8665
8666
8667
8668
8669
8670
8671
8672
8673
8674
8675
8676
8677
8678
8679
8680
8681
8682
8683
8684
8685
8686
8687
8688
8689
8690
8691
8692
8693
8694
8695
8696
8697
8698
8699
8700
8701
8702
8703
8704
8705
8706
8707
8708
8709
8710
8711
8712
8713
8714
8715
8716
8717
8718
8719
8720
8721
8722
8723
8724
8725
8726
8727
8728
8729
8730
8731
8732
8733
8734
8735
8736
8737
8738
8739
8740
8741
8742
8743
8744
8745
8746
8747
8748
8749
8750
8751
8752
8753
8754
8755
8756
8757
8758
8759
8760
8761
8762
8763
8764
8765
8766
8767
8768
8769
8770
8771
8772
8773
8774
8775
8776
8777
8778
8779
8780
8781
8782
8783
8784
8785
8786
8787
8788
8789
8790
8791
8792
8793
8794
8795
8796
8797
8798
8799
8800
8801
8802
8803
8804
8805
8806
8807
8808
8809
8810
8811
8812
8813
8814
8815
8816
8817
8818
8819
8820
8821
8822
8823
8824
8825
8826
8827
8828
8829
8830
8831
8832
8833
8834
8835
8836
8837
8838
8839
8840
8841
8842
8843
8844
8845
8846
8847
8848
8849
8850
8851
8852
8853
8854
8855
8856
8857
8858
8859
8860
8861
8862
8863
8864
8865
8866
8867
8868
8869
8870
8871
8872
8873
8874
8875
8876
8877
8878
8879
8880
8881
8882
8883
8884
8885
8886
8887
8888
8889
8890
8891
8892
8893
8894
8895
8896
8897
8898
8899
8900
8901
8902
8903
8904
8905
8906
8907
8908
8909
8910
8911
8912
8913
8914
8915
8916
8917
8918
8919
8920
8921
8922
8923
8924
8925
8926
8927
8928
8929
8930
8931
8932
8933
8934
8935
8936
8937
8938
8939
8940
8941
8942
8943
8944
8945
8946
8947
8948
8949
8950
8951
8952
8953
8954
8955
8956
8957
8958
8959
8960
8961
8962
8963
8964
8965
8966
8967
8968
8969
8970
8971
8972
8973
8974
8975
8976
8977
8978
8979
8980
8981
8982
8983
8984
8985
8986
8987
8988
8989
8990
8991
8992
8993
8994
8995
8996
8997
8998
8999
9000
9001
9002
9003
9004
9005
9006
9007
9008
9009
9010
9011
9012
9013
9014
9015
9016
9017
9018
9019
9020
9021
9022
9023
9024
9025
9026
9027
9028
9029
9030
9031
9032
9033
9034
9035
9036
9037
9038
9039
9040
9041
9042
9043
9044
9045
9046
9047
9048
9049
9050
9051
9052
9053
9054
9055
9056
9057
9058
9059
9060
9061
9062
9063
9064
9065
9066
9067
9068
9069
9070
9071
9072
9073
9074
9075
9076
9077
9078
9079
9080
9081
9082
9083
9084
9085
9086
9087
9088
9089
9090
9091
9092
9093
9094
9095
9096
9097
9098
9099
9100
9101
9102
9103
9104
9105
9106
9107
9108
9109
9110
9111
9112
9113
9114
9115
9116
9117
9118
9119
9120
9121
9122
9123
9124
9125
9126
9127
9128
9129
9130
9131
9132
9133
9134
9135
9136
9137
9138
9139
9140
9141
9142
9143
9144
9145
9146
9147
9148
9149
9150
9151
9152
9153
9154
9155
9156
9157
9158
9159
9160
9161
9162
9163
9164
9165
9166
9167
9168
9169
9170
9171
9172
9173
9174
9175
9176
9177
9178
9179
9180
9181
9182
9183
9184
9185
9186
9187
9188
9189
9190
9191
9192
9193
9194
9195
9196
9197
9198
9199
9200
9201
9202
9203
9204
9205
9206
9207
9208
9209
9210
9211
9212
9213
9214
9215
9216
9217
9218
9219
9220
9221
9222
9223
9224
9225
9226
9227
9228
9229
9230
9231
9232
9233
9234
9235
9236
9237
9238
9239
9240
9241
9242
9243
9244
9245
9246
9247
9248
9249
9250
9251
9252
9253
9254
9255
9256
9257
9258
9259
9260
9261
9262
9263
9264
9265
9266
9267
9268
9269
9270
9271
9272
9273
9274
9275
9276
9277
9278
9279
9280
9281
9282
9283
9284
9285
9286
9287
9288
9289
9290
9291
9292
9293
9294
9295
9296
9297
9298
9299
9300
9301
9302
9303
9304
9305
9306
9307
9308
9309
9310
9311
9312
9313
9314
9315
9316
9317
9318
9319
9320
9321
9322
9323
9324
9325
9326
9327
9328
9329
9330
9331
9332
9333
9334
9335
9336
9337
9338
9339
9340
9341
9342
9343
9344
9345
9346
9347
9348
9349
9350
9351
9352
9353
9354
9355
9356
9357
9358
9359
9360
9361
9362
9363
9364
9365
9366
9367
9368
9369
9370
9371
9372
9373
9374
9375
9376
9377
9378
9379
9380
9381
9382
9383
9384
9385
9386
9387
9388
9389
9390
9391
9392
9393
9394
9395
9396
9397
9398
9399
9400
9401
9402
9403
9404
9405
9406
9407
9408
9409
9410
9411
9412
9413
9414
9415
9416
9417
9418
9419
9420
9421
9422
9423
9424
9425
9426
9427
9428
9429
9430
9431
9432
9433
9434
9435
9436
9437
9438
9439
9440
9441
9442
9443
9444
9445
9446
9447
9448
9449
9450
9451
9452
9453
9454
9455
9456
9457
9458
9459
9460
9461
9462
9463
9464
9465
9466
9467
9468
9469
9470
9471
9472
9473
9474
9475
9476
9477
9478
9479
9480
9481
9482
9483
9484
9485
9486
9487
9488
9489
9490
9491
9492
9493
9494
9495
9496
9497
9498
9499
9500
9501
9502
9503
9504
9505
9506
9507
9508
9509
9510
9511
9512
9513
9514
9515
9516
9517
9518
9519
9520
9521
9522
9523
9524
9525
9526
9527
9528
9529
9530
9531
9532
9533
9534
9535
9536
9537
9538
9539
9540
9541
9542
9543
9544
9545
9546
9547
9548
9549
9550
9551
9552
9553
9554
9555
9556
9557
9558
9559
9560
9561
9562
9563
9564
9565
9566
9567
9568
9569
9570
9571
9572
9573
9574
9575
9576
9577
9578
9579
9580
9581
9582
9583
9584
9585
9586
9587
9588
9589
9590
9591
9592
9593
9594
9595
9596
9597
9598
9599
9600
9601
9602
9603
9604
9605
9606
9607
9608
9609
9610
9611
9612
9613
9614
9615
9616
9617
9618
9619
9620
9621
9622
9623
9624
9625
9626
9627
9628
9629
9630
9631
9632
9633
9634
9635
9636
9637
9638
9639
9640
9641
9642
9643
9644
9645
9646
9647
9648
9649
9650
9651
9652
9653
9654
9655
9656
9657
9658
9659
9660
9661
9662
9663
9664
9665
9666
9667
9668
9669
9670
9671
9672
9673
9674
9675
9676
9677
9678
9679
9680
9681
9682
9683
9684
9685
9686
9687
9688
9689
9690
9691
9692
9693
9694
9695
9696
9697
9698
9699
9700
9701
9702
9703
9704
9705
9706
9707
9708
9709
9710
9711
9712
9713
9714
9715
9716
9717
9718
9719
9720
9721
9722
9723
9724
9725
9726
9727
9728
9729
9730
9731
9732
9733
9734
9735
9736
9737
9738
9739
9740
9741
9742
9743
9744
9745
9746
9747
9748
9749
9750
9751
9752
9753
9754
9755
9756
9757
9758
9759
9760
9761
9762
9763
9764
9765
9766
9767
9768
9769
9770
9771
9772
9773
9774
9775
9776
9777
9778
9779
9780
9781
9782
9783
9784
9785
9786
9787
9788
9789
9790
9791
9792
9793
9794
9795
9796
9797
9798
9799
9800
9801
9802
9803
9804
9805
9806
9807
9808
9809
9810
9811
9812
9813
9814
9815
9816
9817
9818
9819
9820
9821
9822
9823
9824
9825
9826
9827
9828
9829
9830
9831
9832
9833
9834
9835
9836
9837
9838
9839
9840
9841
9842
9843
9844
9845
9846
9847
9848
9849
9850
9851
9852
9853
9854
9855
9856
9857
9858
9859
9860
9861
9862
9863
9864
9865
9866
9867
9868
9869
9870
9871
9872
9873
9874
9875
9876
9877
9878
9879
9880
9881
9882
9883
9884
9885
9886
9887
9888
9889
9890
9891
9892
9893
9894
9895
9896
9897
9898
9899
9900
9901
9902
9903
9904
9905
9906
9907
9908
9909
9910
9911
9912
9913
9914
9915
9916
9917
9918
9919
9920
9921
9922
9923
9924
9925
9926
9927
9928
9929
9930
9931
9932
9933
9934
9935
9936
9937
9938
9939
9940
9941
9942
9943
9944
9945
9946
9947
9948
9949
9950
9951
9952
9953
9954
9955
9956
9957
9958
9959
9960
9961
9962
9963
9964
9965
9966
9967
9968
9969
9970
9971
9972
9973
9974
9975
9976
9977
9978
9979
9980
9981
9982
9983
9984
9985
9986
9987
9988
9989
9990
9991
9992
9993
9994
9995
9996
9997
9998
9999
10000
10001
10002
10003
10004
10005
10006
10007
10008
10009
10010
10011
10012
10013
10014
10015
10016
10017
10018
10019
10020
10021
10022
10023
10024
10025
10026
10027
10028
10029
10030
10031
10032
10033
10034
10035
10036
10037
10038
10039
10040
10041
10042
10043
10044
10045
10046
10047
10048
10049
10050
10051
10052
10053
10054
10055
10056
10057
10058
10059
10060
10061
10062
10063
10064
10065
10066
10067
10068
10069
10070
10071
10072
10073
10074
10075
10076
10077
10078
10079
10080
10081
10082
10083
10084
10085
10086
10087
10088
10089
10090
10091
10092
10093
10094
10095
10096
10097
10098
10099
10100
10101
10102
10103
10104
10105
10106
10107
10108
10109
10110
10111
10112
10113
10114
10115
10116
10117
10118
10119
10120
10121
10122
10123
10124
10125
10126
10127
10128
10129
10130
10131
10132
10133
10134
10135
10136
10137
10138
10139
10140
10141
10142
10143
10144
10145
10146
10147
10148
10149
10150
10151
10152
10153
10154
10155
10156
10157
10158
10159
10160
10161
10162
10163
10164
10165
10166
10167
10168
10169
10170
10171
10172
10173
10174
10175
10176
10177
10178
10179
10180
10181
10182
10183
10184
10185
10186
10187
10188
10189
10190
10191
10192
10193
10194
10195
10196
10197
10198
10199
10200
10201
10202
10203
10204
10205
10206
10207
10208
10209
10210
10211
10212
10213
10214
10215
10216
10217
10218
10219
10220
10221
10222
10223
10224
10225
10226
10227
10228
10229
10230
10231
10232
10233
10234
10235
10236
10237
10238
10239
10240
10241
10242
10243
10244
10245
10246
10247
10248
10249
10250
10251
10252
10253
10254
10255
10256
10257
10258
10259
10260
10261
10262
10263
10264
10265
10266
10267
10268
10269
10270
10271
10272
10273
10274
10275
10276
10277
10278
10279
10280
10281
10282
10283
10284
10285
10286
10287
10288
10289
10290
10291
10292
10293
10294
10295
10296
10297
10298
10299
10300
10301
10302
10303
10304
10305
10306
10307
10308
10309
10310
10311
10312
10313
10314
10315
10316
10317
10318
10319
10320
10321
10322
10323
10324
10325
10326
10327
10328
10329
10330
10331
10332
10333
10334
10335
10336
10337
10338
10339
10340
10341
10342
10343
10344
10345
10346
10347
10348
10349
10350
10351
10352
10353
10354
10355
10356
10357
10358
10359
10360
10361
10362
10363
10364
10365
10366
10367
10368
10369
10370
10371
10372
10373
10374
10375
10376
10377
10378
10379
10380
10381
10382
10383
10384
10385
10386
10387
10388
10389
10390
10391
10392
10393
10394
10395
10396
10397
10398
10399
10400
10401
10402
10403
10404
10405
10406
10407
10408
10409
10410
10411
10412
10413
10414
10415
10416
10417
10418
10419
10420
10421
10422
10423
10424
10425
10426
10427
10428
10429
10430
10431
10432
10433
10434
10435
10436
10437
10438
10439
10440
10441
10442
10443
10444
10445
10446
10447
10448
10449
10450
10451
10452
10453
10454
10455
10456
10457
10458
10459
10460
10461
10462
10463
10464
10465
10466
10467
10468
10469
10470
10471
10472
10473
10474
10475
10476
10477
10478
10479
10480
10481
10482
10483
10484
10485
10486
10487
10488
10489
10490
10491
10492
10493
10494
10495
10496
10497
10498
10499
10500
10501
10502
10503
10504
10505
10506
10507
10508
10509
10510
10511
10512
10513
10514
10515
10516
10517
10518
10519
10520
10521
10522
10523
10524
10525
10526
10527
10528
10529
10530
10531
10532
10533
10534
10535
10536
10537
10538
10539
10540
10541
10542
10543
10544
10545
10546
10547
10548
10549
10550
10551
10552
10553
10554
10555
10556
10557
10558
10559
10560
10561
10562
10563
10564
10565
10566
10567
10568
10569
10570
10571
10572
10573
10574
10575
10576
10577
10578
10579
10580
10581
10582
10583
10584
10585
10586
10587
10588
10589
10590
10591
10592
10593
10594
10595
10596
10597
10598
10599
10600
10601
10602
10603
10604
10605
10606
10607
10608
10609
10610
10611
10612
10613
10614
10615
10616
10617
10618
10619
10620
10621
10622
10623
10624
10625
10626
10627
10628
10629
10630
10631
10632
10633
10634
10635
10636
10637
10638
10639
10640
10641
10642
10643
10644
10645
10646
10647
10648
10649
10650
10651
10652
10653
10654
10655
10656
10657
10658
10659
10660
10661
10662
10663
10664
10665
10666
10667
10668
10669
10670
10671
10672
10673
10674
10675
10676
10677
10678
10679
10680
10681
10682
10683
10684
10685
10686
10687
10688
10689
10690
10691
10692
10693
10694
10695
10696
10697
10698
10699
10700
10701
10702
10703
10704
10705
10706
10707
10708
10709
10710
10711
10712
10713
10714
10715
10716
10717
10718
10719
10720
10721
10722
10723
10724
10725
10726
10727
10728
10729
10730
10731
10732
10733
10734
10735
10736
10737
10738
10739
10740
10741
10742
10743
10744
10745
10746
10747
10748
10749
10750
10751
10752
10753
10754
10755
10756
10757
10758
10759
10760
10761
10762
10763
10764
10765
10766
10767
10768
10769
10770
10771
10772
10773
10774
10775
10776
10777
10778
10779
10780
10781
10782
10783
10784
10785
10786
10787
10788
10789
10790
10791
10792
10793
10794
10795
10796
10797
10798
10799
10800
10801
10802
10803
10804
10805
10806
10807
10808
10809
10810
10811
10812
10813
10814
10815
10816
10817
10818
10819
10820
10821
10822
10823
10824
10825
10826
10827
10828
10829
10830
10831
10832
10833
10834
10835
10836
10837
10838
10839
10840
10841
10842
10843
10844
10845
10846
10847
10848
10849
10850
10851
10852
10853
10854
10855
10856
10857
10858
10859
10860
10861
10862
10863
10864
10865
10866
10867
10868
10869
10870
10871
10872
10873
10874
10875
10876
10877
10878
10879
10880
10881
10882
10883
10884
10885
10886
10887
10888
10889
10890
10891
10892
10893
10894
10895
10896
10897
10898
10899
10900
10901
10902
10903
10904
10905
10906
10907
10908
10909
10910
10911
10912
10913
10914
10915
10916
10917
10918
10919
10920
10921
10922
10923
10924
10925
10926
10927
10928
10929
10930
10931
10932
10933
10934
10935
10936
10937
10938
10939
10940
10941
10942
10943
10944
10945
10946
10947
10948
10949
10950
10951
10952
10953
10954
10955
10956
10957
10958
10959
10960
10961
10962
10963
10964
10965
10966
10967
10968
10969
10970
10971
10972
10973
10974
10975
10976
10977
10978
10979
10980
10981
10982
10983
10984
10985
10986
10987
10988
10989
10990
10991
10992
10993
10994
10995
10996
10997
10998
10999
11000
11001
11002
11003
11004
11005
11006
11007
11008
11009
11010
11011
11012
11013
11014
11015
11016
11017
11018
11019
11020
11021
11022
11023
11024
11025
11026
11027
11028
11029
11030
11031
11032
11033
11034
11035
11036
11037
11038
11039
11040
11041
11042
11043
11044
11045
11046
11047
11048
11049
11050
11051
11052
11053
11054
11055
11056
11057
11058
11059
11060
11061
11062
11063
11064
11065
11066
11067
11068
11069
11070
11071
11072
11073
11074
11075
11076
11077
11078
11079
11080
11081
11082
11083
11084
11085
11086
11087
11088
11089
11090
11091
11092
11093
11094
11095
11096
11097
11098
11099
11100
11101
11102
11103
11104
11105
11106
11107
11108
11109
11110
11111
11112
11113
11114
11115
11116
11117
11118
11119
11120
11121
11122
11123
11124
11125
11126
11127
11128
11129
11130
11131
11132
11133
11134
11135
11136
11137
11138
11139
11140
11141
11142
11143
11144
11145
11146
11147
11148
11149
11150
11151
11152
11153
11154
11155
11156
11157
11158
11159
11160
11161
11162
11163
11164
11165
11166
11167
11168
11169
11170
11171
11172
11173
11174
11175
11176
11177
11178
11179
11180
11181
11182
11183
11184
11185
11186
11187
11188
11189
11190
11191
11192
11193
11194
11195
11196
11197
11198
11199
11200
11201
11202
11203
11204
11205
11206
11207
11208
11209
11210
11211
11212
11213
11214
11215
11216
11217
11218
11219
11220
11221
11222
11223
11224
11225
11226
11227
11228
11229
11230
11231
11232
11233
11234
11235
11236
11237
11238
11239
11240
11241
11242
11243
11244
11245
11246
11247
11248
11249
11250
11251
11252
11253
11254
11255
11256
11257
11258
11259
11260
11261
11262
11263
11264
11265
11266
11267
11268
11269
11270
11271
11272
11273
11274
11275
11276
11277
11278
11279
11280
11281
11282
11283
11284
11285
11286
11287
11288
11289
11290
11291
11292
11293
11294
11295
11296
11297
11298
11299
11300
11301
11302
11303
11304
11305
11306
11307
11308
11309
11310
11311
11312
11313
11314
11315
11316
11317
11318
11319
11320
11321
11322
11323
11324
11325
11326
11327
11328
11329
11330
11331
11332
11333
11334
11335
11336
11337
11338
11339
11340
11341
11342
11343
11344
11345
11346
11347
11348
11349
11350
11351
11352
11353
11354
11355
11356
11357
11358
11359
11360
11361
11362
11363
11364
11365
11366
11367
11368
11369
11370
11371
11372
11373
11374
11375
11376
11377
11378
11379
11380
11381
11382
11383
11384
11385
11386
11387
11388
11389
11390
11391
11392
11393
11394
11395
11396
11397
11398
11399
11400
11401
11402
11403
11404
11405
11406
11407
11408
11409
11410
11411
11412
11413
11414
11415
11416
11417
11418
11419
11420
11421
11422
11423
11424
11425
11426
11427
11428
11429
11430
11431
11432
11433
11434
11435
11436
11437
11438
11439
11440
11441
11442
11443
11444
11445
11446
11447
11448
11449
11450
11451
11452
11453
11454
11455
11456
11457
11458
11459
11460
11461
11462
11463
11464
11465
11466
11467
11468
11469
11470
11471
11472
11473
11474
11475
11476
11477
11478
11479
11480
11481
11482
11483
11484
11485
11486
11487
11488
11489
11490
11491
11492
11493
11494
11495
11496
11497
11498
11499
11500
11501
11502
11503
11504
11505
11506
11507
11508
11509
11510
11511
11512
11513
11514
11515
11516
11517
11518
11519
11520
11521
11522
11523
11524
11525
11526
11527
11528
11529
11530
11531
11532
11533
11534
11535
11536
11537
11538
11539
11540
11541
11542
11543
11544
11545
11546
11547
11548
11549
11550
11551
11552
11553
11554
11555
11556
11557
11558
11559
11560
11561
11562
11563
11564
11565
11566
11567
11568
11569
11570
11571
11572
11573
11574
11575
11576
11577
11578
11579
11580
11581
11582
11583
11584
11585
11586
11587
11588
11589
11590
11591
11592
11593
11594
11595
11596
11597
11598
11599
11600
11601
11602
11603
11604
11605
11606
11607
11608
11609
11610
11611
11612
11613
11614
11615
11616
11617
11618
11619
11620
11621
11622
11623
11624
11625
11626
11627
11628
11629
11630
11631
11632
11633
11634
11635
11636
11637
11638
11639
11640
11641
11642
11643
11644
11645
11646
11647
11648
11649
11650
11651
11652
11653
11654
11655
11656
11657
11658
11659
11660
11661
11662
11663
11664
11665
11666
11667
11668
11669
11670
11671
11672
11673
11674
11675
11676
11677
11678
11679
11680
11681
11682
11683
11684
11685
11686
11687
11688
11689
11690
11691
11692
11693
11694
11695
11696
11697
11698
11699
11700
11701
11702
11703
11704
11705
11706
11707
11708
11709
11710
11711
11712
11713
11714
11715
11716
11717
11718
11719
11720
11721
11722
11723
11724
11725
11726
11727
11728
11729
11730
11731
11732
11733
11734
11735
11736
11737
11738
11739
11740
11741
11742
11743
11744
11745
11746
11747
11748
11749
11750
11751
11752
11753
11754
11755
11756
11757
11758
11759
11760
11761
11762
11763
11764
11765
11766
11767
11768
11769
11770
11771
11772
11773
11774
11775
11776
11777
11778
11779
11780
11781
11782
11783
11784
11785
11786
11787
11788
11789
11790
11791
11792
11793
11794
11795
11796
11797
11798
11799
11800
11801
11802
11803
11804
11805
11806
11807
11808
11809
11810
11811
11812
11813
11814
11815
11816
11817
11818
11819
11820
11821
11822
11823
11824
11825
11826
11827
11828
11829
11830
11831
11832
11833
11834
11835
11836
11837
11838
11839
11840
11841
11842
11843
11844
11845
11846
11847
11848
11849
11850
11851
11852
11853
11854
11855
11856
11857
11858
11859
11860
11861
11862
11863
11864
11865
11866
11867
11868
11869
11870
11871
11872
11873
11874
11875
11876
11877
11878
11879
11880
11881
11882
11883
11884
11885
11886
11887
11888
11889
11890
11891
11892
11893
11894
11895
11896
11897
11898
11899
11900
11901
11902
11903
11904
11905
11906
11907
11908
11909
11910
11911
11912
11913
11914
11915
11916
11917
11918
11919
11920
11921
11922
11923
11924
11925
11926
11927
11928
11929
11930
11931
11932
11933
11934
11935
11936
11937
11938
11939
11940
11941
11942
11943
11944
11945
11946
11947
11948
11949
11950
11951
11952
11953
11954
11955
11956
11957
11958
11959
11960
11961
11962
11963
11964
11965
11966
11967
11968
11969
11970
11971
11972
11973
11974
11975
11976
11977
11978
11979
11980
11981
11982
11983
11984
11985
11986
11987
11988
11989
11990
11991
11992
11993
11994
11995
11996
11997
11998
11999
12000
12001
12002
12003
12004
12005
12006
12007
12008
12009
12010
12011
12012
12013
12014
12015
12016
12017
12018
12019
12020
12021
12022
12023
12024
12025
12026
12027
12028
12029
12030
12031
12032
12033
12034
12035
12036
12037
12038
12039
12040
12041
12042
12043
12044
12045
12046
12047
12048
12049
12050
12051
12052
12053
12054
12055
12056
12057
12058
12059
12060
12061
12062
12063
12064
12065
12066
12067
12068
12069
12070
12071
12072
12073
12074
12075
12076
12077
12078
12079
12080
12081
12082
12083
12084
12085
12086
12087
12088
12089
12090
12091
12092
12093
12094
12095
12096
12097
12098
12099
12100
12101
12102
12103
12104
12105
12106
12107
12108
12109
12110
12111
12112
12113
12114
12115
12116
12117
12118
12119
12120
12121
12122
12123
12124
12125
12126
12127
12128
12129
12130
12131
12132
12133
12134
12135
12136
12137
12138
12139
12140
12141
12142
12143
12144
12145
12146
12147
12148
12149
12150
12151
12152
12153
12154
12155
12156
12157
12158
12159
12160
12161
12162
12163
12164
12165
12166
12167
12168
12169
12170
12171
12172
12173
12174
12175
12176
12177
12178
12179
12180
12181
12182
12183
12184
12185
12186
12187
12188
12189
12190
12191
12192
12193
12194
12195
12196
12197
12198
12199
12200
12201
12202
12203
12204
12205
12206
12207
12208
12209
12210
12211
12212
12213
12214
12215
12216
12217
12218
12219
12220
12221
12222
12223
12224
12225
12226
12227
12228
12229
12230
12231
12232
12233
12234
12235
12236
12237
12238
12239
12240
12241
12242
12243
12244
12245
12246
12247
12248
12249
12250
12251
12252
12253
12254
12255
12256
12257
12258
12259
12260
12261
12262
12263
12264
12265
12266
12267
12268
12269
12270
12271
12272
12273
12274
12275
12276
12277
12278
12279
12280
12281
12282
12283
12284
12285
12286
12287
12288
12289
12290
12291
12292
12293
12294
12295
12296
12297
12298
12299
12300
12301
12302
12303
12304
12305
12306
12307
12308
12309
12310
12311
12312
12313
12314
12315
12316
12317
12318
12319
12320
12321
12322
12323
12324
12325
12326
12327
12328
12329
12330
12331
12332
12333
12334
12335
12336
12337
12338
12339
12340
12341
12342
12343
12344
12345
12346
12347
12348
12349
12350
12351
12352
12353
12354
12355
12356
12357
12358
12359
12360
12361
12362
12363
12364
12365
12366
12367
12368
12369
12370
12371
12372
12373
12374
12375
12376
12377
12378
12379
12380
12381
12382
12383
12384
12385
12386
12387
12388
12389
12390
12391
12392
12393
12394
12395
12396
12397
12398
12399
12400
12401
12402
12403
12404
12405
12406
12407
12408
12409
12410
12411
12412
12413
12414
12415
12416
12417
12418
12419
12420
12421
12422
12423
12424
12425
12426
12427
12428
12429
12430
12431
12432
12433
12434
12435
12436
12437
12438
12439
12440
12441
12442
12443
12444
12445
12446
12447
12448
12449
12450
12451
12452
12453
12454
12455
12456
12457
12458
12459
12460
12461
12462
12463
12464
12465
12466
12467
12468
12469
12470
12471
12472
12473
12474
12475
12476
12477
12478
12479
12480
12481
12482
12483
12484
12485
12486
12487
12488
12489
12490
12491
12492
12493
12494
12495
12496
12497
12498
12499
12500
12501
12502
12503
12504
12505
12506
12507
12508
12509
12510
12511
12512
12513
12514
12515
12516
12517
12518
12519
12520
12521
12522
12523
12524
12525
12526
12527
12528
12529
12530
12531
12532
12533
12534
12535
12536
12537
12538
12539
12540
12541
12542
12543
12544
12545
12546
12547
12548
12549
12550
12551
12552
12553
12554
12555
12556
12557
12558
12559
12560
12561
12562
12563
12564
12565
12566
12567
12568
12569
12570
12571
12572
12573
12574
12575
12576
12577
12578
12579
12580
12581
12582
12583
12584
12585
12586
12587
12588
12589
12590
12591
12592
12593
12594
12595
12596
12597
12598
12599
12600
12601
12602
12603
12604
12605
12606
12607
12608
12609
12610
12611
12612
12613
12614
12615
12616
12617
12618
12619
12620
12621
12622
12623
12624
12625
12626
12627
12628
12629
12630
12631
12632
12633
12634
12635
12636
12637
12638
12639
12640
12641
12642
12643
12644
12645
12646
12647
12648
12649
12650
12651
12652
12653
12654
12655
12656
12657
12658
12659
12660
12661
12662
12663
12664
12665
12666
12667
12668
12669
12670
12671
12672
12673
12674
12675
12676
12677
12678
12679
12680
12681
12682
12683
12684
12685
12686
12687
12688
12689
12690
12691
12692
12693
12694
12695
12696
12697
12698
12699
12700
12701
12702
12703
12704
12705
12706
12707
12708
12709
12710
12711
12712
12713
12714
12715
12716
12717
12718
12719
12720
12721
12722
12723
12724
12725
12726
12727
12728
12729
12730
12731
12732
12733
12734
12735
12736
12737
12738
12739
12740
12741
12742
12743
12744
12745
12746
12747
12748
12749
12750
12751
12752
12753
12754
12755
12756
12757
12758
12759
12760
12761
12762
12763
12764
12765
12766
12767
12768
12769
12770
12771
12772
12773
12774
12775
12776
12777
12778
12779
12780
12781
12782
12783
12784
12785
12786
12787
12788
12789
12790
12791
12792
12793
12794
12795
12796
12797
12798
12799
12800
12801
12802
12803
12804
12805
12806
12807
12808
12809
12810
12811
12812
12813
12814
12815
12816
12817
12818
12819
12820
12821
12822
12823
12824
12825
12826
12827
12828
12829
12830
12831
12832
12833
12834
12835
12836
12837
12838
12839
12840
12841
12842
12843
12844
12845
12846
12847
12848
12849
12850
12851
12852
12853
12854
12855
12856
12857
12858
12859
12860
12861
12862
12863
12864
12865
12866
12867
12868
12869
12870
12871
12872
12873
12874
12875
12876
12877
12878
12879
12880
12881
12882
12883
12884
12885
12886
12887
12888
12889
12890
12891
12892
12893
12894
12895
12896
12897
12898
12899
12900
12901
12902
12903
12904
12905
12906
12907
12908
12909
12910
12911
12912
12913
12914
12915
12916
12917
12918
12919
12920
12921
12922
12923
12924
12925
12926
12927
12928
12929
12930
12931
12932
12933
12934
12935
12936
12937
12938
12939
12940
12941
12942
12943
12944
12945
12946
12947
12948
12949
12950
12951
12952
12953
12954
12955
12956
12957
12958
12959
12960
12961
12962
12963
12964
12965
12966
12967
12968
12969
12970
12971
12972
12973
12974
12975
12976
12977
12978
12979
12980
12981
12982
12983
12984
12985
12986
12987
12988
12989
12990
12991
12992
12993
12994
12995
12996
12997
12998
12999
13000
13001
13002
13003
13004
13005
13006
13007
13008
13009
13010
13011
13012
13013
13014
13015
13016
13017
13018
13019
13020
13021
13022
13023
13024
13025
13026
13027
13028
13029
13030
13031
13032
13033
13034
13035
13036
13037
13038
13039
13040
13041
13042
13043
13044
13045
13046
13047
13048
13049
13050
13051
13052
13053
13054
13055
13056
13057
13058
13059
13060
13061
13062
13063
13064
13065
13066
13067
13068
13069
13070
13071
13072
13073
13074
13075
13076
13077
13078
13079
13080
13081
13082
13083
13084
13085
13086
13087
13088
13089
13090
13091
13092
13093
13094
13095
13096
13097
13098
13099
13100
13101
13102
13103
13104
13105
13106
13107
13108
13109
13110
13111
13112
13113
13114
13115
13116
13117
13118
13119
13120
13121
13122
13123
13124
13125
13126
13127
13128
13129
13130
13131
13132
13133
13134
13135
13136
13137
13138
13139
13140
13141
13142
13143
13144
13145
13146
13147
13148
13149
13150
13151
13152
13153
13154
13155
13156
13157
13158
13159
13160
13161
13162
13163
13164
13165
13166
13167
13168
13169
13170
13171
13172
13173
13174
13175
13176
13177
13178
13179
13180
13181
13182
13183
13184
13185
13186
13187
13188
13189
13190
13191
13192
13193
13194
13195
13196
13197
13198
13199
13200
13201
13202
13203
13204
13205
13206
13207
13208
13209
13210
13211
13212
13213
13214
13215
13216
13217
13218
13219
13220
13221
13222
13223
13224
13225
13226
13227
13228
13229
13230
13231
13232
13233
13234
13235
13236
13237
13238
13239
13240
13241
13242
13243
13244
13245
13246
13247
13248
13249
13250
13251
13252
13253
13254
13255
13256
13257
13258
13259
13260
13261
13262
13263
13264
13265
13266
13267
13268
13269
13270
13271
13272
13273
13274
13275
13276
13277
13278
13279
13280
13281
13282
13283
13284
13285
13286
13287
13288
13289
13290
13291
13292
13293
13294
13295
13296
13297
13298
13299
13300
13301
13302
13303
13304
13305
13306
13307
13308
13309
13310
13311
13312
13313
13314
13315
13316
13317
13318
13319
13320
13321
13322
13323
13324
13325
13326
13327
13328
13329
13330
13331
13332
13333
13334
13335
13336
13337
13338
13339
13340
13341
13342
13343
13344
13345
13346
13347
13348
13349
13350
13351
13352
13353
13354
13355
13356
13357
13358
13359
13360
13361
13362
13363
13364
13365
13366
13367
13368
13369
13370
13371
13372
13373
13374
13375
13376
13377
13378
13379
13380
13381
13382
13383
13384
13385
13386
13387
13388
13389
13390
13391
13392
13393
13394
13395
13396
13397
13398
13399
13400
13401
13402
13403
13404
13405
13406
13407
13408
13409
13410
13411
13412
13413
13414
13415
13416
13417
13418
13419
13420
13421
13422
13423
13424
13425
13426
13427
13428
13429
13430
13431
13432
13433
13434
13435
13436
13437
13438
13439
13440
13441
13442
13443
13444
13445
13446
13447
13448
13449
13450
13451
13452
13453
13454
13455
13456
13457
13458
13459
13460
13461
13462
13463
13464
13465
13466
13467
13468
13469
13470
13471
13472
13473
13474
13475
13476
13477
13478
13479
13480
13481
13482
13483
13484
13485
13486
13487
13488
13489
13490
13491
13492
13493
13494
13495
13496
13497
13498
13499
13500
13501
13502
13503
13504
13505
13506
13507
13508
13509
13510
13511
13512
13513
13514
13515
13516
13517
13518
13519
13520
13521
13522
13523
13524
13525
13526
13527
13528
13529
13530
13531
13532
13533
13534
13535
13536
13537
13538
13539
13540
13541
13542
13543
13544
13545
13546
13547
13548
13549
13550
13551
13552
13553
13554
13555
13556
13557
13558
13559
13560
13561
13562
13563
13564
13565
13566
13567
13568
13569
13570
13571
13572
13573
13574
13575
13576
13577
13578
13579
13580
13581
13582
13583
13584
13585
13586
13587
13588
13589
13590
13591
13592
13593
13594
13595
13596
13597
13598
13599
13600
13601
13602
13603
13604
13605
13606
13607
13608
13609
13610
13611
13612
13613
13614
13615
13616
13617
13618
13619
13620
13621
13622
13623
13624
13625
13626
13627
13628
13629
13630
13631
13632
13633
13634
13635
13636
13637
13638
13639
13640
13641
13642
13643
13644
13645
13646
13647
13648
13649
13650
13651
13652
13653
13654
13655
13656
13657
13658
13659
13660
13661
13662
13663
13664
13665
13666
13667
13668
13669
13670
13671
13672
13673
13674
13675
13676
13677
13678
13679
13680
13681
13682
13683
13684
13685
13686
13687
13688
13689
13690
13691
13692
13693
13694
13695
13696
13697
13698
13699
13700
13701
13702
13703
13704
13705
13706
13707
13708
13709
13710
13711
13712
13713
13714
13715
13716
13717
13718
13719
13720
13721
13722
13723
13724
13725
13726
13727
13728
13729
13730
13731
13732
13733
13734
13735
13736
13737
13738
13739
13740
13741
13742
13743
13744
13745
13746
13747
13748
13749
13750
13751
13752
13753
13754
13755
13756
13757
13758
13759
13760
13761
13762
13763
13764
13765
13766
13767
13768
13769
13770
13771
13772
13773
13774
13775
13776
13777
13778
13779
13780
13781
13782
13783
13784
13785
13786
13787
13788
13789
13790
13791
13792
13793
13794
13795
13796
13797
13798
13799
13800
13801
13802
13803
13804
13805
13806
13807
13808
13809
13810
13811
13812
13813
13814
13815
13816
13817
13818
13819
13820
13821
13822
13823
13824
13825
13826
13827
13828
13829
13830
13831
13832
13833
13834
13835
13836
13837
13838
13839
13840
13841
13842
13843
13844
13845
13846
13847
13848
13849
13850
13851
13852
13853
13854
13855
13856
13857
13858
13859
13860
13861
13862
13863
13864
13865
13866
13867
13868
13869
13870
13871
13872
13873
13874
13875
13876
13877
13878
13879
13880
13881
13882
13883
13884
13885
13886
13887
13888
13889
13890
13891
13892
13893
13894
13895
13896
13897
13898
13899
13900
13901
13902
13903
13904
13905
13906
13907
13908
13909
13910
13911
13912
13913
13914
13915
13916
13917
13918
13919
13920
13921
13922
13923
13924
13925
13926
13927
13928
13929
13930
13931
13932
13933
13934
13935
13936
13937
13938
13939
13940
13941
13942
13943
13944
13945
13946
13947
13948
13949
13950
13951
13952
13953
13954
13955
13956
13957
13958
13959
13960
13961
13962
13963
13964
13965
13966
13967
13968
13969
13970
13971
13972
13973
13974
13975
13976
13977
13978
13979
13980
13981
13982
13983
13984
13985
13986
13987
13988
13989
13990
13991
13992
13993
13994
13995
13996
13997
13998
13999
14000
14001
14002
14003
14004
14005
14006
14007
14008
14009
14010
14011
14012
14013
14014
14015
14016
14017
14018
14019
14020
14021
14022
14023
14024
14025
14026
14027
14028
14029
14030
14031
14032
14033
14034
14035
14036
14037
14038
14039
14040
14041
14042
14043
14044
14045
14046
14047
14048
14049
14050
14051
14052
14053
14054
14055
14056
14057
14058
14059
14060
14061
14062
14063
14064
14065
14066
14067
14068
14069
14070
14071
14072
14073
14074
14075
14076
14077
14078
14079
14080
14081
14082
14083
14084
14085
14086
14087
14088
14089
14090
14091
14092
14093
14094
14095
14096
14097
14098
14099
14100
14101
14102
14103
14104
14105
14106
14107
14108
14109
14110
14111
14112
14113
14114
14115
14116
14117
14118
14119
14120
14121
14122
14123
14124
14125
14126
14127
14128
14129
14130
14131
14132
14133
14134
14135
14136
14137
14138
14139
14140
14141
14142
14143
14144
14145
14146
14147
14148
14149
14150
14151
14152
14153
14154
14155
14156
14157
14158
14159
14160
14161
14162
14163
14164
14165
14166
14167
14168
14169
14170
14171
14172
14173
14174
14175
14176
14177
14178
14179
14180
14181
14182
14183
14184
14185
14186
14187
14188
14189
14190
14191
14192
14193
14194
14195
14196
14197
14198
14199
14200
14201
14202
14203
14204
14205
14206
14207
14208
14209
14210
14211
14212
14213
14214
14215
14216
14217
14218
14219
14220
14221
14222
14223
14224
14225
14226
14227
14228
14229
14230
14231
14232
14233
14234
14235
14236
14237
14238
14239
14240
14241
14242
14243
14244
14245
14246
14247
14248
14249
14250
14251
14252
14253
14254
14255
14256
14257
14258
14259
14260
14261
14262
14263
14264
14265
14266
14267
14268
14269
14270
14271
14272
14273
14274
14275
14276
14277
14278
14279
14280
14281
14282
14283
14284
14285
14286
14287
14288
14289
14290
14291
14292
14293
14294
14295
14296
14297
14298
14299
14300
14301
14302
14303
14304
14305
14306
14307
14308
14309
14310
14311
14312
14313
14314
14315
14316
14317
14318
14319
14320
14321
14322
14323
14324
14325
14326
14327
14328
14329
14330
14331
14332
14333
14334
14335
14336
14337
14338
14339
14340
14341
14342
14343
14344
14345
14346
14347
14348
14349
14350
14351
14352
14353
14354
14355
14356
14357
14358
14359
14360
14361
14362
14363
14364
14365
14366
14367
14368
14369
14370
14371
14372
14373
14374
14375
14376
14377
14378
14379
14380
14381
14382
14383
14384
14385
14386
14387
14388
14389
14390
14391
14392
14393
14394
14395
14396
14397
14398
14399
14400
14401
14402
14403
14404
14405
14406
14407
14408
14409
14410
14411
14412
14413
14414
14415
14416
14417
14418
14419
14420
14421
14422
14423
14424
14425
14426
14427
14428
14429
14430
14431
14432
14433
14434
14435
14436
14437
14438
14439
14440
14441
14442
14443
14444
14445
14446
14447
14448
14449
14450
14451
14452
14453
14454
14455
14456
14457
14458
14459
14460
14461
14462
14463
14464
14465
14466
14467
14468
14469
14470
14471
14472
14473
14474
14475
14476
14477
14478
14479
14480
14481
14482
14483
14484
14485
14486
14487
14488
14489
14490
14491
14492
14493
14494
14495
14496
14497
14498
14499
14500
14501
14502
14503
14504
14505
14506
14507
14508
14509
14510
14511
14512
14513
14514
14515
14516
14517
14518
14519
14520
14521
14522
14523
14524
14525
14526
14527
14528
14529
14530
14531
14532
14533
14534
14535
14536
14537
14538
14539
14540
14541
14542
14543
14544
14545
14546
14547
14548
14549
14550
14551
14552
14553
14554
14555
14556
14557
14558
14559
14560
14561
14562
14563
14564
14565
14566
14567
14568
14569
14570
14571
14572
14573
14574
14575
14576
14577
14578
14579
14580
14581
14582
14583
14584
14585
14586
14587
14588
14589
14590
14591
14592
14593
14594
14595
14596
14597
14598
14599
14600
14601
14602
14603
14604
14605
14606
14607
14608
14609
14610
14611
14612
14613
14614
14615
14616
14617
14618
14619
14620
14621
14622
14623
14624
14625
14626
14627
14628
14629
14630
14631
14632
14633
14634
14635
14636
14637
14638
14639
14640
14641
14642
14643
14644
14645
14646
14647
14648
14649
14650
14651
14652
14653
14654
14655
14656
14657
14658
14659
14660
14661
14662
14663
14664
14665
14666
14667
14668
14669
14670
14671
14672
14673
14674
14675
14676
14677
14678
14679
14680
14681
14682
14683
14684
14685
14686
14687
14688
14689
14690
14691
14692
14693
14694
14695
14696
14697
14698
14699
14700
14701
14702
14703
14704
14705
14706
14707
14708
14709
14710
14711
14712
14713
14714
14715
14716
14717
14718
14719
14720
14721
14722
14723
14724
14725
14726
14727
14728
14729
14730
14731
14732
14733
14734
14735
14736
14737
14738
14739
14740
14741
14742
14743
14744
14745
14746
14747
14748
14749
14750
14751
14752
14753
14754
14755
14756
14757
14758
14759
14760
14761
14762
14763
14764
14765
14766
14767
14768
14769
14770
14771
14772
14773
14774
14775
14776
14777
14778
14779
14780
14781
14782
14783
14784
14785
14786
14787
14788
14789
14790
14791
14792
14793
14794
14795
14796
14797
14798
14799
14800
14801
14802
14803
14804
14805
14806
14807
14808
14809
14810
14811
14812
14813
14814
14815
14816
14817
14818
14819
14820
14821
14822
14823
14824
14825
14826
14827
14828
14829
14830
14831
14832
14833
14834
14835
14836
14837
14838
14839
14840
14841
14842
14843
14844
14845
14846
14847
14848
14849
14850
14851
14852
14853
14854
14855
14856
14857
14858
14859
14860
14861
14862
14863
14864
14865
14866
14867
14868
14869
14870
14871
14872
14873
14874
14875
14876
14877
14878
14879
14880
14881
14882
14883
14884
14885
14886
14887
14888
14889
14890
14891
14892
14893
14894
14895
14896
14897
14898
14899
14900
14901
14902
14903
14904
14905
14906
14907
14908
14909
14910
14911
14912
14913
14914
14915
14916
14917
14918
14919
14920
14921
14922
14923
14924
14925
14926
14927
14928
14929
14930
14931
14932
14933
14934
14935
14936
14937
14938
14939
14940
14941
14942
14943
14944
14945
14946
14947
14948
14949
14950
14951
14952
14953
14954
14955
14956
14957
14958
14959
14960
14961
14962
14963
14964
14965
14966
14967
14968
14969
14970
14971
14972
14973
14974
14975
14976
14977
14978
14979
14980
14981
14982
14983
14984
14985
14986
14987
14988
14989
14990
14991
14992
14993
14994
14995
14996
14997
14998
14999
15000
15001
15002
15003
15004
15005
15006
15007
15008
15009
15010
15011
15012
15013
15014
15015
15016
15017
15018
15019
15020
15021
15022
15023
15024
15025
15026
15027
15028
15029
15030
15031
15032
15033
15034
15035
15036
15037
15038
15039
15040
15041
15042
15043
15044
15045
15046
15047
15048
15049
15050
15051
15052
15053
15054
15055
15056
15057
15058
15059
15060
15061
15062
15063
15064
15065
15066
15067
15068
15069
15070
15071
15072
15073
15074
15075
15076
15077
15078
15079
15080
15081
15082
15083
15084
15085
15086
15087
15088
15089
15090
15091
15092
15093
15094
15095
15096
15097
15098
15099
15100
15101
15102
15103
15104
15105
15106
15107
15108
15109
15110
15111
15112
15113
15114
15115
15116
15117
15118
15119
15120
15121
15122
15123
15124
15125
15126
15127
15128
15129
15130
15131
15132
15133
15134
15135
15136
15137
15138
15139
15140
15141
15142
15143
15144
15145
15146
15147
15148
15149
15150
15151
15152
15153
15154
15155
15156
15157
15158
15159
15160
15161
15162
15163
15164
15165
15166
15167
15168
15169
15170
15171
15172
15173
15174
15175
15176
15177
15178
15179
15180
15181
15182
15183
15184
15185
15186
15187
15188
15189
15190
15191
15192
15193
15194
15195
15196
15197
15198
15199
15200
15201
15202
15203
15204
15205
15206
15207
15208
15209
15210
15211
15212
15213
15214
15215
15216
15217
15218
15219
15220
15221
15222
15223
15224
15225
15226
15227
15228
15229
15230
15231
15232
15233
15234
15235
15236
15237
15238
15239
15240
15241
15242
15243
15244
15245
15246
15247
15248
15249
15250
15251
15252
15253
15254
15255
15256
15257
15258
15259
15260
15261
15262
15263
15264
15265
15266
15267
15268
15269
15270
15271
15272
15273
15274
15275
15276
15277
15278
15279
15280
15281
15282
15283
15284
15285
15286
15287
15288
15289
15290
15291
15292
15293
15294
15295
15296
15297
15298
15299
15300
15301
15302
15303
15304
15305
15306
15307
15308
15309
15310
15311
15312
15313
15314
15315
15316
15317
15318
15319
15320
15321
15322
15323
15324
15325
15326
15327
15328
15329
15330
15331
15332
15333
15334
15335
15336
15337
15338
15339
15340
15341
15342
15343
15344
15345
15346
15347
15348
15349
15350
15351
15352
15353
15354
15355
15356
15357
15358
15359
15360
15361
15362
15363
15364
15365
15366
15367
15368
15369
15370
15371
15372
15373
15374
15375
15376
15377
15378
15379
15380
15381
15382
15383
15384
15385
15386
15387
15388
15389
15390
15391
15392
15393
15394
15395
15396
15397
15398
15399
15400
15401
15402
15403
15404
15405
15406
15407
15408
15409
15410
15411
15412
15413
15414
15415
15416
15417
15418
15419
15420
15421
15422
15423
15424
15425
15426
15427
15428
15429
15430
15431
15432
15433
15434
15435
15436
15437
15438
15439
15440
15441
15442
15443
15444
15445
15446
15447
15448
15449
15450
15451
15452
15453
15454
15455
15456
15457
15458
15459
15460
15461
15462
15463
15464
15465
15466
15467
15468
15469
15470
15471
15472
15473
15474
15475
15476
15477
15478
15479
15480
15481
15482
15483
15484
15485
15486
15487
15488
15489
15490
15491
15492
15493
15494
15495
15496
15497
15498
15499
15500
15501
15502
15503
15504
15505
15506
15507
15508
15509
15510
15511
15512
15513
15514
15515
15516
15517
15518
15519
15520
15521
15522
15523
15524
15525
15526
15527
15528
15529
15530
15531
15532
15533
15534
15535
15536
15537
15538
15539
15540
15541
15542
15543
15544
15545
15546
15547
15548
15549
15550
15551
15552
15553
15554
15555
15556
15557
15558
15559
15560
15561
15562
15563
15564
15565
15566
15567
15568
15569
15570
15571
15572
15573
15574
15575
15576
15577
15578
15579
15580
15581
15582
15583
15584
15585
15586
15587
15588
15589
15590
15591
15592
15593
15594
15595
15596
15597
15598
15599
15600
15601
15602
15603
15604
15605
15606
15607
15608
15609
15610
15611
15612
15613
15614
15615
15616
15617
15618
15619
15620
15621
15622
15623
15624
15625
15626
15627
15628
15629
15630
15631
15632
15633
15634
15635
15636
15637
15638
15639
15640
15641
15642
15643
15644
15645
15646
15647
15648
15649
15650
15651
15652
15653
15654
15655
15656
15657
15658
15659
15660
15661
15662
15663
15664
15665
15666
15667
15668
15669
15670
15671
15672
15673
15674
15675
15676
15677
15678
15679
15680
15681
15682
15683
15684
15685
15686
15687
15688
15689
15690
15691
15692
15693
15694
15695
15696
15697
15698
15699
15700
15701
15702
15703
15704
15705
15706
15707
15708
15709
15710
15711
15712
15713
15714
15715
15716
15717
15718
15719
15720
15721
15722
15723
15724
15725
15726
15727
15728
15729
15730
15731
15732
15733
15734
15735
15736
15737
15738
15739
15740
15741
15742
15743
15744
15745
15746
15747
15748
15749
15750
15751
15752
15753
15754
15755
15756
15757
15758
15759
15760
15761
15762
15763
15764
15765
15766
15767
15768
15769
15770
15771
15772
15773
15774
15775
15776
15777
15778
15779
15780
15781
15782
15783
15784
15785
15786
15787
15788
15789
15790
15791
15792
15793
15794
15795
15796
15797
15798
15799
15800
15801
15802
15803
15804
15805
15806
15807
15808
15809
15810
15811
15812
15813
15814
15815
15816
15817
15818
15819
15820
15821
15822
15823
15824
15825
15826
15827
15828
15829
15830
15831
15832
15833
15834
15835
15836
15837
15838
15839
15840
15841
15842
15843
15844
15845
15846
15847
15848
15849
15850
15851
15852
15853
15854
15855
15856
15857
15858
15859
15860
15861
15862
15863
15864
15865
15866
15867
15868
15869
15870
15871
15872
15873
15874
15875
15876
15877
15878
15879
15880
15881
15882
15883
15884
15885
15886
15887
15888
15889
15890
15891
15892
15893
15894
15895
15896
15897
15898
15899
15900
15901
15902
15903
15904
15905
15906
15907
15908
15909
15910
15911
15912
15913
15914
15915
15916
15917
15918
15919
15920
15921
15922
15923
15924
15925
15926
15927
15928
15929
15930
15931
15932
15933
15934
15935
15936
15937
15938
15939
15940
15941
15942
15943
15944
15945
15946
15947
15948
15949
15950
15951
15952
15953
15954
15955
15956
15957
15958
15959
15960
15961
15962
15963
15964
15965
15966
15967
15968
15969
15970
15971
15972
15973
15974
15975
15976
15977
15978
15979
15980
15981
15982
15983
15984
15985
15986
15987
15988
15989
15990
15991
15992
15993
15994
15995
15996
15997
15998
15999
16000
16001
16002
16003
16004
16005
16006
16007
16008
16009
16010
16011
16012
16013
16014
16015
16016
16017
16018
16019
16020
16021
16022
16023
16024
16025
16026
16027
16028
16029
16030
16031
16032
16033
16034
16035
16036
16037
16038
16039
16040
16041
16042
16043
16044
16045
16046
16047
16048
16049
16050
16051
16052
16053
16054
16055
16056
16057
16058
16059
16060
16061
16062
16063
16064
16065
16066
16067
16068
16069
16070
16071
16072
16073
16074
16075
16076
16077
16078
16079
16080
16081
16082
16083
16084
16085
16086
16087
16088
16089
16090
16091
16092
16093
16094
16095
16096
16097
16098
16099
16100
16101
16102
16103
16104
16105
16106
16107
16108
16109
16110
16111
16112
16113
16114
16115
16116
16117
16118
16119
16120
16121
16122
16123
16124
16125
16126
16127
16128
16129
16130
16131
16132
16133
16134
16135
16136
16137
16138
16139
16140
16141
16142
16143
16144
16145
16146
16147
16148
16149
16150
16151
16152
16153
16154
16155
16156
16157
16158
16159
16160
16161
16162
16163
16164
16165
16166
16167
16168
16169
16170
16171
16172
16173
16174
16175
16176
16177
16178
16179
16180
16181
16182
16183
16184
16185
16186
16187
16188
16189
16190
16191
16192
16193
16194
16195
16196
16197
16198
16199
16200
16201
16202
16203
16204
16205
16206
16207
16208
16209
16210
16211
16212
16213
16214
16215
16216
16217
16218
16219
16220
16221
16222
16223
16224
16225
16226
16227
16228
16229
16230
16231
16232
16233
16234
16235
16236
16237
16238
16239
16240
16241
16242
16243
16244
16245
16246
16247
16248
16249
16250
16251
16252
16253
16254
16255
16256
16257
16258
16259
16260
16261
16262
16263
16264
16265
16266
16267
16268
16269
16270
16271
16272
16273
16274
16275
16276
16277
16278
16279
16280
16281
16282
16283
16284
16285
16286
16287
16288
16289
16290
16291
16292
16293
16294
16295
16296
16297
16298
16299
16300
16301
16302
16303
16304
16305
16306
16307
16308
16309
16310
16311
16312
16313
16314
16315
16316
16317
16318
16319
16320
16321
16322
16323
16324
16325
16326
16327
16328
16329
16330
16331
16332
16333
16334
16335
16336
16337
16338
16339
16340
16341
16342
16343
16344
16345
16346
16347
16348
16349
16350
16351
16352
16353
16354
16355
16356
16357
16358
16359
16360
16361
16362
16363
16364
16365
16366
16367
16368
16369
16370
16371
16372
16373
16374
16375
16376
16377
16378
16379
16380
16381
16382
16383
16384
16385
16386
16387
16388
16389
16390
16391
16392
16393
16394
16395
16396
16397
16398
16399
16400
16401
16402
16403
16404
16405
16406
16407
16408
16409
16410
16411
16412
16413
16414
16415
16416
16417
16418
16419
16420
16421
16422
16423
16424
16425
16426
16427
16428
16429
16430
16431
16432
16433
16434
16435
16436
16437
16438
16439
16440
16441
16442
16443
16444
16445
16446
16447
16448
16449
16450
16451
16452
16453
16454
16455
16456
16457
16458
16459
16460
16461
16462
16463
16464
16465
16466
16467
16468
16469
16470
16471
16472
16473
16474
16475
16476
16477
16478
16479
16480
16481
16482
16483
16484
16485
16486
16487
16488
16489
16490
16491
16492
16493
16494
16495
16496
16497
16498
16499
16500
16501
16502
16503
16504
16505
16506
16507
16508
16509
16510
16511
16512
16513
16514
16515
16516
16517
16518
16519
16520
16521
16522
16523
16524
16525
16526
16527
16528
16529
16530
16531
16532
16533
16534
16535
16536
16537
16538
16539
16540
16541
16542
16543
16544
16545
16546
16547
16548
16549
16550
16551
16552
16553
16554
16555
16556
16557
16558
16559
16560
16561
16562
16563
16564
16565
16566
16567
16568
16569
16570
16571
16572
16573
16574
16575
16576
16577
16578
16579
16580
16581
16582
16583
16584
16585
16586
16587
16588
16589
16590
16591
16592
16593
16594
16595
16596
16597
16598
16599
16600
16601
16602
16603
16604
16605
16606
16607
16608
16609
16610
16611
16612
16613
16614
16615
16616
16617
16618
16619
16620
16621
16622
16623
16624
16625
16626
16627
16628
16629
16630
16631
16632
16633
16634
16635
16636
16637
16638
16639
16640
16641
16642
16643
16644
16645
16646
16647
16648
16649
16650
16651
16652
16653
16654
16655
16656
16657
16658
16659
16660
16661
16662
16663
16664
16665
16666
16667
16668
16669
16670
16671
16672
16673
16674
16675
16676
16677
16678
16679
16680
16681
16682
16683
16684
16685
16686
16687
16688
16689
16690
16691
16692
16693
16694
16695
16696
16697
16698
16699
16700
16701
16702
16703
16704
16705
16706
16707
16708
16709
16710
16711
16712
16713
16714
16715
16716
16717
16718
16719
16720
16721
16722
16723
16724
16725
16726
16727
16728
16729
16730
16731
16732
16733
16734
16735
16736
16737
16738
16739
16740
16741
16742
16743
16744
16745
16746
16747
16748
16749
16750
16751
16752
16753
16754
16755
16756
16757
16758
16759
16760
16761
16762
16763
16764
16765
16766
16767
16768
16769
16770
16771
16772
16773
16774
16775
16776
16777
16778
16779
16780
16781
16782
16783
16784
16785
16786
16787
16788
16789
16790
16791
16792
16793
16794
16795
16796
16797
16798
16799
16800
16801
16802
16803
16804
16805
16806
16807
16808
16809
16810
16811
16812
16813
16814
16815
16816
16817
16818
16819
16820
16821
16822
16823
16824
16825
16826
16827
16828
16829
16830
16831
16832
16833
16834
16835
16836
16837
16838
16839
16840
16841
16842
16843
16844
16845
16846
16847
16848
16849
16850
16851
16852
16853
16854
16855
16856
16857
16858
16859
16860
16861
16862
16863
16864
16865
16866
16867
16868
16869
16870
16871
16872
16873
16874
16875
16876
16877
16878
16879
16880
16881
16882
16883
16884
16885
16886
16887
16888
16889
16890
16891
16892
16893
16894
16895
16896
16897
16898
16899
16900
16901
16902
16903
16904
16905
16906
16907
16908
16909
16910
16911
16912
16913
16914
16915
16916
16917
16918
16919
16920
16921
16922
16923
16924
16925
16926
16927
16928
16929
16930
16931
16932
16933
16934
16935
16936
16937
16938
16939
16940
16941
16942
16943
16944
16945
16946
16947
16948
16949
16950
16951
16952
16953
16954
16955
16956
16957
16958
16959
16960
16961
16962
16963
16964
16965
16966
16967
16968
16969
16970
16971
16972
16973
16974
16975
16976
16977
16978
16979
16980
16981
16982
16983
16984
16985
16986
16987
16988
16989
16990
16991
16992
16993
16994
16995
16996
16997
16998
16999
17000
17001
17002
17003
17004
17005
17006
17007
17008
17009
17010
17011
17012
17013
17014
17015
17016
17017
17018
17019
17020
17021
17022
17023
17024
17025
17026
17027
17028
17029
17030
17031
17032
17033
17034
17035
17036
17037
17038
17039
17040
17041
17042
17043
17044
17045
17046
17047
17048
17049
17050
17051
17052
17053
17054
17055
17056
17057
17058
17059
17060
17061
17062
17063
17064
17065
17066
17067
17068
17069
17070
17071
17072
17073
17074
17075
17076
17077
17078
17079
17080
17081
17082
17083
17084
17085
17086
17087
17088
17089
17090
17091
17092
17093
17094
17095
17096
17097
17098
17099
17100
17101
17102
17103
17104
17105
17106
17107
17108
17109
17110
17111
17112
17113
17114
17115
17116
17117
17118
17119
17120
17121
17122
17123
17124
17125
17126
17127
17128
17129
17130
17131
17132
17133
17134
17135
17136
17137
17138
17139
17140
17141
17142
17143
17144
17145
17146
17147
17148
17149
17150
17151
17152
17153
17154
17155
17156
17157
17158
17159
17160
17161
17162
17163
17164
17165
17166
17167
17168
17169
17170
17171
17172
17173
17174
17175
17176
17177
17178
17179
17180
17181
17182
17183
17184
17185
17186
17187
17188
17189
17190
17191
17192
17193
17194
17195
17196
17197
17198
17199
17200
17201
17202
17203
17204
17205
17206
17207
17208
17209
17210
17211
17212
17213
17214
17215
17216
17217
17218
17219
17220
17221
17222
17223
17224
17225
17226
17227
17228
17229
17230
17231
17232
17233
17234
17235
17236
17237
17238
17239
17240
17241
17242
17243
17244
17245
17246
17247
17248
17249
17250
17251
17252
17253
17254
17255
17256
17257
17258
17259
17260
17261
17262
17263
17264
17265
17266
17267
17268
17269
17270
17271
17272
17273
17274
17275
17276
17277
17278
17279
17280
17281
17282
17283
17284
17285
17286
17287
17288
17289
17290
17291
17292
17293
17294
17295
17296
17297
17298
17299
17300
17301
17302
17303
17304
17305
17306
17307
17308
17309
17310
17311
17312
17313
17314
17315
17316
17317
17318
17319
17320
17321
17322
17323
17324
17325
17326
17327
17328
17329
17330
17331
17332
17333
17334
17335
17336
17337
17338
17339
17340
17341
17342
17343
17344
17345
17346
17347
17348
17349
17350
17351
17352
17353
17354
17355
17356
17357
17358
17359
17360
17361
17362
17363
17364
17365
17366
17367
17368
17369
17370
17371
17372
17373
17374
17375
17376
17377
17378
17379
17380
17381
17382
17383
17384
17385
17386
17387
17388
17389
17390
17391
17392
17393
17394
17395
17396
17397
17398
17399
17400
17401
17402
17403
17404
17405
17406
17407
17408
17409
17410
17411
17412
17413
17414
17415
17416
17417
17418
17419
17420
17421
17422
17423
17424
17425
17426
17427
17428
17429
17430
17431
17432
17433
17434
17435
17436
17437
17438
17439
17440
17441
17442
17443
17444
17445
17446
17447
17448
17449
17450
17451
17452
17453
17454
17455
17456
17457
17458
17459
17460
17461
17462
17463
17464
17465
17466
17467
17468
17469
17470
17471
17472
17473
17474
17475
17476
17477
17478
17479
17480
17481
17482
17483
17484
17485
17486
17487
17488
17489
17490
17491
17492
17493
17494
17495
17496
17497
17498
17499
17500
17501
17502
17503
17504
17505
17506
17507
17508
17509
17510
17511
17512
17513
17514
17515
17516
17517
17518
17519
17520
17521
17522
17523
17524
17525
17526
17527
17528
17529
17530
17531
17532
17533
17534
17535
17536
17537
17538
17539
17540
17541
17542
17543
17544
17545
17546
17547
17548
17549
17550
17551
17552
17553
17554
17555
17556
17557
17558
17559
17560
17561
17562
17563
17564
17565
17566
17567
17568
17569
17570
17571
17572
17573
17574
17575
17576
17577
17578
17579
17580
17581
17582
17583
17584
17585
17586
17587
17588
17589
17590
17591
17592
17593
17594
17595
17596
17597
17598
17599
17600
17601
17602
17603
17604
17605
17606
17607
17608
17609
17610
17611
17612
17613
17614
17615
17616
17617
17618
17619
17620
17621
17622
17623
17624
17625
17626
17627
17628
17629
17630
17631
17632
17633
17634
17635
17636
17637
17638
17639
17640
17641
17642
17643
17644
17645
17646
17647
17648
17649
17650
17651
17652
17653
17654
17655
17656
17657
17658
17659
17660
17661
17662
17663
17664
17665
17666
17667
17668
17669
17670
17671
17672
17673
17674
17675
17676
17677
17678
17679
17680
17681
17682
17683
17684
17685
17686
17687
17688
17689
17690
17691
17692
17693
17694
17695
17696
17697
17698
17699
17700
17701
17702
17703
17704
17705
17706
17707
17708
17709
17710
17711
17712
17713
17714
17715
17716
17717
17718
17719
17720
17721
17722
17723
17724
17725
17726
17727
17728
17729
17730
17731
17732
17733
17734
17735
17736
17737
17738
17739
17740
17741
17742
17743
17744
17745
17746
17747
17748
17749
17750
17751
17752
17753
17754
17755
17756
17757
17758
17759
17760
17761
17762
17763
17764
17765
17766
17767
17768
17769
17770
17771
17772
17773
17774
17775
17776
17777
17778
17779
17780
17781
17782
17783
17784
17785
17786
17787
17788
17789
17790
17791
17792
17793
17794
17795
17796
17797
17798
17799
17800
17801
17802
17803
17804
17805
17806
17807
17808
17809
17810
17811
17812
17813
17814
17815
17816
17817
17818
17819
17820
17821
17822
17823
17824
17825
17826
17827
17828
17829
17830
17831
17832
17833
17834
17835
17836
17837
17838
17839
17840
17841
17842
17843
17844
17845
17846
17847
17848
17849
17850
17851
17852
17853
17854
17855
17856
17857
17858
17859
17860
17861
17862
17863
17864
17865
17866
17867
17868
17869
17870
17871
17872
17873
17874
17875
17876
17877
17878
17879
17880
17881
17882
17883
17884
17885
17886
17887
17888
17889
17890
17891
17892
17893
17894
17895
17896
17897
17898
17899
17900
17901
17902
17903
17904
17905
17906
17907
17908
17909
17910
17911
17912
17913
17914
17915
17916
17917
17918
17919
17920
17921
17922
17923
17924
17925
17926
17927
17928
17929
17930
17931
17932
17933
17934
17935
17936
17937
17938
17939
17940
17941
17942
17943
17944
17945
17946
17947
17948
17949
17950
17951
17952
17953
17954
17955
17956
17957
17958
17959
17960
17961
17962
17963
17964
17965
17966
17967
17968
17969
17970
17971
17972
17973
17974
17975
17976
17977
17978
17979
17980
17981
17982
17983
17984
17985
17986
17987
17988
17989
17990
17991
17992
17993
17994
17995
17996
17997
17998
17999
18000
18001
18002
18003
18004
18005
18006
18007
18008
18009
18010
18011
18012
18013
18014
18015
18016
18017
18018
18019
18020
18021
18022
18023
18024
18025
18026
18027
18028
18029
18030
18031
18032
18033
18034
18035
18036
18037
18038
18039
18040
18041
18042
18043
18044
18045
18046
18047
18048
18049
18050
18051
18052
18053
18054
18055
18056
18057
18058
18059
18060
18061
18062
18063
18064
18065
18066
18067
18068
18069
18070
18071
18072
18073
18074
18075
18076
18077
18078
18079
18080
18081
18082
18083
18084
18085
18086
18087
18088
18089
18090
18091
18092
18093
18094
18095
18096
18097
18098
18099
18100
18101
18102
18103
18104
18105
18106
18107
18108
18109
18110
18111
18112
18113
18114
18115
18116
18117
18118
18119
18120
18121
18122
18123
18124
18125
18126
18127
18128
18129
18130
18131
18132
18133
18134
18135
18136
18137
18138
18139
18140
18141
18142
18143
18144
18145
18146
18147
18148
18149
18150
18151
18152
18153
18154
18155
18156
18157
18158
18159
18160
18161
18162
18163
18164
18165
18166
18167
18168
18169
18170
18171
18172
18173
18174
18175
18176
18177
18178
18179
18180
18181
18182
18183
18184
18185
18186
18187
18188
18189
18190
18191
18192
18193
18194
18195
18196
18197
18198
18199
18200
18201
18202
18203
18204
18205
18206
18207
18208
18209
18210
18211
18212
18213
18214
18215
18216
18217
18218
18219
18220
18221
18222
18223
18224
18225
18226
18227
18228
18229
18230
18231
18232
18233
18234
18235
18236
18237
18238
18239
18240
18241
18242
18243
18244
18245
18246
18247
18248
18249
18250
18251
18252
18253
18254
18255
18256
18257
18258
18259
18260
18261
18262
18263
18264
18265
18266
18267
18268
18269
18270
18271
18272
18273
18274
18275
18276
18277
18278
18279
18280
18281
18282
18283
18284
18285
18286
18287
18288
18289
18290
18291
18292
18293
18294
18295
18296
18297
18298
18299
18300
18301
18302
18303
18304
18305
18306
18307
18308
18309
18310
18311
18312
18313
18314
18315
18316
18317
18318
18319
18320
18321
18322
18323
18324
18325
18326
18327
18328
18329
18330
18331
18332
18333
18334
18335
18336
18337
18338
18339
18340
18341
18342
18343
18344
18345
18346
18347
18348
18349
18350
18351
18352
18353
18354
18355
18356
18357
18358
18359
18360
18361
18362
18363
18364
18365
18366
18367
18368
18369
18370
18371
18372
18373
18374
18375
18376
18377
18378
18379
18380
18381
18382
18383
18384
18385
18386
18387
18388
18389
18390
18391
18392
18393
18394
18395
18396
18397
18398
18399
18400
18401
18402
18403
18404
18405
18406
18407
18408
18409
18410
18411
18412
18413
18414
18415
18416
18417
18418
18419
18420
18421
18422
18423
18424
18425
18426
18427
18428
18429
18430
18431
18432
18433
18434
18435
18436
18437
18438
18439
18440
18441
18442
18443
18444
18445
18446
18447
18448
18449
18450
18451
18452
18453
18454
18455
18456
18457
18458
18459
18460
18461
18462
18463
18464
18465
18466
18467
18468
18469
18470
18471
18472
18473
18474
18475
18476
18477
18478
18479
18480
18481
18482
18483
18484
18485
18486
18487
18488
18489
18490
18491
18492
18493
18494
18495
18496
18497
18498
18499
18500
18501
18502
18503
18504
18505
18506
18507
18508
18509
18510
18511
18512
18513
18514
18515
18516
18517
18518
18519
18520
18521
18522
18523
18524
18525
18526
18527
18528
18529
18530
18531
18532
18533
18534
18535
18536
18537
18538
18539
18540
18541
18542
18543
18544
18545
18546
18547
18548
18549
18550
18551
18552
18553
18554
18555
18556
18557
18558
18559
18560
18561
18562
18563
18564
18565
18566
18567
18568
18569
18570
18571
18572
18573
18574
18575
18576
18577
18578
18579
18580
18581
18582
18583
18584
18585
18586
18587
18588
18589
18590
18591
18592
18593
18594
18595
18596
18597
18598
18599
18600
18601
18602
18603
18604
18605
18606
18607
18608
18609
18610
18611
18612
18613
18614
18615
18616
18617
18618
18619
18620
18621
18622
18623
18624
18625
18626
18627
18628
18629
18630
18631
18632
18633
18634
18635
18636
18637
18638
18639
18640
18641
18642
18643
18644
18645
18646
18647
18648
18649
18650
18651
18652
18653
18654
18655
18656
18657
18658
18659
18660
18661
18662
18663
18664
18665
18666
18667
18668
18669
18670
18671
18672
18673
18674
18675
18676
18677
18678
18679
18680
18681
18682
18683
18684
18685
18686
18687
18688
18689
18690
18691
18692
18693
18694
18695
18696
18697
18698
18699
18700
18701
18702
18703
18704
18705
18706
18707
18708
18709
18710
18711
18712
18713
18714
18715
18716
18717
18718
18719
18720
18721
18722
18723
18724
18725
18726
18727
18728
18729
18730
18731
18732
18733
18734
18735
18736
18737
18738
18739
18740
18741
18742
18743
18744
18745
18746
18747
18748
18749
18750
18751
18752
18753
18754
18755
18756
18757
18758
18759
18760
18761
18762
18763
18764
18765
18766
18767
18768
18769
18770
18771
18772
18773
18774
18775
18776
18777
18778
18779
18780
18781
18782
18783
18784
18785
18786
18787
18788
18789
18790
18791
18792
18793
18794
18795
18796
18797
18798
18799
18800
18801
18802
18803
18804
18805
18806
18807
18808
18809
18810
18811
18812
18813
18814
18815
18816
18817
18818
18819
18820
18821
18822
18823
18824
18825
18826
18827
18828
18829
18830
18831
18832
18833
18834
18835
18836
18837
18838
18839
18840
18841
18842
18843
18844
18845
18846
18847
18848
18849
18850
18851
18852
18853
18854
18855
18856
18857
18858
18859
18860
18861
18862
18863
18864
18865
18866
18867
18868
18869
18870
18871
18872
18873
18874
18875
18876
18877
18878
18879
18880
18881
18882
18883
18884
18885
18886
18887
18888
18889
18890
18891
18892
18893
18894
18895
18896
18897
18898
18899
18900
18901
18902
18903
18904
18905
18906
18907
18908
18909
18910
18911
18912
18913
18914
18915
18916
18917
18918
18919
18920
18921
18922
18923
18924
18925
18926
18927
18928
18929
18930
18931
18932
18933
18934
18935
18936
18937
18938
18939
18940
18941
18942
18943
18944
18945
18946
18947
18948
18949
18950
18951
18952
18953
18954
18955
18956
18957
18958
18959
18960
18961
18962
18963
18964
18965
18966
18967
18968
18969
18970
18971
18972
18973
18974
18975
18976
18977
18978
18979
18980
18981
18982
18983
18984
18985
18986
18987
18988
18989
18990
18991
18992
18993
18994
18995
18996
18997
18998
18999
19000
19001
19002
19003
19004
19005
19006
19007
19008
19009
19010
19011
19012
19013
19014
19015
19016
19017
19018
19019
19020
19021
19022
19023
19024
19025
19026
19027
19028
19029
19030
19031
19032
19033
19034
19035
19036
19037
19038
19039
19040
19041
19042
19043
19044
19045
19046
19047
19048
19049
19050
19051
19052
19053
19054
19055
19056
19057
19058
19059
19060
19061
19062
19063
19064
19065
19066
19067
19068
19069
19070
19071
19072
19073
19074
19075
19076
19077
19078
19079
19080
19081
19082
19083
19084
19085
19086
19087
19088
19089
19090
19091
19092
19093
19094
19095
19096
19097
19098
19099
19100
19101
19102
19103
19104
19105
19106
19107
19108
19109
19110
19111
19112
19113
19114
19115
19116
19117
19118
19119
19120
19121
19122
19123
19124
19125
19126
19127
19128
19129
19130
19131
19132
19133
19134
19135
19136
19137
19138
19139
19140
19141
19142
19143
19144
19145
19146
19147
19148
19149
19150
19151
19152
19153
19154
19155
19156
19157
19158
19159
19160
19161
19162
19163
19164
19165
19166
19167
19168
19169
19170
19171
19172
19173
19174
19175
19176
19177
19178
19179
19180
19181
19182
19183
19184
19185
19186
19187
19188
19189
19190
19191
19192
19193
19194
19195
19196
19197
19198
19199
19200
19201
19202
19203
19204
19205
19206
19207
19208
19209
19210
19211
19212
19213
19214
19215
19216
19217
19218
19219
19220
19221
19222
19223
19224
19225
19226
19227
19228
19229
19230
19231
19232
19233
19234
19235
19236
19237
19238
19239
19240
19241
19242
19243
19244
19245
19246
19247
19248
19249
19250
19251
19252
19253
19254
19255
19256
19257
19258
19259
19260
19261
19262
19263
19264
19265
19266
19267
19268
19269
19270
19271
19272
19273
19274
19275
19276
19277
19278
19279
19280
19281
19282
19283
19284
19285
19286
19287
19288
19289
19290
19291
19292
19293
19294
19295
19296
19297
19298
19299
19300
19301
19302
19303
19304
19305
19306
19307
19308
19309
19310
19311
19312
19313
19314
19315
19316
19317
19318
19319
19320
19321
19322
19323
19324
19325
19326
19327
19328
19329
19330
19331
19332
19333
19334
19335
19336
19337
19338
19339
19340
19341
19342
19343
19344
19345
19346
19347
19348
19349
19350
19351
19352
19353
19354
19355
19356
19357
19358
19359
19360
19361
19362
19363
19364
19365
19366
19367
19368
19369
19370
19371
19372
19373
19374
19375
19376
19377
19378
19379
19380
19381
19382
19383
19384
19385
19386
19387
19388
19389
19390
19391
19392
19393
19394
19395
19396
19397
19398
19399
19400
19401
19402
19403
19404
19405
19406
19407
19408
19409
19410
19411
19412
19413
19414
19415
19416
19417
19418
19419
19420
19421
19422
19423
19424
19425
19426
19427
19428
19429
19430
19431
19432
19433
19434
19435
19436
19437
19438
19439
19440
19441
19442
19443
19444
19445
19446
19447
19448
19449
19450
19451
19452
19453
19454
19455
19456
19457
19458
19459
19460
19461
19462
19463
19464
19465
19466
19467
19468
19469
19470
19471
19472
19473
19474
19475
19476
19477
19478
19479
19480
19481
19482
19483
19484
19485
19486
19487
19488
19489
19490
19491
19492
19493
19494
19495
19496
19497
19498
19499
19500
19501
19502
19503
19504
19505
19506
19507
19508
19509
19510
19511
19512
19513
19514
19515
19516
19517
19518
19519
19520
19521
19522
19523
19524
19525
19526
19527
19528
19529
19530
19531
19532
19533
19534
19535
19536
19537
19538
19539
19540
19541
19542
19543
19544
19545
19546
19547
19548
19549
19550
19551
19552
19553
19554
19555
19556
19557
19558
19559
19560
19561
19562
19563
19564
19565
19566
19567
19568
19569
19570
19571
19572
19573
19574
19575
19576
19577
19578
19579
19580
19581
19582
19583
19584
19585
19586
19587
19588
19589
19590
19591
19592
19593
19594
19595
19596
19597
19598
19599
19600
19601
19602
19603
19604
19605
19606
19607
19608
19609
19610
19611
19612
19613
19614
19615
19616
19617
19618
19619
19620
19621
19622
19623
19624
19625
19626
19627
19628
19629
19630
19631
19632
19633
19634
19635
19636
19637
19638
19639
19640
19641
19642
19643
19644
19645
19646
19647
19648
19649
19650
19651
19652
19653
19654
19655
19656
19657
19658
19659
19660
19661
19662
19663
19664
19665
19666
19667
19668
19669
19670
19671
19672
19673
19674
19675
19676
19677
19678
19679
19680
19681
19682
19683
19684
19685
19686
19687
19688
19689
19690
19691
19692
19693
19694
19695
19696
19697
19698
19699
19700
19701
19702
19703
19704
19705
19706
19707
19708
19709
19710
19711
19712
19713
19714
19715
19716
19717
19718
19719
19720
19721
19722
19723
19724
19725
19726
19727
19728
19729
19730
19731
19732
19733
19734
19735
19736
19737
19738
19739
19740
19741
19742
19743
19744
19745
19746
19747
19748
19749
19750
19751
19752
19753
19754
19755
19756
19757
19758
19759
19760
19761
19762
19763
19764
19765
19766
19767
19768
19769
19770
19771
19772
19773
19774
19775
19776
19777
19778
19779
19780
19781
19782
19783
19784
19785
19786
19787
19788
19789
19790
19791
19792
19793
19794
19795
19796
19797
19798
19799
19800
19801
19802
19803
19804
19805
19806
19807
19808
19809
19810
19811
19812
19813
19814
19815
19816
19817
19818
19819
19820
19821
19822
19823
19824
19825
19826
19827
19828
19829
19830
19831
19832
19833
19834
19835
19836
19837
19838
19839
19840
19841
19842
19843
19844
19845
19846
19847
19848
19849
19850
19851
19852
19853
19854
19855
19856
19857
19858
19859
19860
19861
19862
19863
19864
19865
19866
19867
19868
19869
19870
19871
19872
19873
19874
19875
19876
19877
19878
19879
19880
19881
19882
19883
19884
19885
19886
19887
19888
19889
19890
19891
19892
19893
19894
19895
19896
19897
19898
19899
19900
19901
19902
19903
19904
19905
19906
19907
19908
19909
19910
19911
19912
19913
19914
19915
19916
19917
19918
19919
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 /> &ldquo;BY THE AUTHOR OF 'JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN'&rdquo; <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>
      &ldquo;Puir wee lassie, ye hae a waesome welcome to a waesome warld!&rdquo;
     </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 &ldquo;Olive
      Rothesay,&rdquo; being a small nameless concretion of humanity, in colour and
      consistency strongly resembling the &ldquo;red earth,&rdquo; 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
      &ldquo;waesome welcome&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;auld wife&rdquo; in Scotland is altogether free, she changed the
      dolorous croon into a &ldquo;Gude guide us!&rdquo; and, pressing the babe to her aged
      breast, bestowed a hearty blessing upon her nursling of the second
      generation&mdash;the child of him who was at once her master and her
      foster-son.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;as close together, as
      when, &ldquo;twin-laddies,&rdquo; they had nestled in one mother's bosom&mdash;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&mdash;something
      about a &ldquo;boatie.&rdquo; It was stopped by a hand on her shoulder, followed by
      the approximation of a face which, in its bland gravity, bore &ldquo;M.D.&rdquo; on
      every line.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, my good&mdash;&mdash; excuse me, but I forget your name.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Elspeth, or mair commonly, Elspie Murray. And no an ill name, doctor. The
      Murrays o' Perth were&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No doubt&mdash;no doubt, Mrs. Elsappy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Elspie</i>, sir. How daur ye ca' me out o' my name, wi' your unceevil
      English tongue!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, Elspie, or what the deuce you like,&rdquo; 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&mdash;a whole volume of sermons expressed in her &ldquo;Eh, sir?&rdquo;
       Then she added, quietly,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll thank ye no to speak ill words in the ears o' this puir innocent
      new-born wean. It's no canny.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Humph!&mdash;I suppose I must beg pardon again. I shall never get out
      what I wanted to say&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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, &ldquo;Those are <i>my</i>
      mountains,&rdquo; or &ldquo;This is <i>my</i> fair valley;&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;cared for
      none of these things.&rdquo; Dr. Jacob Johnson stood at the window with his
      hands in his pockets&mdash;to him the wide beautiful world was merely a
      field for the exercise of the medical profession&mdash;a place where old
      women died, and children were born. He watched the shadows darkening over
      Ben-Ledi&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Our sweet young patient is doing well, I think, nurse,&rdquo; said he, at last,
      in his most benevolent tones.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye may say that, doctor&mdash;ye suld ken.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I might almost venture to leave her, except that she seems so lonely,
      without friend or nurse, save yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And wha's the best nurse for Captain Angus Rothesay's wife and bairn, but
      the woman that nursed himsel?&rdquo; said Elspie, lifting up her tall gaunt
      frame, and for the second time frowning the little doctor into confused
      silence. &ldquo;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,&rdquo;
       added the woman to herself, with a sigh, as she once more half-buried her
      little nursling in her capacious embrace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not the slightest doubt of Captain Rothesay's respectability,&rdquo;
       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>
      &ldquo;Crying will do it good. A fine child&mdash;a very fine child,&rdquo; 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&mdash;very tiny specimen of babyhood.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye needna trouble yoursel to say what's no' true,&rdquo; was the answer; &ldquo;it's
      just a bit bairnie&mdash;unco sma' An' that's nae wonder, considering the
      puir mither's trouble.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the father is gone abroad?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just twa months sin' syne. But eh! doctor, look ye here,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Well&mdash;what's the matter now?&rdquo; said Dr. Johnson rather sulkily, as he
      laid down his hat and gloves, &ldquo;The child is quite perfect, rather small
      perhaps, but as nice a little girl as ever was seen. It's all right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's no a' richt,&rdquo; cried the nurse, in a tone trembling between anger and
      apprehension. &ldquo;Doctor, see!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;he came near and examined the little creature, with a
      countenance that grew graver each instant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aweel?&rdquo; said Elspie, inquiringly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish I had noticed this before; but it would have been of no use,&rdquo; he
      answered, his bland tones made earnest by real feeling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh, what?&rdquo; said the nurse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sorry to say that the child is <i>deformed</i>&mdash;slightly so&mdash;very
      slightly I hope&mdash;but most certainly deformed. Hump-backed.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Ye lee, ye ugly creeping Englisher! How daur ye speak so of ane o' the
      Rothesays,&mdash;frae the blude o' whilk cam the tallest men an' the
      bonniest leddies&mdash;ne'er a cripple amang them a &mdash;&mdash; How
      daur ye say that my master's bairn will be a&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;. Wae's
      me! I canna speak the word.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My poor woman!&rdquo; mildly said the doctor, &ldquo;I am really concerned.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Haud your tongue, ye fule!&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A faint call from the inner room startled both doctor and nurse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens!&rdquo; exclaimed the former. &ldquo;We must think of the mother. Stay&mdash;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!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;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&mdash;but why did He send ye into the waefu' warld
      at a'?&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;perhaps the loveliest in nature&mdash;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&mdash;and
      one that is becoming rarer as the world grows older&mdash;an exquisitely
      beautiful woman. Would there were more of such!&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;but let us try.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was very small in stature and proportions&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;I will not have that cap, Elspie; I am not an invalid now, and I don't
      choose to be an old matron yet,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;She has two eyes, so soft and brown&mdash;
     She gives a side-glance and looks down.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      But was there a soul in this exquisite form? You never asked&mdash;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&mdash;only a flesh-and-blood fairy&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;often niggardly in her gifts&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;See, nurse Elspie,&rdquo; said Mrs. Rothesay, laughing in her childish way;
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Children are a blessing frae the Lord, as maybe ye'll see, ane o' these
      days, Mrs. Rothesay,&rdquo; said Elspie, gravely; &ldquo;ye maun tak' them as they're
      sent, and mak' the best o' them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Rothesay laughed merrily. &ldquo;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,&mdash;ha! ha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The auld Miss Rothesay! She's your husband's aunt,&rdquo; observed Elspie,
      feeling it necessary to stand up for the honour of the family. &ldquo;Miss Flora
      was a comely leddy ance, as a' the Rothesays were.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They do say that,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;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!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Tak' tent, tak' tent! ye'll hurt it, maybe, the puir
      wee&mdash;&mdash;Oh, what was I gaun to say!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't trouble yourself,&rdquo; said the young mother, with a charming
      assumption of matronly dignity; &ldquo;I shall hold the baby safe. I know all
      about it.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;I wonder what I shall call her&mdash;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&mdash;he had even to fix the
      wedding-day!&rdquo; And her musical laugh&mdash;another rare charm that she
      possessed&mdash;caused Elspie to look round with mingled pity and
      affection.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Mrs. Rothesay! And are ye no proud o' your husband's family?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, very proud; especially as I have none of my own. He took me&mdash;an
      orphan, without a single tie in the wide world&mdash;he took me into his
      warm loving arms&rdquo;&mdash;here herm voice faltered, and a sweet womanly
      tenderness softened her eyes. &ldquo;God bless my noble husband! I <i>am</i>
      proud of him, and of his people, and of all his race. So come,&rdquo; she added,
      her childish manner reviving, &ldquo;tell me of the remarkable women in the
      Rothesay family for the last five hundred years&mdash;you know all about
      them, Elspie. Surely we'll find one to be a namesake for my baby.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Elspie&mdash;pleased and important&mdash;began eagerly to relate long
      traditions about the Lady Christina Rothesay, who was a witch, and a great
      friend of &ldquo;Maister Michael Scott,&rdquo; 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;&mdash;whence she laid a curse on
      all the line who had golden hair, and such never prospered, but died
      unmarried and young.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope the curse has passed away now,&rdquo; gaily said the young mother, &ldquo;and
      that the latest scion will not be a golden-tressed damsel. Yet look here&rdquo;&mdash;and
      she touched the soft down beneath her infant's cap, which might, by a
      considerable exercise of imagination, be called hair&mdash;&ldquo;it is yellow,
      you see, Elspie! But I'll not believe your tradition. My child shall be
      both beautiful and beloved.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Smitten with a sudden pang, poor Elspie cried, &ldquo;Oh, my leddy, dinna think
      o' the future. Dinna!&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash; and she stopped, confused.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, how strange you are. But go on. We'll have no more Christinas nor
      Isobels.&rdquo;
     </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 &ldquo;no
      gude;&rdquo; and Mistress Katharine Rothesay, who hid two of the &ldquo;Prince's&rdquo;
       soldiers after Culloden, and stood with a pair of pistols before their
      bolted door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, I'll have none of these&mdash;they frighten me,&rdquo; said Sybilla, &ldquo;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,&rdquo; she continued,
      stroking the baby cheek with her soft finger. &ldquo;You shall not be like them
      at all, except in their beauty. And they were all handsome&mdash;were
      they, Elspie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ne'er a ane o' the Rothesay line, man or woman, that wasna fair to see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then so will my baby be!&mdash;like her father, I hope&mdash;or just a
      little like her mother, who is not so very ugly, either; at least, Angus
      says not.&rdquo; And Mrs. Rothesay drew up her tiny figure, patted one dainty
      hand&mdash;the wedded one&mdash;with its fairy fellow; then&mdash;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&mdash;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, &ldquo;Elspie, I have a thought! The baby shall be
      christened Olive!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's a strange, heathen name, Mrs. Rothesay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dream! Are ye sure it was i' the morning-tide?&rdquo; cried Elspie, aroused
      into interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;a
      child-angel&mdash;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!'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While Mrs. Rothesay spoke, her thoughtless manner had once more softened
      into deep feeling. Elspie watched her with wondering eagerness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was nae dream; it was a vision. God send it true!&rdquo; said the old woman,
      solemnly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;but 'tis a fancy of mine. Olive
      Rothesay! It sounds well, and Olive Rothesay she shall be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo; cried the nurse, approaching her mistress's chair, while two
      great tears stole down her hard cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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;&rdquo; and she patted the old
      withered face with her little hand. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What a winning little creature she was, this young wife of Angus Rothesay!
      A pity he had not seen her&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;A charming scene of maternal felicity! I am quite sorry to intrude upon
      it,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The doctor bowed a smiling assent, and walked to the window. Thither
      Elspie followed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye maun tell her the truth&mdash;I daurna. Ye will!&rdquo; and she clutched his
      arm with eager anxiety. &ldquo;An' oh! for Gudesake, say it safyly, kindly.&rdquo;
     </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. &ldquo;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&mdash;what are you and Elspie
      talking about so mysteriously?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear madam&mdash;hem!&rdquo; began Dr. Johnson. &ldquo;I do hope&mdash;indeed, I
      am sure&mdash;your child will be a good child, and a great comfort to both
      her parents;&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly&mdash;but how grave you are about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have a painful duty&mdash;a very painful duty,&rdquo; he replied. But Elspie
      pushed him aside.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye're just a fule, man!&mdash;ye'll kill her. Say your say at ance!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young mother turned deadly pale. &ldquo;Say <i>what</i> Elspie? What is he
      going to tell me? Angus&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, my darlin' leddy! your husband's safe;&rdquo; and Elspie flung herself
      on her knees beside the chair. &ldquo;But, the lassie&mdash;(dinna fear, for
      it's the will o' God, and a' for gude, nae doubt)&mdash;your sweet wee
      dochter is&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is, I grieve to say it, deformed,&rdquo; 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&mdash;to her almost more fearful than her child's death&mdash;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&mdash;her child and
      Angus's,&mdash;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,
      &ldquo;This is our child&mdash;our firstborn.&rdquo; 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&mdash;for it was
      temporary madness&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God forgie ye, and save the innocent bairn&mdash;the dochter He gave, and
      that ye're gaun to murder&mdash;unthankfu' woman as ye are,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So, like Naomi of old, Elspie Murray &ldquo;laid the child in her bosom and
      became nurse unto it.&rdquo; But for her, the life of our Olive Rothesay&mdash;with
      all its influences, good or evil, small or great, as yet unknown&mdash;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;&mdash;not the festal ceremony which had pleased
      Sybilla's childish fancy with visions of christening robes and cakes, but
      the beautiful and simple &ldquo;naming&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Ye maun kiss and bless your dochter. Nae tongue but her mither's suld ca'
      her by her new-christened name.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The name ye gied her yer ain sel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no. Surely you have not called her so. Take her away; she is not my
      sweet angel-baby&mdash;the darling in my dream.&rdquo; And Sybilla hid her face;
      not in anger, or disgust, but in bitter weeping.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She's yer ain dochter&mdash;Olive Rothesay,&rdquo; answered Elspie, less
      harshly. &ldquo;She may be an angel to ye yet.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;the name of &ldquo;Olive&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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 &ldquo;honour of the family,&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;a widow bewitched;&rdquo; 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&mdash;pretty,
      playful, loving letters. But there was in them one peculiarity&mdash;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 &ldquo;Olive was well;&rdquo; &ldquo;Olive could just walk;&rdquo; &ldquo;Olive had
      learned to say 'Papa and Elspie.'&rdquo; Nothing more.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fatal secret she had not dared to tell him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her first letters&mdash;full of joy about &ldquo;the loveliest baby that ever
      was seen&rdquo;&mdash;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, &ldquo;He should be quite unhappy if she did
      not grow up as beautiful as her mother.&rdquo; The words pierced Sybilla's
      heart; she could not&mdash;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,&mdash;Sybilla, whose fault was
      more in weakness than deceit, resolved that she would nerve herself for
      the terrible task. But it was vain&mdash;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 &ldquo;little
      lock of golden hue,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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,&mdash;not without
      anxiety, for it was war-time, and his letters were frequently interrupted.
      At first, whenever this happened, his wife fretted extremely&mdash;<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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;an
      evening party&mdash;nay, even a dance, at her own home.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will never do for the people here; they're '<i>unco gude</i>,'&rdquo; said
      the doctor's English wife, who had imbibed a few Scottish prejudices by a
      residence of thirty years. &ldquo;Nobody ever dances in Stirling.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I'll teach them,&rdquo; cried the lively Mrs. Rothesay: &ldquo;I long to show
      them a quadrille&mdash;even that new dance that all the world is shocked
      at Oh! I should dearly like a waltz.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Jacob Johnson was scandalised at first, but there was something in
      Sybilla to which she could not say nay,&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Eh! Mrs. Rothesay, ye're no goin' to show yoursel in sic a dress,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;so beautiful as it is&mdash;and Angus's
      gift too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dinna say that name,&rdquo; cried Elspie, driven to a burst of not very
      respectful reproach. &ldquo;I marvel ye daur speak of Captain Angus&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </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. &ldquo;You are
      always blaming me about the child, and I will not bear it. She is quite
      well. Are you not, baby?&rdquo;&mdash;the mother never would call her <i>Olive</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      A feeble, trembling voice answered from the little bed, &ldquo;Yes, please,
      mamma!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, you hear, Elspie! Now don't torment me any more about her. But I
      must go down stairs.&rdquo;
     </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, &ldquo;Goodnight, baby!&rdquo;
       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>
      &ldquo;Ye'd better be hushin' your puir wee bairnie here, ye heartless woman!&rdquo;
       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&mdash;an
      English officer, quartered at the castle&mdash;proposed a waltz. Before
      she had time to say &ldquo;Yes&rdquo; or &ldquo;No,&rdquo; the music struck up one of those
      enchanting waltz-measures which to all true lovers of dancing, are as
      irresistible as Maurice Connor's &ldquo;Wonderful Tune.&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Rothesay, your husband's come!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;sprang
      into her husband's arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dazzled with the light, the traveller resisted not, while Elspie half-led,
      half dragged him&mdash;still clasping his wife&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Ye may gang your gate, ye heathens! Awa wi' ye, for Captain Rothesay's
      come hame!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;blushing scarlet, over face and neck&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;So, the young lady I saw whirling madly in some man's arms&mdash;was you,
      Sybilla&mdash;was <i>my wife</i>.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;her
      love was ever exuberant in expression&mdash;and the moment her husband
      seemed serious she sprang on his knee and looked playfully in his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just as much a child as ever, I see,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;You shall lecture me presently, my dear,&rdquo; said Captain Rothesay. &ldquo;You
      forget that I had two welcomes to receive, and that I have not yet seen my
      little girl.&rdquo;
     </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
      &ldquo;a wife being dearer than a child.&rdquo; &ldquo;Baby was asleep, and it was so very
      late&mdash;he might, surely, wait till morning.&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Come, Sybilla, let us go and see our little Olive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O Angus!&rdquo; and the mother turned deadly white.
    </p>
    <p>
      Captain Rothesay seemed alarmed. &ldquo;Don't trifle with me, Sybilla&mdash;there
      is nothing the matter? The child is not ill?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; quite well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, why cannot Elspie bring her?&rdquo; and he pulled the bell violently. The
      nurse appeared. &ldquo;My good Elspie, you have kept me waiting quite long
      enough; do let me see my little girl.&rdquo;
     </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. &ldquo;Angus, Angus, only say you forgive me
      before&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </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&mdash;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&mdash;pale &ldquo;lint-white locks,&rdquo; 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&mdash;an
      involuntary &ldquo;Poor little creature, what a pity!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Such was the child&mdash;the last daughter of the ever-beautiful Rothesay
      line&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Tell me! Is that&mdash;that miserable creature&mdash;our daughter, Olive
      Rothesay?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She answered, &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;not that
      repentant shower which rains softness into a man's heart, but those
      fretful tears which chafe him beyond endurance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sybilla, come to me!&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;I cannot come. I dare not even look at you. You are so angry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His only answer was the reiterated command, &ldquo;Sybilla, come!&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;obey.&rdquo; Now, with all the power of his roused
      nature, he was teaching her the meaning of the word. &ldquo;Sybilla,&rdquo; he said,
      looking sternly in her face, &ldquo;tell me why, all these years, you have put
      upon me this cheat&mdash;this lie!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cheat!&mdash;lie! Oh, Angus! What cruel, wicked words!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sorry I used them, then. I will choose a lighter term&mdash;deceit.
      Why did you so <i>deceive</i> your husband?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not mean it,&rdquo; sobbed the young wife. &ldquo;And this is very unkind of
      you, Angus! As if Heaven had not punished me enough in giving me that
      miserable child!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because I was afraid&mdash;ashamed. But those feelings are past now,&rdquo;
       said Sybilla, resolutely. &ldquo;If Heaven made me mother, it made you father to
      this unhappy child. You have no right to reproach me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God forbid! No, it is not the misfortune&mdash;it is the falsehood which
      stings me.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Sybilla!&rdquo; he suddenly cried, pausing before her; &ldquo;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&mdash;ay,
      to the depth of my heart And you to me have been&mdash;not wholly true.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;I did not mean to pain you thus deeply, Sybilla. I do not say that you
      have ceased to love me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Would that Sybilla had done as her first impulse taught her; have clung
      about him, crying &ldquo;Never! never!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I see
      we had better not talk of these things until you are more composed&mdash;perhaps,
      indeed, not at all. What is past&mdash;is past, and cannot be recalled.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Angus!&rdquo; She looked up, frightened at his manner. She determined to
      conciliate him a little. &ldquo;What do you want me to do? To say I am sorry?
      That I will&mdash;but,&rdquo; with an air of coquettish command, &ldquo;you must say
      so too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The jest was ill-timed; he was in too bitter a mood. &ldquo;Excuse me&mdash;you
      exact too much, Mrs. Rothesay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Mrs. Rothesay!</i> Oh, call me Sybilla, or my heart will break!&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you told <i>me</i>? Is there nothing you have kept back from me
      these five years?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He started a little, and then said resolutely, &ldquo;Nothing, Sybilla! I
      declare to Heaven&mdash;nothing! save, perhaps, some trifles that I would
      at any time tell you; now, if you will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no! some other time, I am too much exhausted now,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;lovers'
      quarrel,&rdquo; she had almost forgotten its hapless cause. But Angus, after a
      pause of deep and evidently conflicting thoughts, referred to the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is ours still. I must not forget that. Shall I send for her again?&rdquo;
       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. &ldquo;Send for Olive!&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot&mdash;I cannot!&rdquo; and Sybilla hung back, weeping anew.
    </p>
    <p>
      Angus Rothesay looked at his wife&mdash;the pretty wayward idol of his
      bridegroom-memory&mdash;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&mdash;his
      brow, a proud sorrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      He walked up to her and clasped her hand. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sybilla was annoyed&mdash;she, the spoilt darling of every one, who knew
      not the meaning of a harsh word. She answered, &ldquo;Don't let us talk so
      foolishly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am glad of it,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Nurse,&rdquo; said the child, suddenly fixing on Elspie's face her large eyes,
      &ldquo;was that my papa I saw?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was just himsel, my sweet wee pet,&rdquo; cried Elspie, trying to stop her
      with kisses; but Olive went on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is not like mamma&mdash;he is great and tall, like you. But he did not
      take up and kiss me, as you said he would.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Elspie had no answer for these words&mdash;spoken in a tone of quiet pain&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;a
      smile almost &ldquo;uncanny,&rdquo; as Elspie expressed it. At times the old
      Scotswoman&mdash;who, coming from the debateable ground between Highlands
      and Lowlands, had united to the rigid piety of the latter much wild Gaelic
      superstition&mdash;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&mdash;so patient, and gentle, and good&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Nurse, I wish to see Miss Olive Rothesay.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;there could not be a better
      opportunity than now. His tall, active form&mdash;now subsiding into the
      muscular fulness of middle age&mdash;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&mdash; 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&mdash;from
      strength into feebleness&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Do ye no see, Captain Angus,&rdquo; she whispered, &ldquo;'tis your ain bonnie face&mdash;ay,
      and your Mither's. Ye mind her yet?&rdquo;
     </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 &ldquo;Papa!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;he had come to fulfil it&mdash;and fulfil it he
      would. So he took the two little cold hands, and said&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Papa is glad to see you, my dear.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;What does she mean?&rdquo; said Captain Rothesay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Puir bairn! I tauld her, when her father was come hame, he wad tak' her
      in his arms and kiss her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Rothesay looked angrily round, but recollected himself. &ldquo;Your nurse was
      right, my dear.&rdquo; Then pausing for a moment, as though arming himself for a
      duty&mdash;repugnant, indeed, but necessary&mdash;he took his daughter on
      his knee, and kissed her cheek&mdash;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&mdash;uneasily and awkwardly&mdash;but still he
      did it. &ldquo;There, that will do, little one! What is your name, my dear?&rdquo; he
      said absently.
    </p>
    <p>
      She answered, &ldquo;Olive Rothesay.&rdquo; &ldquo;Ay&mdash;I had forgotten! The name at
      least, she told me true.&rdquo; The next moment, he set down the child&mdash;softly
      but as though it were a relief.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is papa going?&rdquo; said Olive, with a troubled look.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; but he will come back to-morrow. Once a day will do,&rdquo; he added to
      himself. Yet, when his little daughter lifted her mouth for another kiss,
      he could not help giving it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be a good child, my dear, and say your prayers every night, and love
      nurse Elspie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And papa too, may I?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He seemed to struggle violently against some inward feeling, and then
      answered with a strong effort, &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;God guide us! it's a' come richt at last.&rdquo;
     </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 &ldquo;nobler
      sex.&rdquo; 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&mdash;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 &ldquo;What he would like for dinner?&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;We will quit that subject, if you please.&rdquo;
     </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, &ldquo;on business.&rdquo; <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&mdash;whether interrogated or not.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last, one day when he was sitting after dinner with his wife and child&mdash;he
      always punctiliously commanded that &ldquo;Miss Rothesay&rdquo; might be brought in
      with the dessert&mdash;Angus made the startling remark:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Sybilla, I wish to consult with you on a subject of some
      importance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked up with a pretty, childish surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Consult with me! O Angus! pray don't tease me with any of your hard
      business matters; I never could understand them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Now, Angus, begin&mdash;I am all attention.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Shall we send Olive away?&rdquo; said the mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, let her stay&mdash;she is of no importance.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Sybilla,&rdquo; suddenly resumed Captain Rothesay, &ldquo;what I have to say is
      merely, how soon you can arrange to leave Stirling?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave Stirling?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; I have taken a house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed! and you never told me anything about it,&rdquo; said Sybilla, with a
      vexed look.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Merivale Hall. Are we really going to live in a Hall?&rdquo; cried Sybilla,
      clapping her hands with childish glee. But immediately her face changed.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We <i>were</i> not, but we are now, I am happy to say,&rdquo; answered Captain
      Rothesay, with some triumph.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rich! very rich! and you never told me?&rdquo; Sybilla's hands fell on her
      knee, and it was doubtful which expression was dominant in her countenance&mdash;womanly
      pain, or womanly indignation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Angus looked annoyed. &ldquo;My dear Sybilla, listen to me quietly&mdash;yes,
      quietly,&rdquo; he added, seeing how her colour came and went, and her lips
      seemed ready to burst out into petulant reproach. &ldquo;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&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Glad&mdash;glad to have been kept in the dark like a baby&mdash;a fool!
      It was not proper treatment towards your wife, Angus,&rdquo; was the petulant
      answer, as Sybilla drew herself from his arm, which came as a mute
      peacemaker to encircle her waist.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now you are a child indeed. I did it from love&mdash;believe me or not,
      it was so&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; it wasn't.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray, hear reason, Sybilla!&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;I will not hear reason. When you have these four years been rolling in
      wealth, and your wife and child were&mdash;O Angus!&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Rothesay, who was it that deceived me?&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Olive has done nothing wrong? Papa and mamma, you are not angry with poor
      little Olive?&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;The child had better go away to bed,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;There is no quarrel between us, Angus?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not in the least, my dear,&rdquo; he answered, with that composed deprecation
      of any offence, given or received, which is the most painful check to an
      impulsive nature; &ldquo;only, we will not discuss matters of business together
      again. Women never can talk things over quietly. Good-night, Sybilla.&rdquo;
     </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 &ldquo;Commentary on the
      Proverbs,&rdquo; for it was Sunday evening. He lingered for a whole hour over
      the last chapter, and chiefly the passages,&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      At this, Captain Rothesay closed the book, laid his arms upon it; and
      sighed&mdash;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&mdash;and by childhood we
      mean the seven years between the babyhood of five and the dignity of
      &ldquo;teens,&rdquo;&mdash;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 &ldquo;we saw men as trees walking.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;only perceived by
      the momentary shadow which they cast. Once&mdash;it was in the first
      summer at Merivale&mdash;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 &ldquo;a wee wee
      brother.&rdquo; 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!&mdash;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 &ldquo;History of England&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;a Coronation-day, the grandest gala of her childhood. One
      king had died and been buried.&mdash;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&mdash;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
      &ldquo;God save the King,&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Ah, I was indeed a
      spoiled child!&rdquo; 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&mdash;having a
      passionate fondness for study and reading&mdash;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 &ldquo;a wandering voice.&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;I am now happy,&rdquo; 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&mdash;sorrow. And that other
      word, which is the dirge of the whole earth&mdash;death&mdash;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, &ldquo;Lo, I
      am here!&rdquo; 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&mdash;whose
      beautiful face she had watched in church&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;the house was full of
      visitors&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Go to your bed again, dear nurse,&rdquo; anxiously cried Olive. &ldquo;You should not
      walk about. Nay, you are not worse?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay, maybe; but dinna fear, dearie, we'll bide till the morn,&rdquo; said
      Elspie, faintly, as she tried to move away, supporting herself by the bed.
      Soon she sank back dizzily. &ldquo;I canna walk. My sweet lassie, will ye help
      your puir auld nurse?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive sprang up, and guided her back to her bed. When she reached it,
      Elspie said, thoughtfully, &ldquo;It's strange, unco strange. My strength is a'
      gane.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind, Elspie dear, you are weak with being ill; but you will get
      better soon. Oh, yes, very soon!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's no that;&rdquo; and Elspie took her child's hands and looked wistfully in
      her face. &ldquo;Olive, gin ye were to tine your puir auld nurse? Gin I were to
      gang awa?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unto God,&rdquo; said Elspie, solemnly.&mdash;&ldquo;Dearie, I wadna grieve ye, but
      I'm aye sure this sickness is unto death.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;would not
      believe a thing so fearful as Elspie's death. It was impossible.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must not think thus&mdash;you must think of nothing but getting well.
      Lie down and go to sleep,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;I want ye, my bairn. Ye'll come to your auld nurse's arms&mdash;maybe
      they'll no haud ye lang,&rdquo; 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&mdash;thoughts
      of death and eternity. She did not believe Elspie's words; but if they
      should be true&mdash;if her nurse should die&mdash;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,&mdash;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&mdash;under a stone? And
      then where would be Elspie&mdash;the tender, the faithful&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash;. She shuddered&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;I am little Olive&mdash;indeed I am,&rdquo; cried the terrified child.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are ye sure? Aweel then, dearie, dinna greet,&rdquo; murmured poor Elspie,
      striving vainly against the delirium that she felt fast coming on. &ldquo;My
      bairn, is it near morn? Oh, for a drink o' milk or tea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall I go and call the maids? But that dark dark passage&mdash;I dare
      not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's no matter, bide ye till the daylight,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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 &ldquo;ghosts&rdquo; and &ldquo;bogie,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;<i>Deliver us from evil</i>&rdquo; she
      repeated many times, feeling each time stronger and bolder. Then first
      there entered into her heart that mighty faith &ldquo;which can remove
      mountains;&rdquo; that fervent boldness of prayer with the very utterance of
      which an answer comes. And who dare say that the Angel of that child
      &ldquo;always beholding the face of the Father in Heaven,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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 &ldquo;mien almost unearthly in their quietness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take her away to her parents,&rdquo; 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
      &ldquo;Poor child!&rdquo; and left her to go where she would. Olive followed the
      physician downstairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will she die?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He started at the touch of the soft hand&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;I have done my best, but it is too late. In three hours, or perhaps four,
      all will be over.&rdquo; 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&mdash;death.
    </p>
    <p>
      She tried to realise the truth. She said to herself, time after time,
      &ldquo;Elspie will die!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Three hours&mdash;four
      hours.&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;no,&rdquo; Olive said in a frightened whisper; &ldquo;let me look at her&mdash;let
      me touch her hand.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Come and tell me when there is <i>any change</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <i>Any change!</i> What change? That from life to death&mdash;from earth
      to heaven! And would it take place at once? Could they tell the instant
      when Elspie's soul departed &ldquo;to be beyond the sun&rdquo;?
    </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;&mdash;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 &ldquo;Our
      Father,&rdquo; 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&mdash;that Elspie was dead. But so deep was the peace which
      had fallen on her heart that the news gave no pang&mdash;caused no tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Olive, dearest,&rdquo; said Mrs. Rothesay, herself subdued into weeping.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know, mamma,&rdquo; was the answer. &ldquo;Now I have no one to love me but you.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Where shall Miss Rothesay sleep to-night?&rdquo; was the whispered question of
      the maid. Olive burst into tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She shall sleep with me. Darling, do not cry for your poor nurse, will
      not mamma do instead?&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;once her own and Elspie's&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;<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&mdash;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,&mdash;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">
     &ldquo;His bride and his darling to be,&rdquo;
 </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&mdash;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&mdash;the only arts she knew&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;one
      of those &ldquo;charming women&rdquo; who make society so agreeable; beautiful,
      kind-hearted&mdash;at least as much so as her thoughtless life allowed;
      lively, fond of amusement&mdash;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,
      &ldquo;Poor thing! I wonder if she is happy with her husband?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But between those two stood the yet scarce recognised tie which bound them
      together&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Captain Rothesay?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Reader, did you ever notice the intense frigidity that can be expressed in
      a &ldquo;my dear!&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;my deared&rdquo; 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,
      &ldquo;Smith's Wealth of Nations,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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 &ldquo;little
      Olive&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;my dear&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;Captain Rothesay.&rdquo; She rarely called him
      anything else now. Alas! the time of &ldquo;Angus&rdquo; and &ldquo;Sybilla&rdquo; was gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, my dear, what have you to say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish you would not be always reading, it makes the evening so dull.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does it?&rdquo; and he turned over another leaf of Adam Smith, and leisurely
      settled himself for its perusal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Papa is tired, and may like to be quiet. Suppose we talk to one another,
      mamma?&rdquo; whispered Olive, as she put aside her own work&mdash;idle, but
      graceful designings with pencil and paper&mdash;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
      &ldquo;Sabrina,&rdquo; which, half sketched, lay within the leaves of her &ldquo;Comus.&rdquo;
       Mrs. Rothesay observed this, and said, kindly&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me look at what you are doing, love. Ah!&mdash;very pretty! What is
      Sabrina? Tell me all about her.&rdquo; And she listened, with a pleased,
      maternal smile, while her gratified little daughter dilated on the beloved
      &ldquo;Comus,&rdquo; and read a passage or two in illustration. &ldquo;Very pretty, my
      love,&rdquo; again repeated Mrs. Rothesay, stroking Olive's hair. &ldquo;Ah! you are a
      clever child. But now come and tell me what sort of winter dresses you
      think we should have.&rdquo;
     </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
      &ldquo;Comus&rdquo; with the drawing inside, and came to sit down again, looking up
      into the eyes of her &ldquo;beautiful mamma.&rdquo; 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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;I wish we could leave off this mourning,&rdquo; said Mrs. Rothesay. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet he was kind to papa, when a child; and so was Auntie Flora,&rdquo; softly
      said Olive, to whose enthusiastic memory there ever clung Elspie's tales
      about the Perthshire relatives&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only tired with his journey,&rdquo; put in the sweet little awdiator. &ldquo;Is it
      not so papa?&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Well, child, what do you want?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not scold Olive; it was I who wished to speak to you.&rdquo; And then,
      without pausing to consider how evidently ill-timed the conversation was,
      Mrs. Rothesay began to talk eagerly about Olive's &ldquo;coming out,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Why don't you speak, Captain Rothesay?&rdquo; He took up the poker and hammered
      the fire to small cinders. &ldquo;Of course, you will be reasonable. Say, shall
      it be as I have arranged?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; The word came thundering out&mdash;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&mdash;and such a child&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Go, love,&rdquo; said Mrs. Rothesay; and she went&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, it is quite settled; the ball shall be at Merivale, on the
      20th of next month.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Angus turned round, his blue eyes glittering, yet cold as steel&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He rose up and again quitted the room. Mrs. Rothesay trembled&mdash;grew
      terrified&mdash;but tried to reassure herself. &ldquo;He only says this in
      anger, or else to frighten me. I will not believe it.&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;and not for the first time either&mdash;the little maiden
      of fifteen might have been seen, acting with the energy and
      self-possession of a woman&mdash;soothing her mother's hysterical
      sufferings&mdash;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, &ldquo;Come in,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Oh! is that you, Olive?&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Shall I bring your candle, dear papa? It is eleven o'clock and more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is your mother, Olive?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is gone to bed;&rdquo; and Olive paused, uncertain whether she should tell
      him that her mamma was ill. Again there was a silence&mdash;during which,
      do what he would, Captain Rothesay could not keep his eyes from the
      earnest, wistful, entreating gaze of his &ldquo;little Olive.&rdquo; At last, he
      lifted her on his knee, and took her face between his two hands, saying,
      in a smothered tone,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are not like your mother; you are like <i>mine</i>&mdash;ay, and seem
      more so as you grow to be a woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish I were a woman, that papa might talk to me and tell me anything
      which he has on his mind,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Child, how do you
      know?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know nothing, and want to know nothing, that papa does not wish to tell
      me,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Olive, how old are you?&mdash;I forget.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fifteen, dear papa.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! and you are a thoughtful girl. I can talk to you as to a woman&mdash;pah!
      I mean, a sensible woman. Put out your candle; you can sit up a while
      longer.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;nay,
      do not look sad, we will not talk of that&mdash;and then, too, your own
      portion, when you marry.&rdquo;
     </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. &ldquo;I shall not marry, papa,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;I had forgotten,&rdquo; muttered Captain Rothesay to himself. &ldquo;Of course, she
      will never marry. Poor child!&mdash;poor child!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mamma is sure to wake; she always does when you come in. Kiss mamma,
      too.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder why papa said that, of course, I should never marry!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Dear mamma, is not this a pretty house, even though it is in a town?&mdash;so
      pretty, one need hardly pine after Merri-vale.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;one of the few English parishes where lingers &ldquo;the
      curfew's solemn sound.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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 &ldquo;Queen of the May&rdquo; and the &ldquo;Miller's Daughter.&rdquo; 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&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;No, no, my dear; it amuses me, and I can talk with you the while.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Mrs. Rothesay did not talk much; she was continually falling into a
      reverie. Once she broke it with the words&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;he never liked
      Merivale.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear old Merivale!&rdquo; said Olive, with a sigh. It seemed ages since she had
      left the familiar place.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not call it <i>dear</i>. It was a dreary home. I did not think so at
      first, but I did afterwards.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, mamma?&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;You were too young to know anything then&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, mamma. And what made you dislike sweet Merivale?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was when your papa first began to take his long journeys&mdash;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&mdash;you were only ten years old.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive did remember it faintly, nevertheless&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;in fact, just like some of her own fantastic
      designs of &ldquo;Norna on the Fitful head,&rdquo; &ldquo;Medora watching for Conrad,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;so that she could hear the boys' cheerful
      voices over the high hedge. By this means she learnt their Christian
      names, Robert and Lyle&mdash;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&mdash;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 &ldquo;my beauty next door,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't&mdash;pray! You are very cruel, Bob.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Olive, deeply blushing&mdash;though at what she scarcely knew&mdash;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 &ldquo;Maddalena.&rdquo; Somehow or other, the two girls
      smiled&mdash;and then the elder spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The evening was very fine,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;and it was rather dull, walking in
      the garden all alone.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;or <i>Sara</i>, as its owner took care to
      explain. Olive was rather disappointed&mdash;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&mdash;just like that of the lotus-leaved
      &ldquo;Clytie,&rdquo; which she loved so much,&mdash;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&mdash;more so than the world will acknowledge&mdash;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&mdash;the long
      walk, fraught with all sorts of innocent secrets. Or, in absence, the
      almost interminable letters&mdash;positive love-letters, full of &ldquo;dearest&rdquo;
       and &ldquo;beloveds,&rdquo; and sealing-wax kisses. Then the delicious meetings&mdash;sad
      partings, also quite lover-like in the multiplicity of tears and embraces&mdash;embraces
      sweeter than those of all the world beside&mdash;and tears&mdash;But our
      own are gathering while we write&mdash;Ah!
    </p>
    <p>
      We also have been in Arcadia.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gracious reader! grave, staid mother of a family!&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;the class from whence are taken the lauded &ldquo;mothers, wives,
      and daughters of England.&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;so fresh, so sudden,
      so full of sympathetic contact. It was like a new revelation in her
      girlhood&mdash;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 &ldquo;such a
      dear, loving, gentle thing; a girl, not pretty&mdash;even slightly
      deformed; but who was an amusing companion, and to whom she could confide
      everything. Such a blessing in that dull place, Oldchurch!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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 &ldquo;flirtations&rdquo; at quadrille parties&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;I don't like that equinoctial gale,&rdquo; said Sara, shyly. &ldquo;I used to hear so
      much of its horrors from a friend I have&mdash;at sea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed. Who was that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only Charles Geddes. Did I never speak of him? Very likely not&mdash;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.&rdquo; And Sara
      blushed&mdash;a real, good, honest blush.
    </p>
    <p>
      Olive did the same&mdash;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&mdash;or at least to
      see each other taste&mdash;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&mdash;and she had cried&mdash;but they were mere boy
      and girl then. It was nothing&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;for
      lover she had decided that he must be. Not a day passed that she did not
      eagerly consult the <i>Times''</i> &ldquo;shipping intelligence;&rdquo; and when at
      last she saw the name of Charles Geddes' vessel, as &ldquo;arrived,&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Please, mamma, do not ask me anything.&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Has anything happened?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing&mdash;that is, nothing amiss. But oh, Olive, what do you think?
      Charles put this letter into my hand last night. I have scarcely slept&mdash;I
      feel so agitated&mdash;so frightened.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Well, Olive?&rdquo; said the latter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Olive threw her arms round her friend's neck and kissed her, feeling
      almost ready to cry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now, dear, tell me what I must do,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Do! Why, if you love him, you must tell him so, and give him your whole
      life-long faith and affection.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, Olive, how grave you are! I had no idea of making it such a
      serious matter. But, poor Charles!&mdash;to think that he should love me
      so very much!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Sara, Sara!&rdquo; murmured Olive, &ldquo;how happy you ought to be!&rdquo;
     </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 &ldquo;his faithful little friend;&rdquo; and truly she stood his
      friend in every conceivable way, by soothing Sara's only parent&mdash;a
      most irascible papa&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Yet, nevertheless, it was with a vague pleasure that Mrs. Rothesay dressed
      Olive for her first ball&mdash;a birthday treat&mdash;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&mdash;a birthday gift for Sara.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, are you quite satisfied with my dress, dearest mamma?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not quite;&rdquo; and Mrs. Rothesay fetched a small mantle of white fur, which
      she laid round Olive's shoulders. &ldquo;Wear this, dear; you will look better
      then&mdash;see.&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;'Tis a pretty little mantle, but why must I wear it, mamma?&mdash;the
      night is not cold.&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Dear, if you see other
      girls prettier, or more admired, more noticed than yourself, never mind!
      Olive is mamma's own pet&mdash;always.&rdquo;
     </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 &ldquo;private ball,&rdquo; 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&mdash;haughty
      boarding-school belles, whom she had always rather feared, when Sara's
      hospitality brought her in contact with them&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;How pleasant quadrilles must be!&rdquo; 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&mdash;a determination which greatly excited the ridicule of his
      elder brother.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I like far better to sit here quietly with you,&rdquo; murmured the faithful
      little cavalier.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, Lyle; still, they all look so merry, I almost wish some one
      had asked me to dance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You dance, Miss Rothesay! What fun! Why nobody would ever dance with
      you,&rdquo; cried rude Bob.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lyle looked imploringly at his brother: &ldquo;Hush! you naughty boy! Please,
      Miss Rothesay, I will dance with you at any time, that is, if you think I
      am tall enough.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, quite; I am so small myself,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;You know, you are to
      grow up to be my little husband.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your husband!&rdquo; repeated Bob, mischievously. &ldquo;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&rdquo;&mdash;
    </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&mdash;poor,
      untaught, motherless lads&mdash;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 &ldquo;attachment.&rdquo;
       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 &ldquo;love affair&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;What! tired of dancing already?&rdquo; cried Sara, flitting to the corner where
      Olive sat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not danced once yet,&rdquo; Olive answered, rather piteously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come&mdash;shall I get you a partner?&rdquo; said Sara, carelessly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Is she ashamed of me, I wonder?&rdquo; thought Olive. &ldquo;Perhaps, because I am
      not beautiful. Yet, no one ever told me I was <i>very</i> disagreeable to
      look at. I will see.&rdquo;
     </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">
     &ldquo;I see the courtly ladies stand,
        With their dark and shining hair;
     And I coldly turn aside to weep&mdash;
        Oh, would that I were fair!&rdquo;
 </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 &ldquo;beaux,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;I laughed to see you dancing with that little Olive Rothesay, Miss
      Derwent. For my part, I hate dancing with girls&mdash;and as for <i>her</i>&mdash;But
      I suppose you wanted to show the contrast.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, that's ill-natured,&rdquo; answered Sara, &ldquo;She is a sweet little creature,
      and my very particular friend.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here Olive, blushing and happy, doubted whether she ought not to come out
      of the curtains. It was almost wrong to listen&mdash;only her beloved Sara
      often said she had no secrets from Olive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I know she is your friend, and Mr. Charles Geddes' great friend too;
      if I were you, I should be almost jealous.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jealous of Olive&mdash;how very comical!&rdquo; and the silver laugh was a
      little scornful. &ldquo;To think of Olive's stealing any girl's lover! She, who
      will probably never have one in all her life&mdash;poor thing!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course not; nobody would fall in love with her! But there is a waltz,
      I must run away. Will you come?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Presently&mdash;when I have looked in the other room for Olive?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Olive is here,&rdquo; said a timid voice. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sara appeared confused, and with a quick impulse kissed and fondled her
      little friend: &ldquo;You are not vexed, or pained, Olive?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no&mdash;that is, not much; it would be very silly if I were. But,&rdquo;
       she added, doubtfully, &ldquo;I wish you would tell me one thing, Sara&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't talk so, my little pet,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Yes, I know,&rdquo; she murmured. &ldquo;I am little, and plain, and in figure very
      awkward&mdash;not graceful like you. Would that make people hate me,
      Sara?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not hate you; but&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, go on&mdash;nay, I <i>will</i> know all!&rdquo; said Olive firmly; though
      gradually a thought&mdash;long subdued&mdash;began to dawn painfully in
      her mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I assure you, dear,&rdquo; began Sara, hesitatingly, &ldquo;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&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      She paused, laying her arm round Olive's shoulders&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;I see as I never saw before&mdash;so little I thought of myself. Yes, it
      is quite true&mdash;quite true.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She spoke beneath her breath, and her eyes seemed fascinated into a hard,
      cold gaze. Sara became almost frightened.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not look so, my dear girl; I did not say that it was a positive <i>deformity</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive faintly shuddered: &ldquo;Ah, that is the word! I understand it all now.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;You do not mind it, then, Olive&mdash;you are not angry with me?&rdquo; she
      said soothingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Angry with you&mdash;how could I be?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you will come back with me, and we will have another dance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, no!&rdquo; And the cheerful good-natured voice seemed to make Olive
      shrink with pain. &ldquo;Sara, dear Sara, let me go home!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Well, my love, was the ball as pleasant as you expected?&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Every one said it was pleasant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you,&rdquo; returned the mother, with an anxiety she could scarce disguise&mdash;&ldquo;who
      talked to you?&mdash;who danced with you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No one, except Sara.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor child!&rdquo; 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&mdash;the often-ailing mother&mdash;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. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not quite; I was thinking,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Is that your father come home? He said he might, today or to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive went down-stairs. It was only a letter, to say Captain Rothesay
      would return that day, and would bring&mdash;most rare circumstance!&mdash;some
      guests to visit them. Olive seemed to shrink painfully at this news.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, my child, are you not pleased?&mdash;It will make the house less
      dull for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no&mdash;I do not wish; oh, mamma! if I could only shut myself up,
      and never see any one but you&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash; And Olive turned very pale.
      At last, resolutely trying to speak without any show of trouble, she
      continued&mdash;&ldquo;I have found out something that I never knew&mdash;at
      least, never thought of before&mdash;that I am different from other girls.
      Oh, mother! am I really deformed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She spoke with much agitation. Mrs. Rothesay burst into tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Olive! how wretched you make me, to talk thus. Unhappy mother that I
      am! Why should Heaven have punished me thus?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Punished you, mother?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, my child&mdash;my poor, innocent child! I did not mean that,&rdquo; cried
      Mrs. Rothesay, embracing her with a passionate revulsion of feeling.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the word was said,&mdash;to linger for ever after on Olive's mind. It
      brought back the look once written on her childish memory&mdash;grown
      faint, but never quite erased&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;I am 'deformed.' That was Sara's own word,&rdquo; murmured Olive to herself.
      &ldquo;If this is felt by one who loves me, what must I appear to the world?
      Will not all shrink from me&mdash;and even those who pity, turn away in
      pain. As for loving me&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </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&mdash;how sweet soever
      now&mdash;had not blessed her always. She remembered the time when it was
      not there.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas! that I should have been, even to them, a burden&mdash;a
      punishment!&rdquo; 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&mdash;a woman, to whom friendship would be given but
      in kindly pity; to whom love&mdash;that blissful dream in which she had of
      late indulged&mdash;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&mdash;never to be freed from it, except through
      death! And her lips unconsciously repeated the bitter murmur, &ldquo;O God! why
      hast thou made me thus?&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;her
      untaught childhood&mdash;her helplessness&mdash;felt that her poor
      deformed body enshrined a living soul. A soul that could look on Heaven,
      and on whom Heaven also looked&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;Samuel-like&mdash;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&mdash;marriage-bells
      too&mdash;signifying that not far off was dawning another scene of love
      and hope; that, somewhere in the parish, was celebrated the &ldquo;coming home&rdquo;
       of a bride.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young creature, born with a woman's longings&mdash;longings neither
      unholy nor impure, after the love which is the religion of a woman's heart&mdash;the
      sweetness of home, which is the heaven of a woman's life&mdash;felt that
      from both she was shut out for ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not for me&mdash;alas! not for me,&rdquo; she murmured; and her head drooped,
      and it seemed as though a cold hand were laid on her breast, saying, &ldquo;Grow
      still, and throb no more!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;the only one. With a
      long sigh, her soul seemed to pass upward in prayer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, God! since Thou hast willed it so&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And so&mdash;mournful, yet serene&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Even Sara's love may be only compassion,&rdquo; she bitterly thought; but her
      father's nature was in the girl&mdash;his self-command&mdash;his proud
      reserve. Sara Derwent only thought her rather silent and cold.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a constraint on both&mdash;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&mdash;perhaps longer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Olive was in no jesting mood. She only shook her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Rothesay looked with admiration on Sara. &ldquo;What a blithe young
      creature you are, my dear. You win everybody's liking. I wish Olive were
      only half as merry as you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Another arrow in poor Olive's heart!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, we must try to make her so when I come back,&rdquo; said Sara,
      affectionately. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And then she rose&mdash;still laughing&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;the
      yearning, never to be fulfilled?
    </p>
    <p>
      She fell on Sara's neck and wept. &ldquo;You do care for me a little&mdash;only
      a little.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A great deal&mdash;as much as ever I can, seeing I have so many people to
      care for,&rdquo; answered Sara, trying to laugh away the tears that&mdash;from
      sympathy, perhaps&mdash;sprang to her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, true! And everybody cares for you. No wonder,&rdquo; answered Olive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope not,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Olive, I am a foolish, thoughtless girl; but if ever I pained you in any
      way, don't think of it again. Kiss me&mdash;will you&mdash;once more?&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Nay, let some of the servants do that, not you, my child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Olive, innocent as she was, had accidentally seen the footman smile
      rudely when he spoke of &ldquo;master coming home last night;&rdquo; 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&mdash;one&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;A loud, unsteady, angry knock.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you stay up for me? I don't want anybody to sit up,&rdquo; grumbled
      Captain Rothesay, without looking at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I liked to wait for you, papa.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, is that you, Olive?&rdquo; and he stepped in with a lounging, heavy gait.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you not see me before? It was I who opened the door.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes&mdash;but&mdash;I was thinking of something else,&rdquo; he said,
      throwing himself into the study-chair, and trying with an effort to seem
      just as usual. &ldquo;You are&mdash;a very good girl&mdash;I'm much obliged to
      you. The pleasure is&mdash;I may truly say on both sides.&rdquo; 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&mdash;sometimes he seemed quite in high spirits,
      even jocose&mdash;as he did now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am glad to see you are not much tired, papa. I thought you were&mdash;you
      walked so wearily when you first came in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Papa,&rdquo; said Olive, timidly, &ldquo;will that be quite right, after what you
      told me of our being now so much poorer than we were?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did I? Pshaw! I don't remember. However, I am a rich man now; richer than
      I have ever been.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her father laughed loudly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;eh, what did I say?&rdquo; here he stopped hastily
      with a blank, frightened look&mdash;then repeated, &ldquo;Yes, you, my only
      child, will be properly introduced to the world. Why, you will be quite an
      heiress, my girl,&rdquo; continued he, with an excited jocularity that
      frightened Olive. &ldquo;And the world always courts such; who knows but that
      you may marry in spite of&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no&mdash;never!&rdquo; interrupted Olive, turning away with bitter pain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, don't mind it,&rdquo; continued her father, with a reckless indifference
      to her feelings, quite unusual to him. &ldquo;Why&mdash;my little sensible girl&mdash;you
      are better than any beauty in England; beauties are all fools, or worse.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;longing at any price for excitement, or oblivion&mdash;&ldquo;puts
      an enemy into his mouth to steal away his brains.&rdquo; This was the foe&mdash;the
      stealthy-footed demon, that had at last come to overmaster the brave and
      noble Angus Rothesay. As yet it ruled him not&mdash;he was no sot; but his
      daughter saw enough to know that the fiend was nigh upon him&mdash;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&mdash;intreatingly. She could not speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      He seemed annoyed, and slightly confounded. &ldquo;Come, simpleton, why do you
      stare at me?&mdash;there is nothing the matter. Go away to bed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive did not move.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Make haste&mdash;what are you waiting for? Nay, stay; 'tis a cold night&mdash;just
      leave out the keys of the sideboard, will you, there's a good little
      housekeeper,&rdquo; he said, coaxingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Olive turned away in disgust, but only for a moment. &ldquo;In case you should
      want anything, let me stay a little longer, papa; I am not tired, and I
      have some work to do&mdash;suppose I go and fetch it.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;What's the matter, little fool? Cannot your father take care of himself?
      Give me the brandy again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But she held it fast, and made no answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Olive, I say&mdash;do you insult me thus?&rdquo; and his voice rose in anger.
      &ldquo;Go to bed, I command you! Will you not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; The refusal was spoken softly&mdash;very softly&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;You are very rude to your poor father; you&mdash;almost the only comfort
      he has left!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Now, papa, it is time to go to bed. Pray, come upstairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He&mdash;the calm, gentlemanlike, Captain Rothesay&mdash;burst into a
      storm of passion that would have disgraced a boor. &ldquo;How dare you order me
      about in this manner! Cannot I do as I like, without being controlled by
      you&mdash;a mere chit of a girl&mdash;a very child?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know I am only a child,&rdquo; answered Olive, meekly. &ldquo;Do not be angry with
      me, papa; do not speak unkindly to your poor little daughter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My daughter! how dare you call yourself so, you white-faced, mean-looking
      hunchback!&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      At the word, Olive recoiled&mdash;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&mdash;he leaning back with a stupefied air&mdash;she
      standing before him; her face drooped, and covered with her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Olive!&rdquo; he muttered, in a repentant, humbled tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, papa.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am quite ready. If you like, I'll go to bed now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Without speaking, she lighted him up-stairs&mdash;nay, led him, for, to
      his bitter shame, the guidance was not un-needed. When she left him, he
      had the grace to whisper&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Child, you are not vexed about anything I said?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked sorrowfully into his hot fevered face, and stroked his arm. &ldquo;No&mdash;no&mdash;not
      vexed at all! You could not help it, poor father!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O God! teach me to endure!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;What is the matter with the child to-day?&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;How dull the girl seems!&rdquo; again observed Captain Rothesay, looking after
      his daughter, with a tenderness of which he afterwards appeared rather
      ashamed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dull, is she?&rdquo; said the mother; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, indeed!&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Poor Sara! I am glad that she is going to have a home of her own&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More fool he!&rdquo; muttered Captain Rothesay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Captain Rothesay turned round quickly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no silliness in that, I hope, Mrs. Rothesay?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly not&mdash;was I not always proud of yours?&rdquo; said the wife, with
      a meekness not newly learnt She hunted in her reticule for Sara's letter,
      and read.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, here is the name&mdash;Alison Balfour: do you know it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did once, when I was a boy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Should you?&mdash;that is something new. If it had been always so&mdash;if
      you had indeed made my interests yours, Sybilla!&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Come, now for the story of Alison Balfour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no story to tell. She was merely a young companion of my aunt
      Flora. I knew her for some years&mdash;in fact, until she married Mr.
      Gwynne. She was a noble woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, Angus, I shall grow jealous,&rdquo; said Mrs. Rothesay, half in jest,
      half in earnest. &ldquo;She must have been an old love of yours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her husband frowned. &ldquo;Folly, Sybilla! She was a woman, and I a schoolboy!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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 &ldquo;in love&rdquo;&mdash;and with such a woman! Folly it was&mdash;hopeless
      folly&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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 &ldquo;so good,&rdquo; that she quite regretted his going. The more so, as he
      was about to travel by the awful railway&mdash;then newly established&mdash;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&mdash;even to the last&mdash;that when,
      in order to start at daybreak, he bade &ldquo;good-bye&rdquo; to her and Olive
      overnight, Captain Rothesay was softened even to tenderness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you really care so much about me, Sybilla?&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;Angus!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Olive!&rdquo; said the father, when having embraced his wife, he now turned to
      his daughter, &ldquo;Olive, my child! take care of your mother! I shall be at
      home soon, and we shall be very happy again&mdash;all three!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Women are always silly,&rdquo; he argued to himself. &ldquo;Why should I dread any
      danger? The railway is safe as a coach&mdash;and yet, that affair of poor
      Huskisson! Pooh! what a fool I am!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Little Olive!&mdash;why, I thought you were fast asleep.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I could not sleep when papa was going away; so I rose and dressed. You
      will not be angry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Angry?&mdash;no!&rdquo; 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&mdash;an act of fatherly tenderness rather
      rare with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish you were not going, or that I were going with you, papa,&rdquo; Olive
      whispered, nestling to him, in a sweet, childish way, though she was
      almost a woman now. &ldquo;How tired you look! You have not been in bed all
      night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; I had writing to do.&rdquo; As he spoke his countenance darkened. &ldquo;Olive,&rdquo;
       he said, looking at her with sorrowful, questioning eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, dear papa.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing&mdash;nothing. Is the carriage ready?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not yet. You will have time just for one little thing&mdash;'twill take
      only a minute,&rdquo; said Olive, persuasively.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it, little one?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mamma is asleep&mdash;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&mdash;I know it would.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Sybilla!&rdquo; he muttered, remorsefully, and quitted the room slowly&mdash;not
      meeting his daughter's eyes; but when he came back, he took her in his
      arms, very tenderly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Olive, my child in whom I trust, always remember I did love you&mdash;you
      and your mother.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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 &ldquo;perpetual curate.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;pshaw!&mdash;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&mdash;its ancient tower rising out against the sky, and the
      evening sun shining on its windows and gilded vane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That must surely be my landmark,&rdquo; thought Captain Rothesay; and he made
      an inquiry to that effect of a man passing by.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay, measter,&rdquo; was the answer, in rather unintelligible Doric; &ldquo;thot
      bees Harbury Church, as sure as moy name's John Dent; and thot red house&mdash;conna
      ye see't?&mdash;thot's our parson's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Prompted by curiosity, Rothesay observed, &ldquo;Oh, Mr. Gwynne's. He is quite a
      young man, I believe? Do you like him, you good folks hereabout?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Captain Rothesay had no will to listen to more personal revelations from
      honest John Dent; so he said, quickly, &ldquo;Perhaps so, my good fellow.&rdquo; Then
      added, &ldquo;Mr. Gwynne has a mother living with him, I believe. What sort of
      person is she?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;but
      her's never shook hands wi' her yet. Eh, measter, won ye go?&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;a manor-house rising among
      its ancestral trees&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Have you, then, so entirely forgotten me&mdash;forgotten the days in our
      native Perthshire, when I was a bit laddie, and you, our guest, were Miss
      Alison Balfour?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There came a trembling over her features&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Welcome, Angus Rothesay! No wonder I did not know you. These thirty years&mdash;is
      it not thus much?&mdash;have changed you from a boy into a middle-aged
      man, and made of me an old woman.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;how could he
      ever have imagined her so? Her irregular features&mdash;unnoticed when the
      white and red tints of youth adorned them&mdash;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&mdash;at times even playfulness&mdash;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&mdash;no weak, narrow illiberalities of judgment. She had
      the soul of a man and the heart of a woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were gardening, I see?&rdquo; said Captain Rothesay, making the first
      ordinary remark that came to his mind to break the awkward pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;service-night,
      and he will be engaged in his duties soon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray, let us enter the house; I should much like to see your son,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Angus Rothesay! how strange this seems!&mdash;like a dream&mdash;a dream
      of thirty years. Well, let us go in.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Ah! you wear still the ring I used to play with when a boy. I thought&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
      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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Harold,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gwynne, &ldquo;give welcome to an old&mdash;a very old
      friend of mine&mdash;Captain Angus Rothesay. Angus, this is my son&mdash;my
      only son, Harold.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;a Galileo or a Priestley, with the heavy,
      strongly-marked brows. The eyes&mdash;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&mdash;not reverent or
      dreamy&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;You are more fortunate than I,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;my marriage has only bestowed
      on me a daughter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Daughters are a great comfort sometimes,&rdquo; answered Mrs. Gwynne; &ldquo;though,
      for my part, I never wished for one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The quick, reproachful glance of Harold sought his mother's face; and
      shortly afterwards he re-entered his study.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My son thinks I meant to include a daughter-in-law,&rdquo; was Mrs. Gwynne's
      remark, while the concealed playfulness about her mouth appeared. &ldquo;He is
      soon to bring me one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know it&mdash;and know her too; by this means I found you out. I should
      scarcely have imagined Sara Derwent the girl for you to choose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<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,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;church-going bell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will stay at home with Captain Rothesay,&rdquo; observed Mrs. Gwynne. Her
      guest made a courteous disclaimer, which ended in something about
      &ldquo;religious duties.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hospitality is a duty too&mdash;at least we thought so in the north,&rdquo; she
      answered. &ldquo;And old friendship is ever somewhat of a religion with me.
      Therefore I will stay, Harold.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are right, mother,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;She is
      an old woman now&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet you have not forgotten her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do I ever forget?&rdquo; 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&mdash;but
      merely the two events, not long distant each from each, of their marriage
      and his death.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your son is not like yourself&mdash;does he resemble Mr. Gwynne?&rdquo;
       observed Rothesay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In person, yes, a little; in mind&mdash;no! a thousand times no!&rdquo; Then,
      recollecting herself, she added, &ldquo;It was not likely. Mr. Gwynne has been
      dead so many years that my son&rdquo;&mdash;it was always <i>my</i> son&mdash;&ldquo;has
      no remembrance of his father.&rdquo;
     </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. &ldquo;I fancy,&rdquo;
       said he, &ldquo;that I once met Mr. Gwynne; he was&rdquo;&mdash;-
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My husband.&rdquo; Mrs. Gwynne's tone suppressed all further remark&mdash;even
      all recollection of the contemptible image that was intruding on her
      guest's mind&mdash;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&mdash;to her only son.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Is it so? Strange! And yet I do but talk to you as I often did when we
      were young together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He begged her to continue&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A noble desire.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;I had not married for money&rdquo;&mdash;and there was a faint show
      of pride in her lip&mdash;&ldquo;yet, Harold must go, as he desired, to an
      English university. I said in my heart, 'He shall!' and he did.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;&ldquo;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&mdash;I lived&mdash;it matters
      little how&mdash;I cared not! Our fortune lasted, as I had calculated it
      would, till he had taken his degree, and left college rich in honours&mdash;and
      then&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </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>
      &ldquo;I said you were a noble woman, Alison Balfour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was a mother, and I had a noble son.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They sat a long time silent, looking at the fire, and listening to the
      wind. There was a momentary interruption&mdash;a message from the young
      clergyman, to say that he was summoned some distance to visit a sick
      person.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On such a stormy night as this!&rdquo; said Angus Rothesay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Harold never fails in his duties,&rdquo; replied the mother, with a smile. Then
      turning abruptly to her guest&mdash;&ldquo;You will let me talk, old friend, and
      about him. I cannot often talk <i>to</i> him, for he is so reserved&mdash;that
      is, so occupied with his clerical studies. But there never was a better
      son than my Harold.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sure of it,&rdquo; said Captain Rothesay.
    </p>
    <p>
      The mother continued&mdash;&ldquo;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&mdash;'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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then he had already decided on entering the Church?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He had chosen that career in his youth. Towards it his whole education
      had tended. But,&rdquo; she added, with a troubled look, &ldquo;my old friend, I may
      tell you one doubt, which I never yet breathed to living soul&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gwynne paused, and then went on, as though speaking more to herself
      than to her listener.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And he has never repented?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;my son and I.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is clear, otherwise I had never seen Alison Balfour quitting the
      kirk for the church.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Angus Rothesay,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gwynne, with dignity, &ldquo;I have learned,
      throughout a long life, the lesson that trifling outward differences
      matter little&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where, indeed, mother?&rdquo; echoed a voice, as Harold, opening the door,
      caught her last words. &ldquo;But come, no more o' that, an thou lovest me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Harold!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;marked &ldquo;Religious Society's Tracts;&rdquo; 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&mdash;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 &ldquo;head of the household.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She often called him <i>my son</i> with a beautiful simplicity, that
      reminded one of the holy Hebrew mothers&mdash;of Rebekah or of Hannah.
    </p>
    <p>
      Harold looked for a moment disconcerted&mdash;not angry. &ldquo;Do not mind me,
      mother; I shall go back to study in good time. Let me do as I judge best.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly,&rdquo; was all the mother's reply. She reproved&mdash;she never
      &ldquo;scolded.&rdquo; Turning the conversation, she directed hers to Captain
      Rothesay, while Harold ate his breakfast in silence&mdash;a habit not
      unusual with him. Immediately afterwards he rose, and prepared to depart
      for the day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I need not apologise to Captain Rothesay,&rdquo; he said in his own
      straightforward manner, which was only saved from the imputation of
      bluntness by a certain manly dignity&mdash;and contrasted strongly with
      the reserved and courtly grace of his guest. &ldquo;My pursuits can scarcely
      interest you, while I know, and <i>you</i> know, what pleasure my mother
      takes in your society.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will not stay away all this day too, Harold. Surely that is a little
      too much to be required, even by Miss Derwent,&rdquo; spoke the quick impulse of
      the mother's unconscious jealousy. But she repressed it at once&mdash;even
      before the sudden flush of anger awakened by her words had faded from
      Harold's brow. &ldquo;Go, my son&mdash;your mother never interferes either with
      your duties or your pleasures.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Harold took her hand&mdash;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&mdash;certainly a sigh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are thinking of your son and his marriage,&rdquo; said Angus.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is not strange. It is a life-crisis with all men&mdash;and it has
      come so suddenly&mdash;I scarcely know my Harold of two months since in my
      Harold now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To work such results, it must be an ardent love.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say, rather, a vehement passion&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;I trust so!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But does the girl love him?&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; spoke the quick-rising
      maternal pride. But she almost smiled at it herself, and added&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will And you must take a journey to my home, and learn to know my wife
      and Olive,&rdquo; 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&mdash;always so important in remote
      country districts&mdash;the every-other-day's post.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For you&mdash;not me. I have few correspondents. So I will go to my
      duties, while you attend to yours,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gwynne, and departed.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she came in again, Captain Rothesay was pacing the room uneasily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No ill news, I hope?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, my kind friend&mdash;not exactly ill news, though vexatious enough.
      But why should I trouble you with them!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is&mdash;it is!&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;a few paltry hundreds,&rdquo; to be
      forthcoming on the morrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it had been a fortnight&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not quite,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;a thorough woman of business,&rdquo; she questioned Captain Rothesay, until
      she drew from him a possible way of obviating his difficulty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay&mdash;why say that you have friends only in London?&rdquo; replied Alison,
      with a gentle smile. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How&mdash;how! Nay, but I will never consent,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;You <i>shall</i> consent, friend,&rdquo; answered Mrs. Gwynne, composedly. &ldquo;Why
      should you not? It is a mere form&mdash;an obligation of a week, at most.
      You will accept that for the sake of Alison Balfour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He clasped her hand with as much emotion as was in his nature to show.
    </p>
    <p>
      She continued&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no; nothing amiss. Only Mr. Fludyer would have me go to the Hall to
      see his new horses; and there I found&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sara!&rdquo; interrupted the mother. &ldquo;Well, perhaps she thought it would be a
      pleasant change from the dulness of Waterton during your absence; so never
      mind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did mind. He restlessly paced the room, angry with his mother, himself&mdash;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&mdash;not for the first time&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Now, Harold, if you are quite willing, I want to talk to you for a few
      minutes. Shall it be now or this evening?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This evening I shall ride over to Waterton.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! not one evening to spare for your mother, or&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;she
      corrected herself, &ldquo;for your beloved books?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He moved restlessly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He rarely spoke to her so freely, and, despite her pain, the mother was
      touched.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go, then, go to Sara; and the matter I wished to speak upon we will
      discuss now.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course&mdash;of course. Come, mother, tell me what to do; you
      understand business affairs much better than your son!&rdquo; 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.
      &ldquo;Besides, Harold Gwynne shall share my success,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Stay, it is but for a few days&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He <i>shall</i>&mdash;I mean, he will,&rdquo; answered the mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But not until I have secured him in some way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, Angus; we 'auld acquaintance' should not thus bargain away our
      friendship,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gwynne, with wounded pride&mdash;Highland pride.
      &ldquo;And besides, there is no time to lose. Here is the acceptance ready&mdash;so,
      Harold, sign!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;It is but a trifle&mdash;a sum not worth naming,&rdquo; he muttered to himself;
      and so, indeed, it seemed to one who had &ldquo;turned over&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;And besides, you cannot think from what you have saved me&mdash;the
      annoyance&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Angus&mdash;old companion!&rdquo; answered Mrs. Gwynne, regarding him
      earnestly, &ldquo;you must not blame me if I speak plainly. In one week I have
      seen far into your heart&mdash;farther than you think. Be advised by me;
      change this life for one more calm. Home and its blessings never come too
      late.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are right,&rdquo; said Angus. &ldquo;I sometimes think that all is not well with
      me. I am growing old, and business racks my head sadly sometimes. Feel it
      now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He carried to his brow her hand&mdash;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, &ldquo;My friend, you say truly all is not well with
      you. Let us put aside all business, and walk in the garden. Come!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;especially the one
      kindness of all, adding&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I will say no more. You shall see or hear from me in a few days at
      farthest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not until after the wedding&mdash;I can think of nothing till after the
      wedding,&rdquo; answered Mrs. Gwynne. &ldquo;Now, farewell, friend! but not for
      another thirty years, I trust!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no!&rdquo; cried Angus, warmly. He looked at her as she sat by the light of
      her own hearth&mdash;life's trials conquered&mdash;life's duties fulfilled&mdash;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&mdash;of his wife, and of his &ldquo;little
      Olive;&rdquo; and then, travelling by a rather circuitous route, his thoughts
      rested on Harold Gwynne.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To-morrow!&rdquo; He remembered not the warning, &ldquo;Boast not thyself of
      to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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 &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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. &ldquo;This
      clever man&mdash;this noble man (as people call him, and most of all his
      mother)&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is true, indeed,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;bower.&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;shallow river&rdquo; gliding by, and
      of many a bird that &ldquo;sang madrigals&rdquo; 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&mdash;long and earnestly, but by an
      innocent watcher&mdash;her &ldquo;little knight&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Well, and I will be your lover, Miss Olive,&rdquo; said he, stoutly; &ldquo;for I
      love you very much indeed. I should so like to kiss you&mdash;may I?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stooped down; moved almost to tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why are you always so sad? why do you never laugh, like Sara or the other
      young ladies we know?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;I will kill Bob, I will! Never mind him, sweet, dear, beautiful Miss
      Rothesay; I love you, and I hate him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush! Lyle, hush! that is wrong.&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;It must be
      always thus&mdash;I will try to bear it,&rdquo; and then she became composed.
      She bade her little friend adieu, telling him she was going back into the
      house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you will forgive all, you will not think of anything that would
      grieve you?&rdquo; said Lyle, hesitatingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Olive promised, with a patient smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And to prove this, will you kiss your little knight once again?&rdquo;
     </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 &ldquo;to keep house,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;once in particular she remembered&mdash;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 &ldquo;beautiful city, New Jerusalem.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She seemed to see it&mdash;its twelve gates, angel-guarded, its crystal
      river, its many-fruited tree&mdash;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&mdash;how much older
      she felt since then, and how many troubles she had passed through.
      Troubles! Poor child!&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;its flowers as well as weeds, its sunshine
      as its storm&mdash;soar into another and a higher existence!
    </p>
    <p>
      Not yet, Olive&mdash;not yet! None receive the guerdon, save those who
      have won the goal!
    </p>
    <p>
      A pause in the girl's reverie&mdash;caused by a light sound that broke the
      perfect quietness around. She listened; it was the rumbling of carriage
      wheels along the road&mdash;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 &ldquo;respectable.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;came
      near&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Mr. Wyld, I thought it was my father. I am sorry that he is not at home
      to receive you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay,&mdash;I did not come to see Captain Rothesay,&rdquo; answered the lawyer,
      betraying some confusion and hesitation beneath his usual smooth manner.
      &ldquo;The fact is, my dear young lady, I bring a letter for your mother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From papa?&rdquo; cried Olive, eagerly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not exactly; that is&mdash;. But can I see Mrs. Rothesay?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is at church. She will be at home in half-an-hour, probably. Will you
      wait?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, there is nothing wrong?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't alarm yourself, my dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive shrank from the touch of his hand, as he led her into the parlour.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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.
      &ldquo;I&mdash;I cannot understand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought the doctor wrote plainly enough, and broke the matter
      cautiously, too,&rdquo; muttered Mr. Wyld; adding aloud, &ldquo;Upon my honour, my
      dear, I assure you your father is alive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alive! Oh, my poor father!&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;I can listen now. Tell me everything!&rdquo;
     </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.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes, at once!&rdquo; She rose and walked to the door, guiding herself by
      the wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, Miss Rothesay, what are you doing? You forget we cannot go without
      your mother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My mother! O, Heaven! it will kill my mother!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;one of those of whom the world contains few&mdash;at
      once gentle and strong, meek and fearless, patient to endure, heroic to
      act.
    </p>
    <p>
      She sat down for a moment and considered. &ldquo;Fourteen miles it is to B&mdash;&mdash;.
      If we start in an hour we shall reach there by sunset.&rdquo; 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&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush!&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;O
      God, have pity on us!&rdquo; 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&mdash;&mdash;; 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&mdash;she was half-stunned still.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was past four&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;how she should
      break the news to her mother&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Not there, mamma, not there!&rdquo; she cried, as Mrs. Rothesay was about to
      enter the parlour. Olive drew her into another room, and made her sit
      down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is all this, my dear!&mdash;why do you look so strange! Is not your
      papa come home? Let us go to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will, we will! But mamma!&rdquo;&mdash;One moment she looked speechlessly in
      Mrs. Rothesay's face, and then fell on her neck, crying, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Olive!&rdquo; The shrill terror of Mrs. Rothesay's voice rung through the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush! we must be quiet, very quiet. Papa is dangerously ill at B&mdash;&mdash;,
      and we must start at once. I have arranged all. Come, mamma, dearest!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Mrs. Rothesay's senses returned, she lifted her head, with a
      bewildered air. &ldquo;Where are we going? What has happened? I can't think
      clearly of anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dearest mamma, do not try&mdash;I will think for us both. Be content; you
      are quite safe with your own daughter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My daughter&mdash;ah! I remember, I fainted, as I did long years ago,
      when they told me something about my daughter. Are you she&mdash;that
      little child whom I cast from my arms? and now I am lying in yours!&rdquo; she
      cried, her mind seeming to wander, as if distraught by this sudden shock.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, mamma! don't talk; rest quiet here.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;&ldquo;Take care of me, Olive!&mdash;I
      do not deserve it, but take care of me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will, until death!&rdquo; was Olive's inward vow.
    </p>
    <p>
      And so, travelling fast, but in solemn silence, they came to B&mdash;&mdash;.
      Alas! it was already too late! By Angus Rothesay's bed they stood&mdash;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&mdash;partly false, as afterwards appeared&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Tell me only one thing!&rdquo; cried Olive to Mr..Wyld, with whom, after the
      funeral, she was holding conference&mdash;she only&mdash;for her mother
      was incapable of acting, and this girl of sixteen was the sole ruler of
      the household now. &ldquo;Tell me only that my father died unblemished in honour&mdash;that
      there are none to share misfortune with us, and to curse the memory of the
      ruined merchant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know of none,&rdquo; answered Mr. Wyld. &ldquo;True, there are still remaining many
      private debts, but they may be easily paid.&rdquo; And he cast a meaning glance
      round the luxuriously furnished room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand. It shall be done,&rdquo; said Olive. Misery had made her very
      wise&mdash;very quick to comprehend. Without shrinking she talked over
      every matter connected with that saddest thing&mdash;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, &ldquo;There is one matter&mdash;painful,
      too&mdash;upon which I ought to speak to you. I should have done so
      before, but I did not know it myself until yesterday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Know what? Is there more trouble coming?&rdquo; answered Olive, sighing
      bitterly. &ldquo;But tell me all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<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&mdash;ah! I assure you she was a devoted nurse to him,
      was Mrs. Wyld.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thank her deeply, as she knows.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;one
      word only, in the act of writing which he died. Forgive me, my dear young
      lady for thus agitating you, but&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The paper&mdash;give me the paper!&rdquo;
     </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
      &ldquo;Harold.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know any one who bears that name, Miss Rothesay?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. Yes&mdash;one,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;What is to be done?&rdquo; cried Olive. &ldquo;Shall I tell my mother?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I might advise, I would say decisively, No! Better leave the matter in
      my hands. Harold!&mdash;'tis a boy's name,&rdquo; he added, meditatively. &ldquo;If it
      were a girl's now&mdash;I executed a little commission for Captain
      Rothesay once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did you say?&rdquo; asked Olive, looking up at him with her innocent eyes.
      He could not meet them; his own fell confused.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did I say, Miss Rothesay? Oh, nothing&mdash;nothing at all; only
      that if I had a commission&mdash;to&mdash;to hunt out this secret.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you will&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Miss Rothesay, I merely wished to say, if ever you find out&mdash;any
      secret&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </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 &ldquo;one flesh.&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;able to will and to act? Could not
      many of them say, &ldquo;I am a mother unto my mother. I, the strongest now,
      take her in her feeble age, like a child, to my bosom&mdash;shield her,
      cherish her, and am to her all in all.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;poor enough to make them
      desire to leave prying, gossiping Oldchurch, and settle in the solitude of
      some great town. &ldquo;There,&rdquo; Olive said to herself, &ldquo;I shall surely find
      means to work for her&mdash;that she may have not merely necessaries, but
      comforts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And many a night&mdash;during the few weeks that elapsed before their home
      was broken up&mdash;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, &ldquo;Dearest mother, should we not be very happy living
      together in London?&rdquo; And scarcely had Mrs. Rothesay assented, than she
      found everything arranged itself, as under an invisible fairy hand&mdash;so
      that she had but to ask, &ldquo;My child, when shall we go?&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;the examining of her father's private
      papers. As she sat in his study&mdash;in solitude and gloom&mdash;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,&mdash;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, &ldquo;My dearest, dearest Angus;&rdquo; 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&mdash;a little curl,
      wrapped in silver-paper, and marked with his own hand, &ldquo;Olive's hair.&rdquo; Her
      father had loved her then&mdash;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 &ldquo;Harold.&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;For my daughter, Olive. Not to be opened till her mother is dead, and she
      is alone in the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alone in the world! His fatherly tenderness had looked forward, then, even
      to that bitter time&mdash;far off, she prayed God!&mdash;when she would be
      alone&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;now her own&mdash;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 &ldquo;honour&rdquo; and
      &ldquo;obedience,&rdquo; because including both&mdash;how happy are ye! How blessed
      she, who, looking on her daughter&mdash;woman grown&mdash;can say, &ldquo;Child,
      thou art bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh, as when I brought thee
      into the world!&rdquo; And thrice blessed is she who can answer, &ldquo;Mother, I am
      all thine own&mdash;I desire no love but thine&mdash;I bring to thee my
      every joy; and my every grief finds rest on thy bosom.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;especially larks&mdash;though
      these latter &ldquo;blithe spirits&rdquo; 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&mdash;authors,
      actors, artists, who in this place &ldquo;most do congregate,&rdquo; 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&mdash;Olive especially&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;It is of no use, Olive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is of no use, mamma?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot see to thread my needle. I really must be growing old.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense, darling.&rdquo;&mdash;Olive often said &ldquo;darling&rdquo; quite in a
      protecting way&mdash;&ldquo;Why, you are not forty yet. Don't talk about growing
      old, my own beautiful mamma&mdash;for you are beautiful; I heard Mr.
      Vanbrugh saying so to his sister the other day; and of course he, an
      artist, must know,&rdquo; 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&mdash;for
      her life <i>was</i> declining&mdash;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. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She seems to make quite a pet of you, my child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And her brother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes. I wonder if anybody else ever loved him, or if he ever loved
      anybody,&rdquo; said Olive, musingly. &ldquo;But, mamma, if he is not handsome himself
      he admires beauty in others. What do you think?&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Rothesay shook her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay&mdash;here he comes to ask you himself,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;Mr. Van-brugh. Olive had,
      indeed, reason to call him &ldquo;not handsome,&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Providence has created me hideous: I will outdo Providence; I
      with my hand will continually create beauty.&rdquo; And so he did&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Madam, I want a Grecian head. Yours just suits me; will you oblige me by
      sitting?&rdquo; And then adding, as a soothing and flattering encouragement: &ldquo;It
      is for my great work&mdash;my 'Alcestis!'&mdash;one of a series of six
      pictures, which I hope to finish one day.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Excellent! madam. Your features are the very thing&mdash;they are
      perfect.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, Mr. Vanbrugh, you are very flattering,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Ay, that will just do;&rdquo; and he drew in the air
      some magic lines over Mrs. Rothesay's head. &ldquo;Good brow&mdash;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&mdash;the white
      drapery over the hair&mdash;ah, divine! My 'Alcestis' to the life! Madam&mdash;Mrs.
      Rothesay, your head is glorious; it shall go down to posterity in my
      picture.&rdquo;
     </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. &ldquo;<i>My</i> work, <i>my</i> picture,&rdquo; in
      which he so gloried, was utterly different from, &ldquo;I, the man who executed
      it&rdquo; He worshipped&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;When shall I sit?&rdquo; timidly inquired Mrs. Rothesay, still too much of a
      woman not to be pleased by a painter's praise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo; As,
      indeed, she was not, having before stood some three hours in the painful
      attitude of a &ldquo;Cassandra raving,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Truly, Miss Rothesay, you seem to know all about it,&rdquo; 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
      &ldquo;Alcestis.&rdquo; &ldquo;You might have been an artist's daughter or sister.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish I had been.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My daughter is somewhat of an artist herself, Mr. Vanbrugh,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;Alcestis.&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Renounce the body, in exchange for the soul.&rdquo;
     </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. &ldquo;Alcestis&rdquo; 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">
     &ldquo;Madam&mdash;From respect to your recent affliction I have kept
     silence for some months&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash; But no; I will not apply harsh words towards one
     who is now no more.

     &ldquo;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.

     &ldquo;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&mdash;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?

     &ldquo;Awaiting your answer, I remain, madam, your very obedient,

     &ldquo;Harold Gwynne.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Harold Gwynne!&rdquo; Olive, repeating the name to herself, let the letter fall
      on the ground. Well was it that she stood hidden from sight by the &ldquo;great
      picture,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;Harold&rdquo;&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Well, dear, the letter!&rdquo; said Mrs. Rothesay, as they passed from the
      studio to their own apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It brings news that will grieve you. But never mind, mamma, darling: we
      will bear all our troubles together.&rdquo; And as briefly and as tenderly as
      she could she explained the letter&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Now, dear mamma,&rdquo; she whispered, when Mrs. Rothesay was a little
      composed, &ldquo;we must answer the letter at once. What shall we say!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing! That cruel man deserves no reply at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mamma!&rdquo; cried Olive, somewhat reproachfully. &ldquo;Whatever he may be, we are
      evidently his debtors. Even Mr. Wyld admits this, you see. We must not
      forget justice and honour&mdash;my poor fathers honour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;no! You are right, my child. Let us do anything, if it is for
      the sake of his dear memory,&rdquo; sobbed the widow, whose love death had
      sanctified, and endowed with an added tenderness. &ldquo;But, Olive, you must
      write&mdash;I cannot!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Shall I read it aloud, mamma? and then the subject will be taken from
      your mind,&rdquo; said Olive, as she came and stood by her mother's chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Rothesay assented.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, here it begins&mdash;'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).&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He does, indeed, my child&mdash;but, go on.&rdquo; And Olive read:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;'Reverend Sir&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;not his crime. Have a little patience with us,
     and your claim shall be wholly discharged.

     &ldquo;'Olive Rothesay.'&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have said nothing of Sara. I wonder if she knows this!&rdquo; said the
      mother, as Olive folded up her letter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Yet, with a look of bitter pain, Olive wrote the address of her letter&mdash;&ldquo;Harbury
      Parsonage&rdquo;&mdash;Sara's home! She lingered, too, over the name of Sara's
      husband.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Harold Gwynne!</i> Oh, mamma! how different names look! I cannot bear
      the sight of this! I hate it.&rdquo;
     </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 &ldquo;milk of human kindness&rdquo; 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&mdash;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 &ldquo;better things&rdquo;&mdash;at least
      in anticipation. She was the most hopeful little body in the world, and
      carried with her a score of consolatory proverbs, about &ldquo;long lanes&rdquo; that
      had most fortunate &ldquo;turnings,&rdquo; and &ldquo;cloudy mornings&rdquo; that were sure to
      change into &ldquo;very fine days.&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;the only one
      extant of his ugly, yet soul-lighted face&mdash;and had prefixed thereto
      his name, with the magic letters, &ldquo;P. B. A.&rdquo; 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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;It is a great thing to be an artist,&rdquo; said Olive, musingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You seem quite learned in Art, Miss Vanbrugh. I wish you would impart to
      me a little of your knowledge.''
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To be sure I will, my dear,&rdquo; said the proud, delighted little woman. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;.
    </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&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Meliora, do people ever grow <i>rich</i> as artists?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Michael has not done so,&rdquo; answered her friend (at which Olive began to
      blush for what seemed a thoughtless question). &ldquo;But Michael has peculiar
      notions. However, I feel sure he will be a rich man yet&mdash;like Sir
      Joshua Reynolds, and Sir Thomas Lawrence, and many more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive began to muse again. Then she said timidly, &ldquo;I wonder why, with all
      your love for Art, you yourself did not become an artist?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bless you, my dear, I should never think of such a thing. I have no
      genius at all for anything&mdash;Michael always said so. I an artist!&mdash;a
      poor little woman like me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet some women have been painters.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, plenty. There was Angelica Kauffman, and Properzia Rossi, and
      Elizabetta Sirani. In our day, there is Mrs. A&mdash;&mdash; and Miss B&mdash;&mdash;,
      and the two C&mdash;&mdash;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,&rdquo; said Meliora, waxing quite oracular in her
      enthusiasm, &ldquo;there is no profession in the world that brings fame, and
      riches, and happiness, like that of an artist.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;though this
      confession may somewhat lessen the romance of her character&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;she did not venture to call these humble efforts <i>Art</i>&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;My dear, what is the matter with you&mdash;no serious trouble, I hope?&rdquo;
       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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was something so unobtrusive in her sympathy, that Olive felt
      inclined to open her heart to the gentle Meliora. &ldquo;I can't tell you all,&rdquo;
       said she, &ldquo;I think it would be not quite right;&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;You, my dear, you want money!&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;I do. I can't tell you why, but it is for a good&mdash;a holy purpose&mdash;Oh,
      Miss Vanbrugh, if you could but show me any way of earning money for
      myself! Think for me&mdash;you, who know so much more of the world than
      I.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &mdash;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. &ldquo;My
      dear, there is but one way to gain wealth and prosperity. If you had but a
      taste for Art!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive looked up eagerly. &ldquo;Ah, that is what I have been brooding over this
      long time; until I was ashamed of myself and my own presumption.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your presumption!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You draw! You long to be an artist!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;if Mr.
      Vanbrugh's stern dictum should be that she had no talent, and never could
      become an artist at all!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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;&mdash;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&mdash;rude studies, in
      charcoal, of natural objects&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Let us go to Michael, let us go to Michael,&rdquo; was all the happy little
      woman said. So they went.
    </p>
    <p>
      Unluckily, Michael was not himself; he had been &ldquo;pestered with a
      popinjay,&rdquo; in the &ldquo;shape of a would-be connoisseur, and he was trying to
      smooth his ruffled feathers, and compose himself again to solitude and
      &ldquo;Alcestis.&rdquo; His &ldquo;well, what d'ye want?&rdquo; was a sort of suppressed bellow,
      softening down a little at sight of Olive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brother,&rdquo; cried Miss Meliora, trying to gather up her crumbling
      enthusiasm into one courageous point&mdash;&ldquo;Michael, I have found out a
      new genius! Look here, and say if Olive Rothesay will not make an artist!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pshaw&mdash;a woman make an artist! Ridiculous!&rdquo; was the answer. &ldquo;Ha!
      don't come near my picture. The paint's wet Get away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he stood, flourishing his mahl-stick and palette&mdash;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&mdash;&ldquo;Let them
      alone!&rdquo; and then politely desired Meliora to quit the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, brother&mdash;perhaps it will be better for you to look at the
      sketches another time. Come, my dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; muttered the old painter, in a slight tone of
      concession, which encouraged Meliora to another gentle attack.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, brother, since your day is spoiled, don't you think if you were to
      look&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll look at nothing; get away with you, and leave Miss Rothesay here&mdash;the
      only one of you womenkind who is fit to enter an artist's studio.&rdquo;
     </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. &ldquo;Alcestis,&rdquo; 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&mdash;patient model!&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;but
      the look of passive misery, the depressed eyelids and mouth. Ah, beautiful&mdash;beautiful!
      Do, pray, let me have that expression again, just for three minutes!&rdquo;
       cried the eager painter.
    </p>
    <p>
      He accomplished his end; for Olive's features, from long habit, had had
      good practice in that line;&mdash;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 &ldquo;a bit&rdquo; 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&mdash;accidentally as it seemed&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Miss Rothesay, what put it into your head that you wanted to be an
      artist?&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo;&mdash;and, to Olive's astonishment, he snatched up one
      of her drawings, and began lecturing thereupon&mdash;&ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the painter settled himself into a long, silent examination of the
      sketch. Then he said&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, this is tolerable; a woman standing on a rock, a man a little
      distance below looking at her&mdash;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!&rdquo; And, in his
      deep, sonorous voice, he repeated the stanzas from the &ldquo;Revolt of Islam.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;There!&rdquo; cried Vanbrugh, his countenance glowing with a fierce inspiration
      that made it grand through all its ugliness&mdash;&ldquo;there! what woman could
      paint <i>that</i>?&mdash;or rather, what man! Alas! how feeble we are&mdash;we,
      the boldest followers of an Art which is divine.&mdash;Truly there was but
      one among us who was himself above humanity, Michael the angel!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;as she often did when brought into contact with
      this man's enthusiasm&mdash;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&mdash;the spirit of Genius.
    </p>
    <p>
      Vanbrugh came back, and continued his painting, talking all the while.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I said that it was impossible for a woman to become an artist&mdash;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&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Vanbrugh lifted off his velvet cap and reverently bared his head; then he
      continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;you are
      but a woman&mdash;a mere girl,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;his flesh and blood hand&mdash;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&mdash;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&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the old artist paused a moment, and there was something heavenly in
      the melody of his voice as he continued&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For love&mdash;frail human love&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive listened, her mind reeling before these impetuous words.&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;I, too, am one of these outcasts; give me then this inner life which
      atones for all! Friend, counsel me&mdash;master, teach me! Woman as I am,
      I will dare all things&mdash;endure all things. Let me be an artist.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;not in a week, a month, a year&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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,&mdash;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, &ldquo;Why was I born?&rdquo;
       but she said to herself, &ldquo;I will live so as to leave the world better when
      I die. Then I shall not have lived in vain.&rdquo;
     </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 &ldquo;not for an age, but for all
      time.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Nay, mother; I am quite safe everywhere. Remember, I am not like other
      girls. Who would notice <i>me</i>?&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;cheerful
      little soul&mdash;was in the seventh heaven of delight whenever she heard
      her brother acknowledge Olive's progress.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And don't you see, my dear Miss Rothesay,&rdquo; she said sometimes, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive assented, and confessed it was rather strange that out of her
      chiefest trouble should have arisen her chiefest joy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It almost seems,&rdquo; said she to her mother, laughing, &ldquo;as if that
      hard-hearted Mr. Harold Gwynne had held the threads of my destiny, and
      helped to make me an artist.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't let us talk about Mr. Gwynne; it is a disagreeable subject, my
      child,&rdquo; was Mrs. Rothesay's answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Olive did not talk about him, but she thought the more. And&mdash;though
      had he known it, the pelf-despising Mr. Vanbrugh would never have forgiven
      such a desecration of Art&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;I wish you would come with me to-day,&rdquo; she said once, &ldquo;because, to tell
      the truth, I hardly like to go alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed!&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;I am not going to see an ordinary poor person, but that Quadroon woman&mdash;Mrs.
      Manners, who is one of my brother's models sometimes&mdash;you know her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo; cried Olive, waxing enthusiastic.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor thing! Her beauty is sadly wasting now,&rdquo; said Meliora. &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;so I had rather not be
      alone, if you will come, Miss Rothesay?&rdquo;
     </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,&mdash;her ragged elbows on the sill, her
      elf-like black eyes watching the boats up and down the Thames.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know that child,&rdquo; Olive said; &ldquo;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&mdash;for I asked&mdash;its singular and
      very pretty name, <i>Christal</i>.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;<i>Ma mie</i> is asleep; don't wake her or she'll scold,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;Three Fates.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Indeed, my good woman, I only meant to offer you sympathy, or any help
      you might need in your illness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The woman refused both. &ldquo;I tell you we want for nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Ma mie</i>, I am so hungry!&rdquo; said little Christal, in a tone between
      complaint and effrontery. &ldquo;I will have something to eat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You should not speak so rudely to your mother, little girl,&rdquo; interposed
      Miss Meliora.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My mother! No, indeed; she is only <i>ma mie</i>. My mother was a rich
      lady, and my father a noble gentleman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hear her, Heaven! oh, hear her!&rdquo; groaned the woman on the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I love <i>ma mie</i> very much&mdash;that's when she's kind to me,&rdquo;
       said Christal; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay,&rdquo; was the muttered answer, as Mrs. Manners clutched the child&mdash;a
      little, thin-limbed, cunning-eyed girl, of eight or ten years old&mdash;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 &ldquo;<i>ma mie</i>.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;And is the person you call <i>ma mie</i> any relation to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The neighbours say she is my aunt, from the likeness. I don't know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And her name is Mrs. Manners&mdash;a widow, no doubt; for I remember she
      was in very respectable mourning when she first came to Woodford Cottage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor young creature!&rdquo; she continued, sitting down beside the object of
      her compassion, who was, or seemed, asleep. &ldquo;How hard to loose her husband
      so soon! and I dare say she has gone through great poverty&mdash;sold one
      thing after another to keep her alive. Why, I declare,&rdquo; added the simple
      and unworldly Meliora, who could make a story to fit anything, &ldquo;poor soul!
      she has even been forced to part with her wedding-ring.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never had one&mdash;I scorned it!&rdquo; cried the woman, leaping up with a
      violence that quite confounded the painter's sister. &ldquo;Do you come to
      insult me, you smooth-tongued English lady? Ah, you shrink away. What do
      you know about me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know anything about you, indeed,&rdquo; said Meliora, creeping to the
      door; while Olive, who could not understand the cause of half she
      witnessed, stood simply looking on in wonder&mdash;almost in admiration,&mdash;for
      there was a strange beauty, like that of a Pythoness, in the woman's
      attitude and mien.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;cherished,
      wearied of, and spurned.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;I will see you another day, Mrs. Manners, but we cannot really stay now.
      Come, my dear Miss Rothesay.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;the
      sky was like one calm blue lake, and therein floated, close to the western
      verge, &ldquo;the new moon's silver boat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She remembered how it had been one of her childish superstitions always
      &ldquo;to wish at the new moon.&rdquo; 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&mdash;within her home she saw the
      vista of a life of filial devotion blest in
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;A constant stream of love that knew no fall.&rdquo;
 </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 &ldquo;her right.&rdquo; This was
      accomplished, to the great satisfaction of Miss Vanbrugh and of the honest
      banker, who knew that the man&mdash;what sort of man he had quite
      forgotten&mdash;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 &ldquo;a noble gentleman and grand lady,&rdquo; 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&mdash;lest her little adventure of benevolence should
      come to Michael's ears&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;at least so
      her fond mother often thought&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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 &ldquo;Alcestis,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;from morn till dewy eve.&rdquo; 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&mdash;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 &ldquo;a man before
      his age,&rdquo; but that his time for appreciation would surely come. So she
      hoped on till the next April. Happy Meliora!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you do seem happy, Miss Vanbrugh,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Happy! to be sure I am! Everybody must confess that this last is the best
      picture Michael ever painted&rdquo;&mdash;(his sister had made the same
      observation every April for twenty years). &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive smiled faintly, and said she knew it would.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps,&rdquo; continued Meliora, as a new and consolatory idea struck her,
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose so; and, indeed, I will be quite patient and content.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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 &ldquo;last
      touches&rdquo; to her beloved picture; no exhibiting it in its best light, in
      all the glory of the frame. It lay neglected below&mdash;she could not
      bear to look at it. The day was clear and bright&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Courage! hope!&rdquo; 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!&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Perhaps,&rdquo; she said, her thoughts taking their colour from the general
      weariness of her spirits, &ldquo;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&mdash;all
      comes by inspiration. It may be that I have no genius; well, then, where
      is the use of my labouring to excel!&mdash;indeed, where is the use of my
      living at all?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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, &ldquo;for the best,&rdquo; 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&mdash;nay, wicked&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Good news&mdash;good news!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What? Mr. Vanbrugh has sold his picture, as you hoped to Mr.&mdash;&mdash;.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not yet!&rdquo; and the least possible shadow troubled the sister's face:
      &ldquo;but perhaps he will. And, meanwhile, what think you? Something has
      happened quite as good; at least for somebody else. Guess!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, I cannot!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has sold <i>yours!</i>&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;My brother managed all, even to the payment. The full price you will have
      when you have completed the picture. And, meanwhile, look here!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;the beneficent little fairy!&mdash;as swiftly as
      Cinderella's godmother.
    </p>
    <p>
      Olive sat mute, her eyes fixed on the &ldquo;bits of shining gold,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Take them, darling&mdash;my first earnings; and kiss me: kiss your happy
      little girl!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      How sweet was that moment&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;You will be quite rich now, my child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>We</i> will be,&rdquo; said Olive, softly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And to think that such a great connoisseur as Mr.&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;
      should choose my Olive's picture. Ah! she will be a celebrated woman some
      time: I always thought she would.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>I will!</i>&rdquo; 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&mdash;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, &ldquo;My child!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The mother sighed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But not that they should go to redeem my father's honour?&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;His name does not look quite so fearful now,&rdquo; she said, smiling, when she
      was addressing the letter. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The letter went, and an answer arrived in due form, not to Mrs., but to
      Miss Rothesay:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;Madam,&mdash;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.

     &ldquo;Allow me to express my deep respect for a child so
     honourably jealous over a father's memory, and to subscribe
     myself,

     &ldquo;Your very obedient,

     &ldquo;Harold Gwynne.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is not so stony-hearted after all, mamma,&rdquo; said Olive, smiling. &ldquo;Shall
      I put this letter with the other; we had better keep them both?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly, my dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look, the envelope is edged and sealed with black.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Most likely,&rdquo; 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&mdash;thanks to
      Olive, who, a true lover of the picturesque, hated trim gardens,&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;My child, how very merry you are, you and Miss Vanbrugh!&rdquo; said Mrs.
      Rothesay, from her corner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, mamma, and how can we help it,&mdash;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&mdash;fortunate
      likeness for me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay,&rdquo; said Miss Meliora, &ldquo;only my brother would say you were very wrong to
      sell your picture to such stupid people, who know nothing about Art.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps I was; but,&rdquo; she added whisperingly, &ldquo;you know I have not sold my
      Academy picture yet, and mamma <i>must</i> go into the country this
      autumn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mrs. Fludyer is a very nice chatty woman,&rdquo; observed the mother; &ldquo;and she
      talked of her beautiful country-seat at Farnwood Hall. I think it would do
      me good to go there, Olive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you know she asked you, dear mamma.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; but only for courtesy. She would scarcely be troubled with a guest
      so helpless as I,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;how Mr. Fludyer, when the
      picture came home, wanted to have the three elder Fludyers painted in a
      row behind &ldquo;Charity,&rdquo; that thus the allegorical picture might make a
      complete family group. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear, every one is not so clever as you,&rdquo; said the mother. &ldquo;I like
      Mrs. Fludyer very much, because, whenever she came to Woodford Cottage
      about the picture, she used to talk to me so kindly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;shire; the Hall is perhaps
      too cold and bleak.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, how I love a clear bracing air!&rdquo; said Mrs. Rothesay, with the
      restlessness peculiar to all invalids&mdash;and she had been a greater
      invalid than usual this summer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you must come down, as I said&mdash;you and Miss Rothesay&mdash;to S&mdash;shire;
      our part of the country is very beautiful. I should be most happy to see
      you at Farnwood.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;the life at Merivale Hall.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should like to go, Olive,&rdquo; she said, appealingly. &ldquo;I feel dull, and
      want a change.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You shall have a change, darling,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;a subject
      equally grateful to the painter's sister.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is something quite charming about Miss Rothesay&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Meliora explained that she believed Olive's family was Scottish, and that
      her father was a Captain Angus Rothesay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Captain Angus Rothesay! I think that was the name mentioned by my
      friend.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall I call Olive? Perhaps she knows your friend,&rdquo; observed Meliora.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no! Mrs.&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;a rare courtesy
      with him. Meliora accounted for it when, from behind a sheltering
      espalier, she heard him address one of them as &ldquo;my lord.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Certainly, certainly!&rdquo; said Meliora, a little ashamed. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What was <i>he</i> like?&rdquo; said Olive smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You would have admired him greatly. His was just the sort of head you
      painted for your 'Aristides the Just'&mdash;your favourite style of beauty&mdash;dark,
      cold, proud, with such piercing, eagle eyes; they went right through me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive laughed merrily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you hear, mamma, how she runs on? What a bewitching young hero!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo; Here there was a knock at the drawing-room door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come in,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Brother&mdash;dear Michael, you are pleased with something; you have had
      good news.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He passed Meliora by, and walked up to Miss Rothesay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My pupil, rejoice with me; I have found at length appreciation, my life's
      aim has won success&mdash;I have sold my 'Alcestis.'&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Yes, I have sold my grand picture; the dream&mdash;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&mdash;yet less mine, than the
      triumph of high Art. Do you not rejoice, my pupil!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do, indeed, my dear and noble master.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, brother, brother&mdash;you will be very rich. The price you asked
      for the 'Alcestis' was a thousand pounds,&rdquo; said Meliora.
    </p>
    <p>
      He smiled bitterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You women always think of money.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But for your sake only, dear Michael,&rdquo; 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&mdash;a richer velvet gown and
      cap, like one of the old Italian painters&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;A journey! yes, I will take a journey&mdash;one which I have longed for
      these thirty years&mdash;I will go to Rome! Once again I will lie on the
      floor of the Sistine, and look up worshipingly to Michael the angel.&rdquo; (He
      always called him so.)
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how long shall you stay, brother?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay?&mdash;Until my heart grows pulseless, and my brain dull. Why should
      I ever come back to this cold England?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No: let me grow old, die, and be buried under the shadow of the eternal
      City.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will never come back again&mdash;never,&rdquo; said Miss Vanbrugh, looking
      at Olive with a vague bewilderment. &ldquo;He will leave this pretty cottage,
      and me, and everything.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Michael, if you will take me, I should like to go too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; cried Mrs. Rothesay, &ldquo;you, my dear Miss Vanbrugh, who are so
      thoroughly English&mdash;who always said you hated moving from place to
      place, and would live and die at Woodford Cottage!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush&mdash;hush! we'll not talk about that, lest he should hear,&rdquo; 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&mdash;nothing!
      &ldquo;Michael, do you quite understand&mdash;may I go with you to Rome?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well&mdash;very well, sister,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;Alcestis.&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;that she was a woman&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here Olive looked at Meliora and smiled. &ldquo;Was his friend, then, as
      agreeable as himself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How so?&rdquo; said Olive, with growing interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He looked at Alcestis,&mdash;the 'Alcestis' I have painted,&mdash;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!'&mdash;'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&mdash;a Timon!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And do you know his name? Will he come here again?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But who is he, brother?&rdquo; inquired Meliora.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Meliora ran to the mantelpiece, and brought one to her brother. &ldquo;Is this
      it?&rdquo; He nodded. She ran for the light, and read aloud&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>The Reverend Harold Gwynne</i>.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;How strange that he should have been so near us, and we not know the
      fact! He seems quite to haunt us&mdash;to be our evil genius&mdash;our
      Daimon!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, my dear! it is wrong to talk so. Remember, too, that he is Sara's
      husband.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;the dream of loving and being loved&mdash;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>&mdash;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
      &ldquo;new generation,&rdquo; 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&mdash;the
      man she could have worshiped&mdash;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. &ldquo;It could not have been a happy marriage,
      mamma,&mdash;if Mr. Gwynne be really the man that Miss Vanbrugh and her
      brother describe.&rdquo; And all day there recurred to Olive's fancy the words,
      &ldquo;<i>A wife who loved her husband</i>.&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;a
      violent ringing of the garden-bell, which, in Mrs. Rothesay's excited
      state, seemed a warning of all sorts of horrors.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The house is on fire&mdash;the bolt has struck it Oh Olive, Olive, save
      me!&rdquo; she cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, darling! You are quite safe with me.&rdquo; And Olive rose up, folding
      her arms closely round her mother, who hid her head in her daughter's
      bosom. They stood&mdash;Mrs. Rothesay trembling and cowering&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Is this Miss Vanbrugh's house&mdash;is there any one here?&rdquo; she asked;
      her accent being slightly foreign.
    </p>
    <p>
      Olive invited her to enter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you; forgive my intrusion, but I am frightened&mdash;half drowned.
      The thunder is awful; will you take me in till Miss Vanbrugh returns?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A light was quickly procured, and Olive came to divest the stranger of her
      dripping garments.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, no! I can assist myself&mdash;I always do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And she tried to unfasten her shawl&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;You had better let me help you,&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;a young lady from abroad.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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 &ldquo;frayed with a sprite&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;I am quite well, thank you, madam. A friend of Mrs. Rothesay's I
      suppose?&rdquo; was poor Meliora's bewildered reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, indeed; I have not till now had the pleasure of hearing Mrs.
      Rothesay's name. My visit was to yourself,&rdquo; said the stranger, evidently
      enjoying the <i>incognito</i> she had kept, for her black eyes sparkled
      with fun.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am happy to see you, madam,&rdquo; again stammered the troubled Meliora.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought you would be&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </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, &ldquo;Dear me! I
      am so frightened&mdash;that is, so startled. Oh, Miss Rothesay, what shall
      I do?&rdquo; 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&mdash;her smile passed into a frown.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you are not glad to see me&mdash;you, the sole friend I have in the
      world, whom I have travelled a thousand miles to meet&mdash;travelled
      alone and unprotected&mdash;you are not glad to see me? I will turn and go
      back again&mdash;I will leave the house&mdash;I will&mdash;I&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Her rapid speech ended in a burst of tears. Poor Meliora felt like a
      guilty thing. &ldquo;Miss Manners&mdash;Christal&mdash;my poor child! I didn't
      mean that! Don't cry&mdash;don't cry! I am very glad to see you&mdash;so
      are we all&mdash;are we not, Olive?&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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,&mdash;said, in her proud way,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was not to ask a maintenance&mdash;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,&rdquo; she added, laughing,
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Another time, another time, my dear,&rdquo; said the painter's sister, growing
      very much confused.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! I thank you all the same, and you shall not find me ungrateful,&rdquo;
       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&mdash;the softest-hearted little woman in the world. She
      embraced her <i>protégée</i>, declaring that she would never part with
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But,&rdquo; she added, with a sudden thought, a thought of intense alarm, &ldquo;what
      will Michael say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not think of that to-night,&rdquo; interposed Olive. &ldquo;Miss Manners is tired;
      let us get her to bed quickly, and we will see what morning brings.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;I don't quite like her, Olive&mdash;I don't like the tone of her voice;
      and yet there was something that struck me in the touch of her hand&mdash;which
      is so different in different people.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hers is a very pretty hand, mamma. It is quite classic in shape&mdash;like
      poor papa's&mdash;which I remember so well!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo;
       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&mdash;nay, even tenderness, for Christal Manners.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she had assisted her mother to bed&mdash;as she always did&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Are you quite comfortable?&mdash;do you want anything?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who's there? Oh! come in, Miss Rothesay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive entered, and found, to her surprise, that the candle was
      extinguished.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought I heard you moving about, Miss Manners.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;give me
      your hand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are not afraid, my dear child?&rdquo; said Olive, remembering that she was,
      indeed, little more than a child, though she looked so womanly. &ldquo;You are
      not frightening yourself in this gloomy old house, nor thinking of ghosts
      and goblins?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;no! I was thinking, if I must tell the truth,&rdquo; said the girl,
      with something very like a suppressed sob&mdash;&ldquo;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,&mdash;my
      sin be upon your head!'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She said these words with vehement passion. But Olive answered calmy,
      &ldquo;Hush, Christal!&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </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, &ldquo;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!&rdquo; 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&mdash;certainly not as
      Miss Vanbrugh's <i>protégée</i>&mdash;for she assumed toward the little
      old maid a most benignant air of superiority. Mr. Vanbrugh she privately
      christened &ldquo;the old Ogre,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Her parents are dead, of that she is persuaded,&rdquo; Olive urged. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It shall be so,&rdquo; said the good Meliora. And since Christal asked no
      further questions&mdash;and, indeed, her lively nature seemed unable to
      receive any impressions save of the present&mdash;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&mdash;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;&mdash;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&mdash;then&mdash;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, &ldquo;I will not go to Rome.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was of a strange disposition, as they had already found out. With all
      her volatile gaiety, when she chose to say, &ldquo;I will!&rdquo; she was as firm as a
      rock. No persuasions&mdash;no commands&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Let me help you, dear Miss Vanbrugh. Why should you tire yourself thus,
      after all the fatigues of the day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Meliora looked up.&mdash;&ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her voice faltered, and at last her tears began to fall&mdash;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&mdash;not
      exactly old, for she was much younger than Michael, and he had half a
      lifetime of fame before him&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps; if you will come back from Rome, and visit me here?&rdquo; said Olive,
      smiling; for she was glad to encourage any cheerful hope.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, I shall never leave Michael&mdash;I shall never leave Michael!&rdquo;
       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>
      &ldquo;There, that will do. Now bring me the great treasure of all&mdash;the
      bust of Michael the Angel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She climbed on a chair, and lifted it down, carefully and reverentially,
      so as greatly to please the artist.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, my pupil; you are very useful; I cannot tell what I should do
      without you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will have to do without me very soon,&rdquo; was Olive's gentle and
      somewhat sorrowful answer. &ldquo;This is my last evening in this dear old
      studio&mdash;my last talk with you, my good and kind master.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked surprised and annoyed. &ldquo;Nonsense, child! If I am going to Rome,
      you are going too. I thought Meliora would arrange all that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive shook her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Mr. Vanbrugh; indeed, it is impossible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, not go with me to Rome!&mdash;you my pupil, unto whom I meant to
      unfold all the glorious secrets of my art! Olive Rothesay, are you
      dreaming?&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;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?&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;almost with tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear, my noble master, to whom I owe so much, what can I say to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That you will go with me&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive answered nothing but, &ldquo;My mother, my mother&mdash;she would not quit
      England; I could not part from her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fool!&rdquo; said Vanbrugh, roughly; &ldquo;does a child never leave a mother? It is
      a thing that happens every day; girls do it always when they marry.&rdquo; He
      stopped suddenly, and pondered; then he said, hastily, &ldquo;Child, go away;
      you have made me angry. I would be alone&mdash;I will call you when I want
      you.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;a true follower of our divine Art, who to that one
      great aim would bend all life's purposes, as I have done.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He paused a moment, and seeing that no answer came, continued,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;my wife.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Utterly astounded, Olive heard. &ldquo;Your wife&mdash;I&mdash;your wife!&rdquo; was
      all she murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. I ask you&mdash;not for my own sake, but for that of our noble Art.
      I am a man long past my youth&mdash;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&mdash;is this nothing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot answer&mdash;I am bewildered.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He walked up to her, and took her hand, gravely, though not without
      gentleness; but she shrank away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot, I cannot; it is impossible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked at her one moment, neither in angry reproach, nor in wounded
      tenderness, but with a stern, cold pride. &ldquo;I have been mistaken&mdash;pardon
      me.&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Mr. Vanbrugh, my dear master and friend, look at me, and listen to what I
      have to say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He moved his head assentingly, without turning round.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have lived,&rdquo; Olive continued, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you are in the same mind still?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you will, as you will. I thought you a kindred genius&mdash;I find you
      a mere <i>woman</i>. Jest on at the old fool with his grey hairs&mdash;go
      and wed some young, gay&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look at me?&rdquo; said Olive, with a mournful meaning in her tone; &ldquo;am I
      likely to marry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have spoken ill,&rdquo; said Vanbrugh, in a touched and humbled voice.
      &ldquo;Nature has been hard to us both; we ought to deal gently with one
      another. Forgive me, Olive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He offered her his hand; she took it, and pressed it to her heart. &ldquo;Oh
      that I could be still your pupil&mdash;your daughter! My dear, dear
      master! I will never forget you while I live.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be it so!&rdquo; He moved away, and sat down, leaning his head upon his hand.
      Who knows what thoughts might have passed through his mind&mdash;regretful,
      almost remorseful thoughts of that bliss which he had lost or scorned&mdash;life's
      crowning sweetness, woman's love.
    </p>
    <p>
      Olive went up to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must go now. You will bid me good-bye&mdash;will you not, gently,
      kindly? You will not think the worse of me for what has passed this
      night?&rdquo; 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&mdash;the great artist only. In his eye was no softness,
      but the pride of genius&mdash;genius, the mighty, the daring, the
      eternally alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Well, darling, how do you feel in our new home?&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That will be very pleasant, my child,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I must tell mamma of this,&rdquo; or &ldquo;I must
      bring mamma here, and paint the view for her.&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;I wonder,&rdquo; said Olive, &ldquo;what part of S&mdash;&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind the neighbourhood, dear, since we are settled, you say, in
      such a pretty house. Tell me, is it like Woodford Cottage?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo; observed the sharply-observant
      Christal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I, too, feel it like coming home,&rdquo; said Mrs. Rothesay, in a soft weary
      voice. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As long as ever you like, darling. And now shall I show you the house?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Showing&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. But I am weary, love. I wish I were in bed, and at rest.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;it
      might be far distant, but still, in all human probability, it must come&mdash;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&mdash;so the little house was
      called&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo;
       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&mdash;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, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The thought brought back many of her conversations with Michael,&mdash;and
      his belief that the life of the heart and that of the brain&mdash;one so
      warm and rich&mdash;the other so solitary and cold&mdash;can rarely exist
      together. Towards the latter her whole destiny seemed now turning.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Do not let me disturb you, my dear,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Are you fond of coming here, my child?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And why had you rather come and sit here than play?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But your mamma&mdash;you could surely tell mamma; I always tell
      everything to mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you? and have you got a mamma? Then, perhaps you could help me in
      finding out all about mine. You must know,&rdquo; added the child, lifting up
      her eager face with an air of mystery, &ldquo;when I was very little, I lived
      away from here&mdash;I never saw my mamma, and my nurse always told me
      that she had 'gone away.' A little while since, when I came home&mdash;my
      home is there,&rdquo; and she pointed to what seemed the vicarage-house,
      glimmering whitely through the trees&mdash;&ldquo;they told me mamma was here,
      under this stone, but they would tell me nothing more. Now, what does it
      all mean?&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;My child, if your mamma be here, it is her body only.&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;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&mdash;her
      spirit, is flying far away in beautiful dreams. She never feels at all
      that she is lying in her grave under the ground.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But how long will her body lie there? and will it ever wake?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it will surely wake, though how soon we know not, and be taken up to
      heaven and to God.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The child looked earnestly in Olive's face. &ldquo;What is heaven, and what is
      God?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Rothesay's amazement was not unmingled with horror. Her own religious
      faith had dawned so imperceptibly&mdash;at once an instinct and a lesson&mdash;that
      there seemed something awful in this question of an utterly untaught mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My poor child,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;do you not know who is God?&mdash;has no one
      told you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon me, madam,&rdquo; said a man's voice behind, calm, cold, but not
      unmusical; &ldquo;but it seems to me that a father is the best teacher of his
      child's faith.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Papa&mdash;it is papa.&rdquo; 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&mdash;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, &ldquo;I rule&mdash;I am master here!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What words?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;About sleep, and dreams, and immortality. Your way of putting the case
      was graceful&mdash;poetical Whether a child would apprehend it or not, is
      another question.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;to
      say nothing of a clergyman&rdquo;&mdash;(Olive looked at him in some surprise,
      and found that her interlocutor bore, in dress at least, a clerical
      appearance)&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But not beyond the reverent faith of a Christian,&rdquo; Olive ventured to say.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked at her with his piercing eyes, and said eagerly, &ldquo;You think so,
      you feel so?&rdquo; then recovering his old manner, &ldquo;Certainly&mdash;of course&mdash;that
      is the great beauty of a woman's religion. She pauses not to reason,&mdash;she
      is always ready to believe; therefore you women are a great deal happier
      than the philosophers.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;could
      he 'by searching find out God '&mdash;still he could not believe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Do you</i> believe in God?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I love Him!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;I ought to apologise for
      speaking so freely of these things to a stranger and a clergyman&mdash;in
      this place too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can there be a fitter place, or one that so sanctifies, and at the same
      time justifies this conversation?&rdquo; was the answer, as the speaker glanced
      round the quiet domain of the dead. Then Olive remembered where they stood&mdash;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,&mdash;the
      first that had yet lightened his face, and which now cast on it an
      inexpressible sweetness&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me thank you for talking so kindly to my little daughter. I trust I
      have sufficiently explained why I interrupted your lessons.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Still, it seems strange,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;She has not lived much with me,&rdquo; he answered; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Please, papa, grandmamma wants to see you before she goes out. She is
      going to John Dent's, and to Farnwood, and&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, little chatterbox! this lady cannot be interested in our family
      revelations. Bid her 'good-afternoon' and come!&rdquo;
     </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">
                  &ldquo;SARA,
     Wife of the Reverend Harold Gwynne,
             Died&mdash;, Aged 21.&rdquo;
 </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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;No; I was born for what I am,&rdquo; answered the girl, proudly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;a parting bequest of Miss Meliora's, and who had long and
      faithfully served at Woodford Cottage&mdash;came anxiously to communicate
      that there were two ladies waiting. One of them she did not know; the
      other was Mrs. Fludyer. &ldquo;The latter would have disturbed Mrs. Rothesay,&rdquo;
       Hannah added, &ldquo;but the other lady said, 'No; they would wait.'&rdquo; Whereat
      Olive's heart inclined towards &ldquo;the other lady.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;No, I thank you,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Miss Rothesay, will
      you, for your father's sake, let me shake hands with his child? I am Mrs.
      Gwynne.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus it was that Olive received the first greeting of Harold's mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      It startled&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your son!&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;That is strange, too. Never while she lived did Mrs. Harold Gwynne
      mention your name. And you loved her so! Well! 'twas like her&mdash;like
      her!&rdquo; muttered Harold's mother; &ldquo;but peace be with the dead!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She walked up, and laid her hand on Olive's shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;we Scottish folk rarely do that. But I have
      learnt much about you lately&mdash;more than you guess&mdash;and have
      recognised in you the 'little Olive' of whom Angus Rothesay told me so
      much only a few days before his death.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you see my dear father then?&mdash;did he talk of me?&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;We will talk of this another time, my dear. Now,
      I should much desire to see Mrs. Rothesay.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;her devoted child&mdash;Mrs.
      Gwynne seemed deeply moved. There was even a sort of deprecatory
      hesitation in her manner, but it soon passed.&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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;&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;an
      essay such as Locke or Bacon might have written; save that he took care to
      translate it into language suitable to his hearers&mdash;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 &ldquo;grafted inwardly&rdquo; in his hearers' minds, it
      sounded very like a mockery&mdash;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&mdash;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 &ldquo;Hallelujah Chorus,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;the
      wondering, half-pitying eyes of Olive Rothesay. And while she gazed, there
      came into her heart&mdash;involuntarily, as if whispered by an unseen
      angel at her side&mdash;the words from the Litany&mdash;words which he
      himself had coldly read an hoar before:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<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>&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;My dear, I am glad to meet you&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive coloured with sensitive fear lest she might have given pain.
      Besides, she felt a strong attraction towards Mrs. Gwynne&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;her
      slight small figure pressed close to her companion, who had taken her
      &ldquo;under her arm,&rdquo;&mdash;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 &ldquo;Sunday play.&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Perhaps,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And does Ailie never go to church?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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 &ldquo;set in the midst.&rdquo;
       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>
      &ldquo;Harold, Miss Rothesay is here.&rdquo;
     </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,&mdash;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&mdash;a rare quality among women,
      whose conversation mostly consists of disjointed chatter, long-winded
      repetitions, or a commonplace remark, and&mdash;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 &ldquo;put them all
      down in a book;&rdquo; 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&mdash;as he did now to Olive Rothesay&mdash;the
      dignified, but rather silent master of the household&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;You are exact in keeping your word,&rdquo; observed Miss Rothesay, by way of
      saying something.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;the object of
      her girlhood's dislike, her father's enemy, her friend's husband&mdash;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;Harold
      following. &ldquo;Mamma, darling!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A light, bright as a sunburst, shone over Mrs. Rothesay's face&mdash;&ldquo;My
      child! how long you have been away. Did Mrs. Gwynne&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, darling!&rdquo;&mdash;in a whisper&mdash;&ldquo;I have been at the Parsonage,
      and Mr. Gwynne has kindly brought me home. He is here now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Harold stood at a distance and bowed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Olive came to him, saying, in a low tone, &ldquo;Take her hand, she cannot see
      you, she is blind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He started with surprise. &ldquo;I did not know&mdash;my mother told me
      nothing.&rdquo;&mdash;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&mdash;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, &ldquo;I am happy to meet
      Mr. Gwynne, and to thank him for taking care of my child.&rdquo; They talked for
      a few minutes, and then Olive persuaded her mother to return to the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will come, Mr. Gwynne?&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Permit me,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;I am quite charmed with Mr. Gwynne,&rdquo; said Mrs. Rothesay. &ldquo;Tell me, Olive,
      what he is like.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive described him, though not enthusiastically at all. Nevertheless, her
      mother answered, smiling, &ldquo;He must, indeed, be a remarkable person. He is
      such a perfect gentleman, and his voice is so kind and pleasant;&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor I,&rdquo; answered Olive, in a soft, quiet, happy voice. She hung over her
      mother with a deeper tenderness&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Well, I never in my life knew such a change as Farnwood has made in Miss
      Manners,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;There she comes, riding across the country like
      some wild thing&mdash;she who used to be so prim and precise!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor young creature, she is like a bird just let out of a cage,&rdquo; said
      Mrs. Rothesay, kindly. &ldquo;It is often so with girls brought up as she has
      been. Olive, I am glad you never went to school.&rdquo;
     </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 &ldquo;the grand lady,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;He is not come yet, you see,&rdquo; Christal said, with a mysterious nod to
      Charley Fludyer. &ldquo;I thought we should outride him&mdash;a parson never can
      manage a pony. But he will surely be here soon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Who</i> will be here soon?&rdquo; asked Olive, considerably surprised. &ldquo;Are
      you speaking of Mr. Gwynne?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo; The boy nodded assent &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a hurried knock at the door, and immediately the little parlour
      was graced by the presence of an individual,&mdash;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 &ldquo;celestial rosy red,&rdquo; apparently from a habit he had, in
      common with other bashful youths, of blushing on all occasions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see you do not remember me, Miss Rothesay. Of course I could not expect
      it. But I have not forgotten you.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;her
      little knight of the garden at Oldchurch. In the impulse of the moment she
      called him again by his old name&mdash;&ldquo;Lyle! Lyle Derwent!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it is indeed I!&rdquo; cried the young man. &ldquo;Oh, Miss Rothesay, you can't
      tell how glad I am to meet you again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am glad, too.&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Is that little Lyle Derwent?&rdquo; cried Mrs. Rothesay, catching the name.
      &ldquo;How very strange! Come hither, my dear boy! Alas, I cannot see you. Let
      me put my hand on your head.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But she could not reach it, he was grown so tall. She seemed startled to
      think how time had flown.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is quite a man now, mamma,&rdquo; said Olive; &ldquo;you know we have not seen him
      for many years&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Lyle added, blushing deeper than before&mdash;&ldquo;The last time&mdash;I
      remember it well&mdash;was in the garden, one Sunday in spring&mdash;nine
      years ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nine years ago! Is it then nine years since my Angus died?&rdquo; 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
      &ldquo;fun&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;I should not even have gone to college,&rdquo; said Lyle, &ldquo;but for the kindness
      of my brother-in-law, Harold Gwynne.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive started. &ldquo;Oh, true&mdash;I forgot all about that. Then he has been a
      good brother to you?&rdquo; added she, with a feeling of pleasure and interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;my
      sister Sara.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed?&rdquo; 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&mdash;his lip-library of perpetually
      quoted poets&mdash;and his own numberless scribblings (of which he took
      care to inform Miss Rothesay)&mdash;Lyle Der-went would probably remain to
      his life's end a mere &ldquo;poetical gentleman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive soon divined all this, and she began to weary a little of her
      companion and his vague sentimentalities, &ldquo;in linked sweetness long drawn
      out.&rdquo; Besides, thoughts much deeper had haunted her at times, during the
      evening&mdash;thoughts of the marriage which had been &ldquo;not quite happy.&rdquo;
       This fact scarcely surprised her. The more she began to know of Mr. Gwynne&mdash;and
      she had seen a great deal of him, considering the few weeks of their
      acquaintance&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;Charles
      Geddes. Do you remember him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do&mdash;well!&rdquo; and Olive sighed&mdash;perhaps over the remembrance of
      the dream born in that fairy time&mdash;her first girlish dream of ideal
      love.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was at sea when Sara married. On his return the news almost drove him
      wild. I remember his coming in the garden&mdash;our old garden, you know&mdash;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!&rdquo; said Lyle, lifting his eyes with rather a doleful,
      sentimental air; which, alas! was all lost upon his companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Charles!&rdquo; she murmured. &ldquo;But tell me more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did he do?&rdquo; asked Olive, eagerly. Strange that her question and her
      thoughts were not of Sara, but of Harold.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do? nothing! But his words&mdash;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&mdash;or any
      woman. '&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what followed?&rdquo; cried Olive, now so strongly interested that she
      never paused to think if she had any right to ask these questions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Soon after, Sara came home to us. She did not stay long, and then
      returned to Harbury. Harold was never unkind to her&mdash;that I know.
      But, somehow, she pined away; the more so after she heard of Charles
      Geddes's sudden death.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas! he died too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; by an accident his own recklessness caused. But he was weary of his
      life, poor fellow! Well&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! did you not love your sister?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive replied warmly. &ldquo;I am sure of it, and I like you the more for
      acknowledging it.&rdquo; Then, in some confusion, she added, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't say <i>Mr. Derwent</i>. Pray call me Lyle, as you used to do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I will, with pleasure. Only,&rdquo; she continued, smiling, &ldquo;when I look
      up at you, I shall begin to feel quite an ancient dame, since I am so much
      older than you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at all,&rdquo; 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>.' &ldquo;I have advanced, and you
      seem to have stood still; there is scarcely any difference between us
      now.&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not likely I shall ever have the opportunity. Mr. Gwynne seems a
      very reserved man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is so; and of these matters he now never speaks at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush! he is here;&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;I am afraid I am an intruder, Miss Rothesay,&rdquo; said the latter, with a
      half-suspicious glance at the tall, dark figure which stood near her in
      the moonlight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! did you not know me, brother Harold? How funny!&rdquo; And he laughed:
      his laugh was something like Sara's.
    </p>
    <p>
      It seemed to ring jarringly on Mr. Gwynne's ear. &ldquo;I was not aware, Miss
      Rothesay, that you knew my brother-in-law.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Miss Rothesay and I were friends almost ten years ago. She was our
      neighbour at Oldchurch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed.&rdquo; 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&mdash;but conjectures were
      vain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am glad you are come,&rdquo; she said to Harold. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He seemed half-inclined to resist, but at last yielded. So he made one of
      the little circle, and &ldquo;assisted&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;never
      trusting woman more.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;I shall not go back with you to-night,&rdquo; said Christal. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You seem to have taken a sudden passion for riding, Christal,&rdquo; said
      Olive, with a smile, when they were alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it suits me. I like dashing along across the country&mdash;it is
      excitement; and I like, too, to have a horse obeying me&mdash;'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,&rdquo; she added, carelessly, &ldquo;I
      wanted to have a few words with you, Miss Rothesay.&rdquo; She had rarely called
      her <i>Olive</i> of late.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, my dears,&rdquo; interposed Mrs. Rothesay, &ldquo;do not begin to talk just yet&mdash;not
      until I am gone to bed; for I am very, very tired&rdquo; And so, until Olive
      came downstairs again, Christal sat in dignified solitude by the parlour
      fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Miss Rothesay, when she entered, &ldquo;what have you to say to me,
      my dear child?&rdquo;
     </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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly; you know it was by your consent, Christal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O yes, because it will save me trouble. Well, all I wanted to say was,
      that I wish to keep a horse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To keep a horse!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; said Christal in rather a high tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You cannot, indeed, my dear,&rdquo; answered Olive mildly. &ldquo;Think of all the
      expenses it would entail&mdash;expenses far beyond your income.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I myself am the best judge of that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not quite. Because, Christal, you are still very young, and have little
      knowledge of the world. Besides, to tell you the plain truth&mdash;must
      I?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly; of all things I hate deceit and concealment.&rdquo; Here Christal
      stopped, blushed a little; and half-turning aside, hid further in her
      bosom a little ornament which occasionally peeped out&mdash;a silver cross
      and beads. Then she said in a somewhat less angry tone, &ldquo;You are right;
      tell me all your mind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think, then, that though your income is sufficient to give you
      independence, it cannot provide you with luxuries. Also,&rdquo; she continued,
      speaking very gently, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That still is my own affair&mdash;no one has a right to control me.&rdquo;
       Olive was silent. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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.
      &ldquo;What am I to do?&rdquo; thought Olive, much troubled. &ldquo;How am I to wrestle with
      this girl? But I will do it&mdash;if only for Meliora's sake. Christal,&rdquo;
       she said affectionately, &ldquo;we have never talked together seriously for a
      long time; not since the first night we met.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I remember, you were good to me then,&rdquo; answered Christal, a little
      subdued.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because I was grieved for you&mdash;I pitied you.&rdquo; &ldquo;Pitied!&rdquo; and the
      angry demon again rose. Olive saw she must not touch that chord again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear,&rdquo; she said, still more kindly; &ldquo;indeed I have neither the wish
      nor the right to rule you; I only advise.&rdquo; &ldquo;And to advice I am ready to
      listen. Don't mistake me, Miss Rothesay. I liked you&mdash;I do still&mdash;very
      much indeed; but you don't quite understand or sympathise with me now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, that is it,&rdquo; said Christal, loftily. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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. &ldquo;There is a
      difference; but, to my way of thinking, it is often on the side of the
      artist.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Christal made no answer, and Olive continued, resuming her usual manner.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Do not let this conversation make any division between us, Christal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no,&rdquo; said Christal, rather coldly. &ldquo;Only,&rdquo; she added, in the
      passionate, yet mournful tone, which she had before used when at Woodford
      Cottage; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is never too late,&rdquo; cried Olive. But Christal's emotion had passed,
      and she resumed her lofty manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;You would not wish so now, Olive&mdash;nor would I,&rdquo; said Mrs. Rothesay,
      when her daughter had smilingly referred to the fact. &ldquo;The society of the
      Gwynnes has really proved a great addition to our happiness. How kind and
      warmhearted Mrs. Gwynne is&mdash;so earnest in her friendship for us,
      too!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>You</i> will go, my child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;growing old together.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, Olive, I am happy too&mdash;happy to think that my child is safe
      with me, and not carried off to Rome.&rdquo; For Olive had of course told her
      mother of that circumstance in her life, which might have changed its
      current so entirely. &ldquo;My daughter, I would not have you leave me to marry
      any man in the world!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never shall, darling!&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;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 &ldquo;a discreet and
      learned minister of God's Word.&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;in love&rdquo; 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&mdash;her
      father's land. All things connected therewith took, in her eyes, a new
      romance. She was happy, she knew not why&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;How kind you are, Miss Rothesay; and to come all through the wintry
      forest, too! It was scarcely fit for you.&rdquo;.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What makes her happy, think you?&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;She
      is happy, because she has a meek and trusting faith in God; and though she
      knows little she loves much.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can one love Him whom one does not fully know?&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Yes, when what we do know of Him commands love. Does Ailie, even Ailie,
      thoroughly know her father? And yet she loves him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I cannot judge; but most true it is, we know as little of God as
      Ailie knows of her father&mdash;ay, and look up to Heaven with as
      blindfold ignorance as Ailie looks up to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas! Ailie's is indeed blindfold ignorance!&rdquo; said Olive, not quite
      understanding his half-muttered words, but thinking they offered a good
      opportunity for fulfilling her purpose. &ldquo;Mr. Gwynne, may I speak to you
      about something which has long troubled me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;your determination with respect to little
      Ailie's religious instruction.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; A start, and a dark look. &ldquo;Well, Miss Rothesay, what have you to
      say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I think you are not quite right&mdash;nay, quite wrong,&rdquo; said Olive,
      gathering resolution. &ldquo;You are taking from your child her only strength in
      life&mdash;her only comfort in death. You keep from her the true faith;
      she will soon make to herself a false one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, what is more false than the idle traditions taught by ranting
      parents to their offspring&mdash;the Bible travestied into a nursery talc&mdash;heaven
      transformed into a pretty pleasure-house&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;But&mdash;suppose that your child should be taken away, would you have
      her die as she lives now, utterly ignorant of all holy things?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would I have her die an infant bigot&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not&mdash;oh! do not speak thus,&rdquo; cried Olive, shrinking from him, for
      she saw in his face a look she had never seen before&mdash;an expression
      answering to the bitter, daring sarcasm of his tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo; He
      said this with sharp irony. &ldquo;Nevertheless, if you inquire concerning me in
      the neighbourhood, I think you will find that my moral conduct has never
      disgraced my cloth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never!&rdquo; cried Olive warmly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Do you!</i>&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They had now reached John Dent's cottage. Olive asked if he would not
      enter with her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no; you are a far better apostle than your clergyman. Besides, I have
      business at home, and must return. Good morning, Miss Rothesay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He lifted his hat with a courtly grace, but his eyes showed that reverence
      which no courts could command&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;John, John&mdash;the lad!&mdash;hast thee found the lad?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not your son&mdash;'tis I. Why, what has happened, my good
      Margery?&rdquo; But the poor old creature fell back and wrung her hands, sobbing
      bitterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The lad!&mdash;dun ye know aught o' the lad? Poor Reuben!&mdash;he wunnot
      come back no more! Alack! alack!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;John'll go mad&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Why dunnot ye stir, ye fools! Get t' blanket&mdash;pull't off the ould
      woman. I tell 'ee the lad's alive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      No one moved, and then the frantic father began to curse and swear. He
      rushed into old Margery's room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get up wi' thee. How darest thee lie hallooing there. Come and help t'
      lad!&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Tak' heart, tak' heart, John!&rdquo; said one of the men.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He didna suffer much, I reckon,&rdquo; said another. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;John Dent, mon!&rdquo; whispered one old keeper; &ldquo;say thy prayers; thee doesna
      often do't, and thee'll want it now.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say that I am here&mdash;that I entreat him to come at once,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Miss Rothesay, you sent for me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did&mdash;I did. Oh, thank Heaven that you are come,&rdquo; eagerly cried
      Olive, clasping his two hands. He regarded her with a surprised and
      troubled look, and took them away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you wish me to do!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a minister of God is able&mdash;nay, bound to do&mdash;to speak
      comfort in this house of misery.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The poor old woman echoed the same entreaty&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Mr. Gwynne, you that be a parson, a man of God, come and help us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Harold looked round, and saw he had to face the woe that no worldly
      comfort or counsel can lighten;&mdash;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, &ldquo;What should I do here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Read to him&mdash;pray with him,&rdquo; whispered Olive. &ldquo;Speak to him of God&mdash;of
      heaven&mdash;of immortality.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God&mdash;heaven&mdash;immortality,&rdquo; echoed Harold, vacantly, but he
      never stirred.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;My duty&mdash;yes, I must do my duty,&rdquo; muttered Harold Gwynne. And with
      his hard-set face&mdash;the face he wore in the pulpit&mdash;he went up to
      the father of the dead child, and said something about &ldquo;patience,&rdquo;
       &ldquo;submission to the decrees of Providence,&rdquo; and &ldquo;all trials being sent for
      good, and by the will of God.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dun ye talk to me of God? I know nought about him, parson&mdash;ye never
      learned me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Harold's rigid mouth quivered visibly, but he made no direct answer, only
      saying, in the same formal tone, &ldquo;You go to church&mdash;at least, you
      used to go&mdash;you have heard there about 'God in his judgments
      remembering mercy.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mercy! ye mun easy say that; why did He let the poor lad die i' the snow,
      then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Harold's lips hesitated over those holy words &ldquo;The Lord gave and the
      Lord taketh away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He should ha' takken th' owd mother, then. She's none wanted; but the
      dear lad&mdash;the only one left out o' six&mdash;oh, Reuben, Reuben,
      wunna ye never speak to your poor father again?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked on the corpse fixedly for some minutes, and then a new thought
      seemed to strike him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's not my lad&mdash;my merry little lad!&mdash;I say,&rdquo; he cried,
      starting up and catching Mr. Gwynne's arm; &ldquo;I say, you parson that ought
      to know, where's my lad gone to?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Harold Gwynne's head sank upon his breast: he made no answer. Perhaps&mdash;ay,
      and looking at him, the thought smote Olive with a great fear&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Miss, folk say you're a good woman. Dun ye know aught o' these things&mdash;canna
      ye tell me if I shall meet my poor lad again?&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;not
      the Infinite Unknown, into whose mysteries the mightiest philosophers may
      pierce and find no end&mdash;but the God mercifully revealed, &ldquo;Our Father
      which is in heaven&rdquo;&mdash;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&mdash;white death&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He answered in the low tone of one struggling under great excitement. &ldquo;You
      noticed my silence, then?&mdash;that I, summoned as a clergyman to give
      religious consolation, had none to offer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, you did attempt some.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, I tried to preach faith with my lips, and could not, because there
      was none in my heart. No, nor ever will be!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive looked at him uncomprehending, but he seemed to shrink from her
      observation. &ldquo;I am indeed truly grieved,&rdquo; she began to say, but he stopped
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not speak to me yet, I pray you.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;he was a king no more.
      He walked along&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;oh! how immeasurably above!
    </p>
    <p>
      She began very carefully. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Death!&mdash;do you think that I fear Death?&rdquo; and he clenched his hand as
      though he would battle with the great Destroyer. &ldquo;No!&mdash;I have met him&mdash;stood
      and looked at him&mdash;until my eyes were blinded, and my brain reeled.
      But what am I saying? Don't heed me, Miss Rothesay; don't.&rdquo; And he began
      to walk on hurriedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are ill, I am sure; and there is something that rests on your mind,&rdquo;
       said Olive, in a quiet, soft tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&mdash;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?&rdquo; asked he with a freezing haughtiness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not that I am aware. Forgive me, Mr. Gwynne, if I have trespassed beyond
      the bounds of our friendship. For we are friends&mdash;have you not often
      said so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He seldom spoke so frankly, and never had done what he now did&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Miss Rothesay, if you are indeed my friend, listen to one request I make;&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, what have I to pardon? Oh, Mr. Gwynne, if I might be indeed your
      friend&mdash;if I could but do you any good!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do good to <i>me?</i>&rdquo; he muttered bitterly. &ldquo;Why, we are as far
      apart as earth from heaven, nay, as heaven from hell; that is if there be&mdash;&mdash;.
      Madman that I am! Miss Rothesay, do not listen to me. Why do you lead me
      on to speak thus?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, tell me what I am&mdash;that is, what you think I am.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Silence!&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Would you learn the truth? You shall! Know, then, that I believe
      in none of these things I teach&mdash;I am an infidel!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive's arm fell from him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you shrink from me, then? Good and pious woman, do you think I am
      Satan standing by your side?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, no!&rdquo; She made an effort to restrain herself; it failed, and she
      burst into tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      Harold looked at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Meek and gentle soul! It would, perhaps, have been good for me had Olive
      Rothesay been born my sister.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would I had&mdash;I would I had! But, oh! this is awful to hear. You,
      an unbeliever&mdash;you, who all these years have been a minister at the
      altar&mdash;what a fearful thing!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You say right&mdash;it is fearful. Think now what my life is, and has
      been. One long lie&mdash;a lie to man and to God. For I do believe so
      far,&rdquo; he added, solemnly; &ldquo;I believe in the one ruling Spirit of the
      universe&mdash;unknown, unapproachable. None but a madman would deny the
      existence of a God.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He ceased, and looked upwards with his piercing eyes&mdash;piercing, yet
      full of restless sorrow. Then he approached his companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall we walk on, or do you utterly renounce me?&rdquo; said he, with a
      touching, sad humility.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Renounce you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! you would not, could you know all I have endured. To me, earth has
      been a hell&mdash;not the place of flames and torments of which your
      divines prate, but the true hell&mdash;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&mdash;were accounted
      orthodox and pious men; while those who, in their earnest eager youth,
      dared&mdash;not as yet to doubt, but meekly to ask a reason for their
      faith&mdash;they were at once condemned as impious. But I pain you: shall
      I go on, or cease?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truth, still truth, I yearned for in another form&mdash;in domestic peace&mdash;in
      the love of woman.&mdash;My soul was famishing for any food; I snatched
      this&mdash;in my mouth it became ashes!&rdquo; His voice seemed choking, but
      with an effort he continued. &ldquo;After this time I gave up earth, and turned
      to interests beyond it. With straining eyes I gazed into the Infinite&mdash;and
      I was dazzled, blinded, whirled from darkness to light, and from light to
      darkness&mdash;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,&mdash;no,
      thou mighty Unknown, I do <i>not</i> fear! But then I hope nothing: I
      believe nothing. Those pleasant dreams of yours&mdash;God, Heaven,
      Immortality&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, God, have mercy!&rdquo; moaned Olive Rothesay. &ldquo;Give me strength that my
      own faith fail not, and that I may bring Thy light unto this perishing
      soul!&rdquo; And turning to Harold, she said aloud, as calmly as she could,
      &ldquo;Tell me&mdash;since you have told me thus far&mdash;how you came to take
      upon yourself the service of the Church; you who&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, well may you pause and shudder! Hear, then, how the devil&mdash;if
      there be one&mdash;can mock men's souls in the form of an angel of light.
      But it is a long history&mdash;it may drive me to utter things that you
      will shrink from.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I <i>will</i> hear it.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;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&mdash;my noble, self-denying mother&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Infidel as he was, she could have clung to Harold Gwynne, and called him
      brother.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, after a time of great inward conflict, I decided&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He paused to look at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am listening, speak on,&rdquo; said Olive Rothesay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;men without brains enough to acquire a mere
      worldly profession, such as law or physic, set to expound the mighty
      mysteries of religion&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But why did you still keep up this awful mockery?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because,&rdquo; and his voice sounded hoarse and hollow, &ldquo;just then there was
      upon me a madness which all men have in youth&mdash;love. For that I
      became a liar in the face of Heaven, of men, and of my own soul.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was a great sin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;a very honest, painstaking
      clergyman; doing good, preaching, certainly not doctrine, but blameless
      moralities, carrying a civil face to the world, and a heart&mdash;Oh God!
      whosoever and whatsoever Thou art, Thou knowest what blackest darkness
      there is <i>there!</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She made no answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a few minutes, Mr. Gwynne said, &ldquo;You must forgive me, Miss
      Rothesay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do. And so will He whom you do not know, but whom you will know yet! I
      will pray for you&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He smiled very faintly. &ldquo;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&mdash;if I could have told her&mdash;I
      had not been the wretched man I am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush; do not talk any more.&rdquo; 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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Look!&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;I would bid God bless you; but
      in such words from me, you would not believe. How could you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He said this with a mournful emphasis, to which she could not reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But,&rdquo; he continued in a tone of eager anxiety, &ldquo;remember that I have
      trusted you. My secret is in your hands. You will be silent, I know;
      silent as death, or eternity.&mdash;That is, as both are to me!&rdquo;
     </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 &ldquo;for those who have erred and are deceived,&rdquo;
       the prayer which she had once uttered&mdash;unconscious how much and by
      whom it was needed. Now she said it with a yearning cry&mdash;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&mdash;not even with the religion of feeling&mdash;but by
      means of that clear demonstration of reason which forces conviction.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the dead of night, when all was still&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;none, save that
      feeble one of hers!
    </p>
    <p>
      Feeble&mdash;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&mdash;that
      sense of not working, but being worked upon&mdash;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&mdash;&ldquo;Be not afraid.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She arose&mdash;her determination taken. &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she thought, as standing at
      the window she watched the sun rise gloriously&mdash;&ldquo;No, Lord! <i>my</i>
      Lord and <i>my</i> God!&mdash;I am not afraid.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;if sin it were&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Harold is like all men&mdash;he does not understand sickness,&rdquo; said that
      most kind and constant friend, Mrs. Gwynne. &ldquo;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&mdash;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!'&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;more beautiful as it drew
      nearer its close.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet there was no sorrow at the Dell, but great peace&mdash;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&mdash;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,
      &ldquo;Child, have you strength to bear?&rdquo; 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&mdash;and truly&mdash;that she was looking as blooming as the spring
      itself. Olive coincided in this opinion&mdash;nay, declared, smiling, that
      any one would fancy her mother was only making pretence of illness, to win
      more kindness and consideration.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;such as she had always loved, and
      which suited well her delicate, fragile beauty. Closely tied over her
      silvery hair&mdash;the only sign of age&mdash;was a little cap, whose soft
      pink gauze lay against her cheek&mdash;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, &ldquo;Can she, if she knows what I
      know&mdash;can she be resigned&mdash;nay, happy! Then, what a sublime
      faith hers must be!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Darling, kiss me! or I shall fear you are growing quite an angel&mdash;an
      angel with wings.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;since his mother and Ailie had gone
      away on a week's visit&mdash;prevailed upon him to stay. He read to them&mdash;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 &ldquo;May Queen.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;How terrible for one's child to die first. But I shall never know that
      pang. Go on, Mr. Gwynne.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He read&mdash;what words for him to read!&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Now, my child, it is growing late. Read to us yourself, out of the best
      Book of all.&rdquo; And when Olive was gone to fetch it, she added, &ldquo;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&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash; She
      stopped, for Olive just then entered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where shall I read, mamma?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where I think we have come to&mdash;reading every night as we do&mdash;the
      last few chapters of the Revelations.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive read them&mdash;the blessed words, the delight of her childhood&mdash;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, &ldquo;God
      bless you!&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;It is just such a night as that on which we came to Farnwood, is it not,
      darling?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Tired, are you? I wish I could carry you, darling: I almost think I
      could.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You carry me in your heart, evermore, Olive! You bear all my feebleness,
      troubles, and pain. God ever bless you, my daughter!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;It will be ready for her when she comes down again.&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;My child!&rdquo;
     </h3>
    <p>
      The feeble call startled Olive out of a dream, wherein she was walking
      through one of those lovely visionary landscapes&mdash;more glorious than
      any ever seen by day&mdash;with her mother and with Harold Gwynne.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, darling,&rdquo; she answered, in a sleepy, happy voice, thinking it a
      continuation of the dream.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Olive, I feel ill&mdash;very ill! I have a dull pain here, near my heart.
      I cannot breathe. It is so strange&mdash;so strange!&rdquo;
     </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, &ldquo;My child&mdash;my
      child!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;For Olive's sake&mdash;for Olive's sake!&rdquo; 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&mdash;-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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Hush, love, hush!&rdquo; was the soft reproof. &ldquo;Be content, Olive; he will come
      in time. I shall recover, if it so please God.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course&mdash;of course you will. Don't talk in that way, mamma!&rdquo;&mdash;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.
      &ldquo;God! Thou wilt not&mdash;Thou canst not&mdash;do this!&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;What he thought of her mother?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are Miss Rothesay, I believe,&rdquo; he answered, indirectly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there no one to help you in nursing your mother&mdash;are you here
      quite alone?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Witherington took her hand&mdash;kindly, too. &ldquo;My dear Miss Rothesay,
      I would not deceive; I never do. If your mother has any relatives to send
      for, any business to arrange&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah&mdash;I see, I know! Do not say any more!&rdquo; 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&mdash;rose to a superhuman calm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You would tell me, then, that there is no hope?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked on the ground, and said nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how long&mdash;how long?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It may be six hours&mdash;it may be twelve; I fear it cannot be more than
      twelve.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;It was
      best as it was,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      And Olive, knowing all, bowed her head, and answered, &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo; She thought
      not of herself&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Does <i>she</i> know? Did you tell her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did. She asked me, and I thought it right.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Is that my child!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My mother&mdash;my own mother!&rdquo; Close, and wild, and strong&mdash;wild as
      love and strong as death&mdash;was the clasp that followed. No words
      passed between them, not one, until Mrs. Rothesay said, faintly,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My child, are you content&mdash;quite content?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive answered, &ldquo;I am content!&rdquo; And in her uplifted eyes was a silent
      voice that seemed to say, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Slowly the day sank, and the night came down. Very still and solemn was
      that chamber; but there was no sorrow there&mdash;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&mdash;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. &ldquo;It will do you good. You
      must keep strong, my child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, darling.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;It is very good&mdash;all things are very good&mdash;very sweet to me
      from Olive's hand. My only daughter&mdash;my life's comfort&mdash;I bless
      God for thee!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After a while she said&mdash;passing her hand over her daughter's cheek&mdash;&ldquo;Olive,
      little Olive, I wish I could see your face&mdash;just once, once more. It
      feels almost as small and soft as when you were a little babe at
      Stirling.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And saying this, there came a cloud over Mrs. Rothesay's face; but soon it
      went away, as she continued, &ldquo;Child! listen to something I never told you&mdash;never
      could have told you, until now. Just after you were born, I dreamt a
      strange dream&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She wept a little, and held Olive with a closer strain as she proceeded.
      &ldquo;I was punished, for in forsaking my child I lost my husband's love&mdash;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&mdash;an angel&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      One moment, with a passionate burst of anguish, Olive cried, &ldquo;O mother,
      mother, stay! Do not go and leave me in this bitter world alone.&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;My child, you are tired. Lie down here
      beside me.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;among the rest, Mrs. Gwynne, to whom she
      left &ldquo;her love.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will. And is there no one else to whom I shall give your love, mamma?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She thought a minute, and answered, &ldquo;Yes&mdash;to Mr. Gwynne.&rdquo; And, as if
      in that dying hour there came to the mother's heart both clear-sightedness
      and prophecy, she said, earnestly, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;the change that comes but once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My child, are you still there?&rdquo;.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, darling.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is well. All is well now. Little Olive, kiss me.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Alas, Miss Rothesay, what can I say to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She shed a few tears, less for her own sorrow than because she was touched
      by his kindness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would have been here yesterday,&rdquo; continued he, &ldquo;but I was away from
      Harbury. Yet, what help, what comfort, could you have received from me?&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;God,&rdquo; she whispered, &ldquo;has helped me. He has taken from me the desire of
      my eyes, and yet I have peace&mdash;perfect peace!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Harold looked at her with astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me,&rdquo; he muttered, involuntarily, &ldquo;whence comes this peace!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From God, as I feel him in my soul&mdash;as I read of Him in the
      revelation of his Word.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Harold was silent. His aspect of hopeless misery went to Olive's heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh that I could give to you this peace&mdash;this faith!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas! if I knew what <i>reason</i> you have for yours.&rdquo;
     </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, &ldquo;Let us talk a little
      of the things which in times like this come home to us as the only
      realities.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To you, not to me! You forget the gulf between us!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay,&rdquo; Olive said, earnestly; &ldquo;you believe, as I do, in one God&mdash;the
      Creator and Ruler of this world?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Harold made solemn assent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of this world,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your argument contradicts itself,&rdquo; was the desponding answer. &ldquo;Can <i>you</i>
      speak thus&mdash;you, whose heart yet bleeds with recent suffering?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;never did
      I so strongly feel within me the presence of God's spirit, a pledge for
      the immortality of mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Immortality! Alas, that dream! And yet,&rdquo; he added, looking at her
      reverently, even with tenderness, &ldquo;I could half believe that a life like
      yours&mdash;so full of purity and goodness&mdash;can never be destined to
      perish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Harold seemed struck. &ldquo;You speak plain, reasonable words&mdash;not like
      the vain babblers of contradictory creeds. Yet you do profess a creed&mdash;you
      join in the Church's service?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because, though differing from many of its doctrines, I think its forms
      of worship are pure&mdash;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&mdash;the
      inward revelation of Himself which he has implanted in my soul&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Oh, my mother!&mdash;my mother!&rdquo; She bowed her head upon her knees, and
      for some minutes wept bitterly. Then she rose somewhat calmer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going upstairs&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash; Her voice failed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know&mdash;I know,&rdquo; said Harold.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She spoke of you: they were almost her last words. You will come with me,
      friend?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Harold was a man who never wept&mdash;never could weep&mdash;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. &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she said, as if
      to herself,&mdash;&ldquo;no, it is not my mother; my mother is not here!&rdquo;
     </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. &ldquo;See,&rdquo; she whispered, &ldquo;how very placid and
      beautiful it looks!&mdash;like her and yet unlike. I never for a moment
      feel that it is <i>my mother</i>.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;the fleeting of a breath&mdash;has
      left of <i>my mother</i> only this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She turned from the bed, and met Harold's eye&mdash;intense, athirst&mdash;as
      if his soul's life were in her words.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are calm&mdash;very calm,&rdquo; he murmured. &ldquo;You stand here, and have no
      fear of death.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you can rejoice?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; since for all I lose on earth, heaven&mdash;the place of souls,
      which we call heaven, whatever or wherever that may be&mdash;grows nearer
      to me. It will seem the more my home, now I have a mother there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Harold Gwynne fell on his knees at the bedside, crying out:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, God! that I could believe!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;nay, often seemed almost to smile.
      It was watered by no tears&mdash;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, &ldquo;Who would have thought that Miss Rothesay would have forgotten
      her mother so easily?&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;with reverence be it
      spoken!&mdash;appear to those who stood and looked upward from the hill of
      Bethany. And thus should we think upon all happy and holy deaths&mdash;if
      we fully and truly believed the faith we own.
    </p>
    <p>
      Olive did not forget her mother&mdash;she could as soon have forgotten her
      own soul. In all her actions, words, and thoughts, this most sacred memory
      abided&mdash;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, &ldquo;See, mother, I can think of you and not grieve. I
      would not that it should pain you to know I suffer still!&rdquo;
     </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, &ldquo;My mother, oh
      my mother!&rdquo; 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&mdash;at once the most simple and most divine&mdash;the Gospels
      of the New Testament.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought my son would prove himself right in all his opinions,&rdquo; observed
      Mrs. Gwynne, when the lesson was over and the child had run away. &ldquo;I knew
      he would allow Ailie to learn everything at the right time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive made no answer. Her thoughts turned to the day&mdash;now some months
      back&mdash;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,
      &ldquo;Teach the child as you will&mdash;true or false&mdash;I care not; so that
      she becomes like yourself, and is saved from those doubts which rack her
      father's soul.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;&ldquo;I don't think I can ever sufficiently thank
      you, my dear Miss Rothesay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say <i>Olive</i>, as you generally do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For her Christian name sounded so sweet and homelike from Harold's mother;
      especially now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<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!&rdquo;
     </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. &ldquo;You must not be too anxious,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;you know that there is
      nothing dangerous in Mr. Gwynne's state of health, only his brain has been
      overworked.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope so too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;my dear Harold!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive's inmost heart echoed the blessing, and in the same words. For of
      late&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;I wonder what makes your blithe Christal so late,&rdquo; observed Mrs. Gwynne,
      abruptly, as if disliking to betray further emotion. &ldquo;Lyle Derwent
      promised to bring her himself&mdash;much against his will, though,&rdquo; she
      added, smiling. &ldquo;He seems quite afraid of Miss Manners; he says she teases
      him so!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;that
      is, as much as she likes any of her friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; continued Mrs. Gwynne, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So have I, more than once,&rdquo; said Olive. &ldquo;But I thought at the time how
      idle was the rumour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was idle, my dear; but I did not quite think so then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed!&rdquo; There was a little quick gesture of surprise; and Olive, ceasing
      her work, looked inquiringly at Mrs. Gwynne.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </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.
      &ldquo;Certainly he would,&rdquo; she answered, speaking in a slow, quiet tone.
      &ldquo;Nevertheless, I should scarcely think Christal a girl whom Mr. Gwynne
      would be likely to select.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Nor, at present,&rdquo; pursued Mrs. Gwynne, &ldquo;does it appear to me likely that
      he will marry at all. I fear that domestic love&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that so mournful, then?&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;If that should be Harold! He said he would
      be at home this week or next. It is&mdash;it is he! How glad I am&mdash;that
      is, I am glad that he should be in time to see the Fludyers and Miss
      Manners before their journey to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </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 &ldquo;papa.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;If I were my brother-in-law I should take it quite as an ill compliment
      that you had never asked him to sit,&rdquo; observed Lyle. &ldquo;But,&rdquo; he added in a
      whisper, &ldquo;I don't suppose any artist would care to paint such a hard,
      rugged-looking fellow as Gwynne.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive looked on the pretty red and white of the boyish dabbler in Art&mdash;for
      Lyle had lately taken a fancy that way too&mdash;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 &ldquo;ancient descent&rdquo;
       and &ldquo;noble but reduced family,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Really, we shall be quite desolate without a single soul left at
      Farnwood, shall we not, Olive?&rdquo; observed Mrs. Gwynne.
    </p>
    <p>
      Olive answered, &ldquo;Yes,&mdash;very,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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.
      &ldquo;Miss Rothesay, I&mdash;I don't intend going away, believe me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Christal turned quickly round. &ldquo;What are you saying, Mr. Derwent?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He hung his head and looked foolish. &ldquo;I mean that Brighton is too gay, and
      thoughtless, and noisy a place for me&mdash;I would rather stay at
      Harbury.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You fickle, changeable, sentimental creature! I wouldn't be a man like
      you for the world!&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;It was not so while my mother lived,&rdquo; Olive murmured sorrowfully. &ldquo;I
      never needed any friend but her. What am I doing! What is coming over me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She trembled, and dared not answer the question.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the Dell they parted from Lyle. &ldquo;I shall see you once again before you
      leave, I hope,&rdquo; he said to Christal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes; you will not get rid of your tormentor so easily.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get rid of you, fair Cruelty! Would a man wish to put out the sun because
      it scorches him sometimes?&rdquo; 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,&mdash;she
      only, pale Lady Moon,&mdash;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">
     &ldquo;Io ti voglio ben assai,
     Ma tu non pensi a me!&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tis my song, mine! I taught him!&rdquo; said Christal, laughing to herself. &ldquo;He
      thought to stay behind and escape me and my cruelty.' But we shall see&mdash;we
      shall see!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;This accident is most unfortunate,&rdquo; said Miss Rothesay, &ldquo;How will you
      manage your journey to-morrow?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall not be able to go,&rdquo; said Christal in a piteous voice, though over
      her averted face broke a comical smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you really so much hurt, my dear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you doubt it?&rdquo; was the sharp reply. &ldquo;I am sorry to trouble you; but I
      really am unable to leave the Dell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Very often did she try Olive's patience thus; but the faithful daughter
      always remembered those last words, &ldquo;Take care of Christal.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;a whole long day in the
      forest with her pet Ailie, Ailie's grandmamma, and&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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: &ldquo;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&mdash;a
      woman&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have advanced thus far into my solemn seeking. I have learned to see
      the revelation&mdash;imputedly divine&mdash;clear and distinct from the
      mass of modern creeds with which it has been overladen. I have begun to
      read the book on which&mdash;as you truly say&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;-pure
      and shining as truth. Is it truth?&mdash;is it divine?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You answer, my kind friend, like a woman&mdash;like the sort of woman I
      believed in in my boyhood&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;was it not you who
      said so?&mdash;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&mdash;humanity, and the
      infinite&mdash;Deity.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One of my speculations you answer by an allegory&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;Jesus Christ, the Saviour of all
      men? <i>I will</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      ... &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;human and divine&mdash;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.&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </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, &ldquo;Olive, a <i>Novel</i>&rdquo; may exclaim, &ldquo;Most
      incongruous&mdash;most strange!&rdquo; 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&mdash;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, &ldquo;I wonder will he come to-day!&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;I need thee! I need thee!&rdquo; 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,&mdash;while thus
      devoting herself she learned to love. But so gradual had been the change
      that she knew it not.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why am I restless?&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;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&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash; 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>
      &ldquo;If he comes not so often,&rdquo; she re-commenced her musings, &ldquo;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&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </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>
      &ldquo;You are not painting, Miss Rothesay; you are thinking,&rdquo; suddenly cried
      Lyle Derwent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Olive started almost with a sense of shame. &ldquo;Has not an artist a right to
      dream a little?&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;What! are you, always the idlest of the idle, reproving Miss Rothesay for
      being idle too?&rdquo; said Christal, somewhat sharply. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you? Then 'reap the misery of a granted prayer' for there is a knock
      It may be my worthy brother-in-law himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If so, for charity's sake, give me your arm and help me into the next
      room. I cannot abide his gloomy face.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O woman!&mdash;changeful&mdash;fickle&mdash;vain!&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;I am come with a message from my mother,&rdquo; said he; but added anxiously,
      &ldquo;How is this, Miss Rothesay? You look as if you had been ill?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no! only weary with a long morning's work. But will you sit!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He received, as usual, the quiet smile&mdash;the greeting gentle and
      friendly. He was deceived by them as heretofore.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you better than when last I was at the Parsonage? I have seen nothing
      of you for a week, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it so long? I did not note the time.&rdquo; He &ldquo;did not note the time.&rdquo; And
      she had told every day by hours&mdash;every hour by minutes!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should have come before,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;but I have had so many things
      to occupy me. Besides, I am such poor company. I should only trouble you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You never trouble me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will come,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;friends,&rdquo; 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&mdash;the doubt&mdash;the weary waiting. She
      was satisfied now!
    </p>
    <p>
      Gradually they fell into their old way of conversing. &ldquo;How beautiful all
      seems,&rdquo; said Harold, as he stood still, bared his head, and drank in, with
      a long sighing breath, the sunshine and the soft air. &ldquo;Would that I could
      be happy in this happy world!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is God's world, and as He made it&mdash;good; but I often doubt
      whether He meant it to be altogether happy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because life is our time of education&mdash;our school-days. Our
      holidays, I fancy, are to come. We should be thankful,&rdquo; she added,
      smiling, &ldquo;when we get our brief play-hours&mdash;our pleasant Saturday
      afternoons&mdash;as now. Do you not think so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot tell; I am in a great labyrinth, from which I must work my way
      out alone. Nevertheless, my friend, keep near me.&rdquo; Unconsciously she
      pressed his arm. He started, and turned his head away. The next moment he
      added, in a somewhat constrained voice, &ldquo;I mean&mdash;let me have your
      friendship&mdash;your silent comforting&mdash;your prayers-Yes! thus far I
      believe. I can say, 'Pray God for me,' doubting not that He will hear&mdash;you,
      at least, if not me. Therefore, let me go on and struggle through this
      darkness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Until comes the light! It will come&mdash;I know it will!&rdquo; Olive looked
      up at him, and their eyes met. In hers was the fulness of joy, in his a
      doubt&mdash;a contest. He removed them, and walked on in silence. The very
      arm on which Olive leaned seemed to grow rigid&mdash;like a bar of
      severance between them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would to Heaven!&rdquo; Harold suddenly exclaimed as they approached Harbury&mdash;&ldquo;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&mdash;a life of active exertion. In fact, I have nearly
      decided it all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Decided what? It is so sudden. I do not quite understand,&rdquo; said Olive,
      faintly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To leave England for ever. What do you think of the plan?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What thought she? Nothing. There was a dull sound in her ears as of a
      myriad waters&mdash;the ground whereon she stood seemed reeling to and fro&mdash;yet
      she did not fall. One minute, and she answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know best. If good for you, it is a good plan.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He seemed relieved and yet disappointed. &ldquo;I am glad you say so. I
      imagined, perhaps, you might have thought it wrong.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why wrong?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;new
      energies&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </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. &ldquo;To
      me,&rdquo; she thought&mdash;&ldquo;to me, also, this parting is like death. And why?
      Because I, too, love him&mdash;dearer than ever mother loved son, or
      sister brother; ay, dearer than my own soul. Oh miserable me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are silent,&rdquo; said Harold. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&mdash;I have heard so,&rdquo; said she, slowly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Miss Rothesay?&rdquo; he asked, when they had nearly reached the
      Parsonage, &ldquo;what are you thinking of?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet I have friends to leave&mdash;one friend at least&mdash;<i>yourself</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;I shall have the finest dahlias in the country next year,&rdquo; 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&mdash;the
      same quiet little creature&mdash;gently smiling, gently speaking&mdash;who
      had already begun to be called &ldquo;an old maid&rdquo;&mdash;whom no one in the
      world suspected of any human passion&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;But not alone, my dear. You will surely wait until Harold comes in?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; said Olive,
      feebly smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a brave little creature, my dear. Well, do as you will.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Oh, mother, mother! why did you go and leave me? I should never have
      loved any one if my mother had not died!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;What have I done,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;O earth, take me in and cover me! Hide me
      from myself&mdash;from my misery&mdash;my shame.&rdquo; Suddenly she started up.
      &ldquo;What if he should pass and find me here! I must go. I must go home.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;as
      once had seemed her doom through life&mdash;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&mdash;her mother's
      favourite spot&mdash;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, &ldquo;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&mdash;the thought of him. It comes between me and everything else
      on earth&mdash;almost between me and Heaven. I never wake at morning but
      his name rises to my heart&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Let me think. Will it ever pass away? There are feelings which come and
      go&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Perhaps, though I have long ceased to think on the subject&mdash;perhaps
      my first girlish misery was true, and there is in me something repulsive&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Hopeless I know it is. He admires beauty and grace&mdash;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&mdash;O fool!&mdash;dreaming fool that I am! It is
      impossible!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me think calmly once more. He has given me all he could&mdash;kindness,
      friendship, brotherly regard; and I have given him love&mdash;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&mdash;he to me is all my
      world. Oh, but it is a fearful difference!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will look my doom in the face&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;a pale, unlovely thing&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;O God, Thou
      knowest!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;a sister&mdash;nothing more!
      Therefore, no bitterness is there in my sorrow, since he has done no
      wrong.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will not cease from loving&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;he
      will know how I loved him&mdash;Harold&mdash;my Harold.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Such were her thoughts&mdash;though no words passed her lips&mdash;except
      the last. As she rose and went towards the house, she might even have met
      him and not trembled&mdash;she had grown so calm.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was already night&mdash;but the mist had quite gone&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;be
      it silent or spoken&mdash;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&mdash;ay, and happens sometimes&mdash;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&mdash;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, &ldquo;Look what I have had
      strength to do!&rdquo; 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&mdash;as inevitably and inexorably as
      fate&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;bury it&mdash;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&mdash;maidens, wives, mothers, to whom the lines have fallen
      in more pleasant places&mdash;should turn and look on that pale sisterhood&mdash;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
      &ldquo;unfortunate attachment.&rdquo; Others, perhaps, furnishing a text whereupon
      prudent mothers may lesson romantic daughters, saying, &ldquo;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&mdash;give
      it for nothing but the safe barter of a speedy settlement, a comfortable
      income, a husband, and a ring.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive Rothesay, be not ashamed, nor afraid. Hide the arrow close in thy
      soul&mdash;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&mdash;a
      picture unconsciously created from the inspiration of that sweet
      love-dream. When the news came&mdash;tidings which a year ago would have
      thrilled her with pleasure&mdash;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&mdash;a future wherein she, alas! had no part Eagerly she
      strove to impress this fact upon her mind&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;Lyle Derwent first&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;How long? how long? Oh, that this would cease, or else I die!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;nay, entreating&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Well, my dear,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gwynne, with a smiling and mysterious face, &ldquo;of
      course you will go at once! It will do your health a world of good. Harold
      said so only this morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then he knew of the letter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, to tell the truth, I believe he originated the plan. He saw you
      wanted change&mdash;he has such a regard for you, Olive.&rdquo;
     </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, &ldquo;I will go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She told him so when he came in. He seemed much pleased; and said, with
      more than his usual frankness,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was something to be going to one whom Harold &ldquo;dearly loved.&rdquo; Olive felt
      a little comfort in her proposed journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Besides, she knows you quite well already, my dear,&rdquo; observed Mrs.
      Gwynne. &ldquo;She tells me Harold used often to talk about you during his visit
      with her this summer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had a reason,&rdquo; said Harold, his dark cheek changing a little. &ldquo;I wished
      her to know and love her niece, and I was sure her niece would soon learn
      to love <i>her</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, that is kind, and like yourself, my son. How thoughtfully you have
      been planning everything for Olive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Olive will not be angry with me for that?&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;<i>Miss Rothesay</i>&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;So soon back from Brighton! Who would have thought it!&rdquo; said Mrs. Gwynne,
      smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lyle put on his favourite sentimental air, and muttered something about
      &ldquo;not liking gaiety, and never being happy away from Farnwood.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Rothesay is scarcely of your opinion; at all events, she is going to
      try the experiment by leaving us for a while.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Rothesay leaving us!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is to Scotland you are going?&mdash;all that long dreary way? You may
      stay there weeks, months! and that while what will become of me&mdash;I
      mean of us all at Farnwood?&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You promise that?&rdquo; cried Lyle, eagerly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Olive promised; with a sorrowful thought that none asked this pledge&mdash;none
      needed it&mdash;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 &ldquo;romantic vagaries,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;I shall miss you bitterly,&rdquo; he said, in a low tone; &ldquo;but if your health
      needs change, and this journey is for your good, of course I would not
      think of myself at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &mdash;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>
      &ldquo;I wish you would write to me while you are away, Miss Rothesay; or, at
      all events, let me write to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That you may; and I shall be so glad to hear all about Harbury and
      Farnwood.&rdquo; Here she paused, half-shaming to confess to herself that for
      this reason chiefly would she welcome the letters of poor Lyle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that all? Will you not care to hear about <i>me</i>? Oh, Miss
      Rothesay,&rdquo; cried Lyle, &ldquo;I often wish I was again a little boy in the dear
      old garden at Oldchurch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because&mdash;because&rdquo;&mdash;and the quick blood rose in his cheek. &ldquo;No,
      no, I cannot tell you now; but perhaps I may, some time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just as you like,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;No, I am glad I lived to comfort <i>her.</i>&rdquo; she mused. &ldquo;Perhaps it may
      be true that none ever leave earth until they are no longer needed there.
      So I will even patiently live on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Unable to talk more with Lyle, Olive re-entered the Parsonage. Harold sat
      reading.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you long come in?&rdquo; she asked in a somewhat trembling voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      He answered, &ldquo;About an hour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not see you enter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was not likely; you were engaged with my brother-in-law. Therefore I
      would not disturb you, but took my book.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Nay&mdash;it is such a rainy night&mdash;perhaps&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, since you choose it so,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Still, as we shall not have many more walks together, if&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will come,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;I wonder whether you will return before I leave Har-bury&mdash;that is,
      if I should really go. I should like to see you once again. Well, chance
      must decide.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;It is of no use waiting,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gwynne. &ldquo;I think I will go home with
      Lyle&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive instinctively hinted some excuse. She was ever prone to do so, when
      any shadow of blame fell on Harold.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are always good, my dear. But still he might have come, even for the
      sake of proper courtesy to you.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;It was very wrong and unkind,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gwynne in real annoyance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, not at all,&rdquo; was all that Olive murmured. She took Ailie on her
      knee, and hid her face upon the child's curls.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, dear Miss Rothesay, you must come back soon,&rdquo; whispered the little
      girl. &ldquo;We can't do without you. We have all been much happier since you
      came to Harbury; papa said so, last night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive laid her thin cheek to the rosy one of Harold's daughter; she wept,
      but could not speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What kisses you are giving me, dear Miss Rothesay, and just where papa
      gives me them, too. How kind! Ah, I love you&mdash;I love you dearly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God bless and take care of you, my dear child&mdash;almost as dear as
      though you had been born my own,&rdquo; 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&mdash;her heart;&mdash;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&mdash;more eagerly than she had ever seen him look before. The
      train was already moving, but they momently recognised each other, and
      Harold smiled&mdash;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&mdash;for so she was always called&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Is that Olive Rothesay, Angus Rothesay's only child? Welcome to Scotland&mdash;welcome,
      my dear lassie!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The voice lost none of its sweetness for bearing, strongly and
      unmistakably, the &ldquo;.accents of the mountain tongue.&rdquo; 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&mdash;too sweet to seem like tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The poor lassie! she's just wearied out!&rdquo; said Mrs. Flora, laying her
      hands on Olive's hair. &ldquo;Jean, get her some tea. Now, my bairn, lift up
      your face. Ay, there it is&mdash;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.&rdquo; And the old
      lady suddenly looked thoughtful&mdash;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&mdash;and truly&mdash;as &ldquo;the
      Flower of Perth.&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;So they called you 'Olive,' my dear,&rdquo; said Mrs. Flora. &ldquo;A strange name!
      the like of it is not in our family.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My mother gave it me from a dream she had.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, my bairn, lift up your face.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;your
      mother? Once Angus spoke to me of her&mdash;little Sybilla Hyde. She was
      his wife then, though we did not know it. Poor Angus, we loved him very
      much&mdash;better than he thought. Tears again, my dearie!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They do not harm me, Aunt Flora.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;just
      eighty years, thank the Lord!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old lady reverently raised her blue eyes&mdash;true Scottish eyes&mdash;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 &ldquo;eident hand&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </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, &ldquo;plaintive Martyrs.&rdquo; Olive caught some words of the
      hymn&mdash;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 &ldquo;quiet waters,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;best room,&rdquo;
       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 &ldquo;bonnie Prince Charlie,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;the Flower of Perth.&rdquo; 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&mdash;&ldquo;an old maid.&rdquo; Olive, looking into the
      sweet eyes that followed her everywhere&mdash;as those of some portraits
      do&mdash;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&mdash;invited, they said, to welcome Miss Rothesay,
      and show her the beauties of Edinburgh. They talked continually of &ldquo;dear
      Auntie Mora,&rdquo; and were most anxious to &ldquo;call cousins&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;And so you have never before seen your aunt,&rdquo; said one of the
      M'Gillivrays;&mdash;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. &ldquo;You like her of course&mdash;our dear old Auntie
      Flora?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aunt to which of you?&rdquo; said Olive, smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, she is everybody's Auntie Flora; no one ever calls her anything
      else,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;I think,&rdquo; said the quiet Miss Anstruther, lifting up her brown eyes,
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, indeed, for who else would have had patience with her cross old
      brother Sir Andrew, until he died?&rdquo; said Janet M'Gillivray.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And who,&rdquo; added her sister, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sure,&rdquo; cried blithe Maggie, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive laughed; and afterwards said, thoughtfully, &ldquo;She has then lived a
      happy life&mdash;has this good Aunt Flora!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not always happy,&rdquo; answered the eldest and gravest of the M'Gillivrays.
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;How happy you are, and how much everyone loves you!&rdquo; said Olive, when
      Mrs. Flora and herself were left alone, and their hearts inclined each to
      each with a vague sympathy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yours must have been a noble woman's life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you have been content&mdash;nay happy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;No letters to-day from Harbury!&rdquo; observed Mrs. Mora, as, some weeks after
      Olive's arrival, they were taking their usual morning airing along the
      Queen's Drive. &ldquo;My dear, are you not wearying for news from home?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aunt Flora's house has grown quite home-like to me,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;I am glad you are happy, my dear niece,&rdquo; answered Mrs. Flora; &ldquo;yet others
      should not forget you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They do not. Christal writes now and then from Brighton, and Lyle Derwent
      indulges me with a long letter every week,&rdquo; 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&mdash;as sometimes she tried to think&mdash;perhaps it
      was best so!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alison Gwynne was aye the worst of all correspondents,&rdquo; pursued the old
      lady, &ldquo;but Harold might write to you: I think he did so once or twice when
      he was living with me here, this summer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes;&rdquo; said Olive, &ldquo;we have always been good friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have never once spoken of it&mdash;neither I nor Mr. Gwynne.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;sadness rarely comes to old age. All strong
      feelings, whether of joy or pain, belong to youth alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye will ride with Marion M'Gillivray the day?&rdquo; said Mrs. Flora, after a
      somewhat protracted silence. &ldquo;You bairns will not want an auld wifie like
      me.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;'Tis pleasant to hear ye say the like of that. But it must be even so&mdash;for
      this night I would fain bide alone at home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The carriage stopped in Abercromby Place.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will see ye again the morn,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;I thought you would be given up to us for to-day,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Indeed! Did Aunt Flora say&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She said nothing&mdash;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,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did she tell you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;one easily can,&rdquo; added quiet Marion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think I guess, too. But let me hear, that is, if I <i>may</i> hear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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'&mdash;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,&mdash;and
      that was not until both were past their youth,&mdash;there came to Aunt
      Flora a letter and a ring. She wears it on her wedding finger to this
      day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And this 20th of September must have been the day <i>he</i> died,&rdquo; said
      Olive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe so. But she never says a word, and never did.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The two walked on silently. Olive was thinking of the long woe-wasted
      youth&mdash;the knowledge of love requited came too late&mdash;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. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With me; surely you forget! Oh no, Marion, not with me; that would be
      impossible!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Marion coloured a little, but then earnestly continued, &ldquo;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&mdash;of&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;(here the frank,
      plain-speaking Marion again hesitated a little, but continued boldly) &ldquo;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&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, Marion, you have talked quite enough of me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it so? Then I am very happy!&rdquo; And the smile sat long upon her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can you guess whither I am taking you?&rdquo; said Marion, as they paused
      before a large and handsome gateway. &ldquo;Here is the Roman Catholic convent&mdash;beautiful
      St. Margaret's, the sweetest spot at Morningside. Shall we enter?&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;I think,&rdquo; said Miss Rothesay, &ldquo;if I were a nun, and had known ever so
      great misery, I should grow calm by looking at these pictures.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The nuns don't pass their time in that way I assure you,&rdquo; answered Marion
      M'Gillivray. &ldquo;They spend it in making such things as these.&rdquo; And she
      pointed to a case of babyish ornaments, pin-cushions, and artificial
      flowers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How very strange,&rdquo; said Olive, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay and judge, for here comes one, my chief friend here, Sister
      Ignatia.&rdquo; And Sister Ignatia&mdash;who was, despite her quaint dress, the
      most bright-eyed, cheerful-looking little Scotchwoman imaginable&mdash;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 &ldquo;nun&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;when she thus thought, she almost longed for such an
      existence as this quiet monotony, without pleasure and without pain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must come and see our chapel, our beautiful chapel,&rdquo; said Sister
      Ignatia. &ldquo;We have got pictures of our St. Margaret and all her children.&rdquo;
       And when they reached the spot&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Yet these are excellent women,&rdquo; said Marion M'Gillivray, when, on their
      departure, Olive expressed her thoughts aloud. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!'&rdquo;
     </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 &ldquo;like an angels.&rdquo;
     </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 &ldquo;wee toddling bairnies&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;Aunt Olive&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Good-night, good-night, Allan, and Charlie, and James. We must have
      another merry walk soon,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;You seem very happy, Miss Rothesay.&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;I did not expect to see you here!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Possibly not; but I&mdash;I had business in Edinburgh. However, it will
      not, I think, detain me long.&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His somewhat vexed tone went to Olive's heart. But she only answered,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were not quite right there. I never forget my friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a repentant accent in his voice as he drew Olive's arm in his.
      And she&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Have you seen Aunt Flora?&rdquo; said Olive, as they stood together in the
      parlour.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;a wife. Once she thought thus&mdash;but she dared not
      think again. And Harold was watching her, too; following her&mdash;as she
      deemed&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;I cannot tell; perhaps I shall go; perhaps not at all. We will talk the
      matter over to-morrow&mdash;that is, if you are still kind enough to
      listen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She smiled. &ldquo;Little doubt of that, I think.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you! And now I will say good-night,&rdquo; observed Harold, rising.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ere he went, however, he looked down curiously into Olive's face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You seem quite strong and well now, Miss Rothesay. You have been happy
      here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Happy&mdash;oh, yes! quite happy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought it would be so&mdash;I was right! Though still&mdash;But I am
      glad, very glad to hear it. Good-night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He shook her hand&mdash;an easy, careless shake; not the close, lingering
      clasp&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;it tears me, it
      crushes me; I shall never, never rise.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;rich
      &ldquo;in the dew of youth.&rdquo; 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&mdash;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 &ldquo;like a dove.&rdquo; Who said it? Not Harold&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;the very act of loving is blessedness to me.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;You were always fond of heliotropes, Miss Rothesay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you for remembering my likings;&rdquo; and Olive put the flowers in her
      bosom. She fancied he looked pleased; and suddenly she remembered the
      meaning given to the flower, &ldquo;I love you!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;They were yet
      uncertain,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;but a few more days would decide all.&rdquo; 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&mdash;looking in the
      clear September air so close that you could almost see the purple of the
      heather&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;How beautiful and calm this is! It looks like a quiet nest&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A home!&rdquo; she repeated, somewhat confusedly, for his voice had startled
      her.&mdash;&ldquo;You have often said that man needed none; that his life was in
      himself&mdash;the life of intellect and of power. It is only we women who
      have a longing after rest and home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Harold made no immediate reply; but after a while he said,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She rarely said him nay in anything, and he somehow unconsciously used a
      tone of command, like an elder brother;&mdash;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 &ldquo;lover's walk,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;good&rdquo;&mdash;a word she had often used, and he had smiled at&mdash;meaning
      those times when, beneath her influence, the bitterness melted from him.
      Such times there were&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;I think,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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&mdash;let me see&mdash;seven-and-thirty years old. What think
      you of that age?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His eyes, bent on her, spoke more than mere curiosity; but Olive, unaware,
      looked up and smiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, I am getting elderly myself; but I heed it not. One need mind
      nothing if one's heart does not grow old.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does yours?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope not. I would like to lead a life like Aunt Flora's&mdash;a quiet
      stream that goes on singing to the end.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look me in the face, Olive Rothesay,&rdquo; said Harold, abruptly. &ldquo;Nay&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive's eyes sank on the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not question me so.&rdquo; she said trembling. &ldquo;In life there is nothing
      perfect; but I have peace, great peace. And for you there might be not
      only peace, but happiness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Again there fell between them one of those pauses which rarely come save
      between two friends or lovers, who know thoroughly&mdash;in words or in
      silence&mdash;each other's hearts. Then Harold, guiding the conversation
      as he always did, changed it suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am thinking of the last time I walked here&mdash;when I came to
      Edinburgh this summer. There was with me one whom I regarded highly, and
      we talked&mdash;as gravely as you and I do now, though on a far different
      theme.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What was it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Harold spoke carelessly&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As you will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A cold acquiescence. You think, perhaps, the matter is either above or
      beneath <i>me</i>&mdash;that I can have no interest therein?&rdquo; And his
      eyes, bright, piercing, commanding, seemed to force an answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      It came, very quietly and coldly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have heard you say that love was the brief madness of a man's life; if
      fulfilled, a burden&mdash;if unfulfilled or deceived, a curse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I said so, did I? Well, you give my opinions&mdash;what think you <i>of
      me</i>? Answer truly&mdash;like a friend.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did so. She never could look in Harold's eyes and tell him what was
      not true.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, thank you! You speak honestly and frankly&mdash;that is
      something for a woman,&rdquo; 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,
      &ldquo;You were going to talk to me about your plans. Do so now; that is, if you
      are not angry with me,&rdquo; she added, with a little deprecatory soothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      It seemed to touch him. &ldquo;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&mdash;I mean, advise me to go?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, if it is for your good. If leaving Harbury would give you rest on
      that one subject of which we never speak.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But of which I, at least, think night and day, and never without a prayer&mdash;(I
      can pray now)&mdash;for the good angel who brought light into my
      darkness,&rdquo; said Harold, solemnly. &ldquo;That comfort is with me, whatever else
      may&mdash;But you wanted to hear about my going abroad?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, tell me all. You know I like to hear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not your mother, who loves you so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do not know what a woman's affection is!&rdquo; said Olive earnestly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it so?&rdquo; Harold said, thoughtfully, his countenance changing, and his
      voice becoming soft as he looked upon her. &ldquo;Do you think that any woman&mdash;I
      mean my mother, of course&mdash;would love <i>me</i> with this love?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And once more Olive taught herself to answer calmly, &ldquo;I do think so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Again there was a silence. Harold broke it by saying, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O yes! I like to hear of young people's happiness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he was not quite happy. He did not know whether the woman he loved
      loved him. He had never asked her the question.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well, let that pass. He has other reasons.&rdquo; He paused and looked
      towards her, but Olive's face was drooped out of sight. He continued,&mdash;&ldquo;Reasons
      such as men only feel. You know not what an awful thing it is to cast
      one's pride, one's hope&mdash;perhaps the weal or woe of one's whole life&mdash;upon
      a woman's light 'Yes' or 'No.' I speak,&rdquo; he added, abruptly, &ldquo;as my
      friend, the youth in love, would speak.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I know&mdash;I understand. Tell me more. That is, if I may hear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, certainly. His other reasons were,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did he imagine, even in his lightest thought, that she loved him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He could not tell. Sometimes it almost seemed so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then he was wrong&mdash;cruelly wrong! He thought of his own pride, not
      of <i>her</i>. Little he knew the long, silent agony she must bear&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </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. &ldquo;Your words are sympathising and kind. Say
      on! What should he, this lover, do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let him tell her that he loves her&mdash;let him save her from the misery
      that wears away youth, and strength, and hope.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! and bind her by a promise which it may take years to fulfil?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But,&rdquo; said Harold, his voice hoarse and trembling, &ldquo;what if they should
      live on thus for years, and never marry? What if he should die?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Die!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. If so, far better that he should never have spoken&mdash;that his
      secret should go down with him to the grave.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, you mean that he should die, and she never know that he loved her!
      O Heaven! what misery could equal that!&rdquo;
     </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, &ldquo;Miss Rothesay, you speak like one who feels
      every word. These are things we learn in but one school. Tell me&mdash;as
      a friend, who night and day prays for your happiness&mdash;are you not
      speaking from your own heart? You love, or you have loved?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For a moment Olive's senses seemed to reel. But his eyes were upon her&mdash;those
      truthful, truth-searching eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Must I look in his face and tell him a lie?&rdquo; was her half-frenzied
      thought. &ldquo;I cannot, I cannot! And the whole truth he will never, never
      know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dropping her head, she answered, in one word&mdash;&ldquo;Yes!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, with a woman like you, to love once is to love for evermore?&rdquo;
     </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. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stooped, she leaned her brow upon the two clasped hands&mdash;her own
      and his&mdash;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&mdash;as cold and clear as ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Once more, let me tell you all I owe you&mdash;friendship, counsel,
      patience,&mdash;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&mdash;may God bless
      you.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;It is all over&mdash;quite over. There can be no doubt now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And then she knew, by this utter death of hope, that it must have lived <i>once</i>&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Poor little Olive! Poor, crushed, broken thing!&rdquo;
     </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!&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;My dear lassie, welcome! Have you been sleeping after your weary walk
      this morning?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This morning!&rdquo; echoed poor Olive. She had half forgotten what had
      happened then, there had come such a death-like cloud between.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye were both away at the Hermitage, Harold said. Ah! poor Harold!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;My dear Harold is gone away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gone away,&rdquo; repeated Olive, slowly, as her cold hands fell heavily on her
      lap. She gave no other sign.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah,&rdquo; continued the unconscious old lady, &ldquo;something has gone ill with the
      lad. He came in here, troubled like, and said he must just depart at
      once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was here, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;lassie, stay!&rdquo; 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&mdash;no hope&mdash;wherein
      one soul follows the other in a wild despair, crying, &ldquo;Give me back my
      life that is gone after thee;&rdquo; 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&mdash;all the life she had, and all she would
      leave behind&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Bide here with me, my dear niece. Come and dwell among your ain folk,
      your father's kin.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;I have something to say to ye, lassie. Ye'll listen to the auld wife?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aunt Flora!&rdquo; said Olive, in affectionate reproach, and, sitting down at
      her feet, she took the withered hand, and laid it on her neck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My sweet wee lassie&mdash;my bonnie, bonnie birdie!&rdquo; said the
      tender-hearted old lady, who often treated her grand-niece as if she were
      a child. &ldquo;If I had known sooner that poor Angus had left a daughter! My
      dearie, come back soon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In a month, Auntie Flora.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, dear aunt, let me hear it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Tis anent the worldly gear that I will leave behind me. I have been aye
      careful of the good things Heaven lent me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &mdash;She paused; but Olive, not quite knowing what to say, said nothing
      at all Mrs. Flora continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God has given me great length of days&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Before ye came,&rdquo; continued Mrs. Flora, &ldquo;I thought to make Harold my heir,
      and that he should take the name of Gordon&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Amen, amen!&rdquo; murmured Olive Rothesay&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;I am wae to think,&rdquo; continued the old lady, &ldquo;that ye are the last of the
      Rothesay line. The <i>name</i> must end, even should Olive marry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall never marry, Aunt Flora! I shall live as you have done&mdash;God
      make my life equally worthy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it so? I thought it was different. Then, Olive, my child! may God
      comfort thee with his peace.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Oh, but he does need it; you little know how sorely!&rdquo; cried Olive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh, my dear? He, a minister!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Aunt Flora, do not question me&mdash;I cannot, ought not, to tell you any
      more than this&mdash;that there may come a time when this money might save
      him from great misery.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Misery aye follows sin,&rdquo; said Mrs. Flora, almost sternly, &ldquo;Am I deceived
      in him, my dear Harold&mdash;poor Alison's son?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, no! He is noble, just, and true. There is no one like him in the
      whole world,&rdquo; cried Olive; and then stopped, covered with blushes. But
      soon the weakness passed. &ldquo;Listen to me, Aunt Flora, for this once. Harold
      Gwynne,&rdquo;&mdash;she faltered not over the name,&mdash;&ldquo;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&mdash;how should
      I? I entreat you, leave all to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Flora wrapped her arms round her niece without speaking&mdash;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&mdash;the more solemn, as it was given in words taken out
      of the Holy Book which she had just closed&mdash;words never used lightly
      by the aged Presbyterian.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;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>.&rdquo;
 </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!&mdash;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, &ldquo;I
      am going home,&rdquo; 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&mdash;what she had no
      right to hope&mdash;what had best not be.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gwynne embraced her warmly&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Well, now, I suppose you will be wanting to hear the news of all your
      friends,&rdquo; said Miss Manners, with smiles bubbling round her pretty mouth.
      &ldquo;We are not all quite the same as you left us. To begin with&mdash;let me
      see&mdash;Mr. Harold Gwynne&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of that, Miss Christal, I will beg you not to speak. It is a painful
      subject to me,&rdquo; observed Mrs. Gwynne, with a vexed air. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More news do you want, Olive?&rdquo; (Christal now sometimes called her so.)
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am so glad! for his sake, good dear Lyle!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Dear</i> Lyle!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Well, winning is one thing, deserving is
      another!&rdquo; she continued, merrily. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lyle would thank you if he knew.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That he ought, and that he does, and that he shall do, every day of his
      life!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Friend, tell me all that troubles you&mdash;all
      that concerns you and <i>him.</i>&rdquo; But now a faint fear repelled her.
      However, Harold's mother, understanding her looks, observed,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is gone, then, to America?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;America!&mdash;who mentioned America?&rdquo; said Mrs. Gwynne, sharply. &ldquo;Has he
      told you more than he told me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive, sorely repentant, tried to soothe the natural jealousy she had
      aroused. &ldquo;You know well Mr. Gwynne would be sure to tell his plans to his
      mother; only I have heard him talk of liking America&mdash;of wishing to
      go thither.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was it a sudden journey?&mdash;is it long since he went?&rdquo; said Olive,
      shading her eyes from the fire-light.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh no! oh no!&rdquo; The hand was pressed down closer over the eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gwynne pursued. &ldquo;Though I have all confidence in my son, yet I own
      this sudden scheme has troubled me. His health is better;&mdash;why could
      he not stay at Harbury?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive, wishing to discover if she knew anything of her son's sad secret,
      observed, &ldquo;It is a monotonous life that Mr. Gwynne leads here&mdash;one
      hardly suited for him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, I know,&rdquo; said the mother, sighing. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And for how long?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot tell&mdash;he did not say. I should think, not above a year&mdash;his
      mother may not have many more years to spend with him;&rdquo; and there was a
      little trembling of Mrs. Gwynne's mouth; but she continued with dignity:
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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;&mdash;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.
      &ldquo;We must be home before it is dark, little Ailie and I. We have no one to
      take care of us now.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a little trembling arm it is for me to lean on!&rdquo; said Mrs. Gwynne,
      smiling, when, after some faint resistance, she had taken Olive for a
      companion. &ldquo;'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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite, quite willing;&mdash;nay, very glad!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;I am now alone, quite alone. I must shut my life up in myself&mdash;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&mdash;none to love as I could love&mdash;as I
      did love for many years. Oh, mother, why did you go away? Why did I love
      again&mdash;lose again? Always loving only to lose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Many times she said to herself, &ldquo;I am alone&mdash;quite alone in the
      world;&rdquo; 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&mdash;&ldquo;<i>To
      his daughter Olive when she was quite alone in the world</i>.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;his
      face&mdash;his voice&mdash;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&mdash;the last night Captain Rothesay ever spent at home&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Olive Rothesay&mdash;My dear Child!&mdash;It may be many&mdash;many years&mdash;(I
      pray so, God knows!) before you open this letter. If so, think of me as I
      sit writing it now&mdash;or rather as I sat an hour ago&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;the daughter who may comfort me,
      if I live&mdash;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&mdash;to unfold to my pure daughter that&mdash;But I will tell the
      tale plainly, without any exculpation or reserve.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;hear it as if I were speaking from my grave&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Soon after our marriage I was parted from my wife for some years. You, a
      girl, ought not to know&mdash;and I pray may never know&mdash;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&mdash;I, who have been so cold. But in this letter&mdash;which
      no eye will ever see until I and your mother have lain together long years
      in our grave&mdash;I write as if I were speaking, not as now, but as I
      should speak then.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, between my wife and me there came a cloud. I know not whose was the
      fault&mdash;perhaps mine, perhaps hers; or, it might be, both. But there
      the cloud was&mdash;it hung over my home, so that I could find therein no
      peace, no refuge. It drove me to money-getting, excitement, amusement&mdash;at
      last to crime!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the West Indies there was one who had loved me, in vain,&mdash;mark
      you, I said <i>in vain</i>,&mdash;but with the vehemence of her southern
      blood. She was a Quadroon lady&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;not
      with a pure heart as I loved Sybilla. But I pitied her. Sometimes I turned
      from my dreary home&mdash;where no eye brightened at mine, where myself
      and my interests were nothing&mdash;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&mdash;fast&mdash;fast. Oh, that my wife had had
      strength so to encircle me!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But she had not; and so the end came! Olive, you are not my <i>only</i>
      child.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;my wife, my poor Sybilla&mdash;until,
      hating myself, I absolutely loathed <i>her</i>&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Nevertheless, I believe that they are still alive&mdash;these wretched
      two. If I did not, I should almost go mad at times.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Olive, have pity on your father, and hearken to what I implore. Whilst I
      live, I shall continue this search&mdash;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&mdash;if
      you never marry, but live alone in the world&mdash;seek out and protect
      that child! Remember, she is of your own blood&mdash;<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>
      &ldquo;Herewith enclosed you will find instructions respecting an annuity I wish
      paid to&mdash;to the woman. It was placed in&mdash;&mdash;'s bank by Mr.
      Wyld, whom, however, I deceived concerning it&mdash;I am now old enough in
      the school of hypocrisy. Hitherto the amount has never been claimed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Olive, my daughter, forgive me! Judge me not harshly. I never would have
      asked this of you while your mother lived&mdash;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!&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Angus Rothesay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Celia Manners was her name. Her child she called <i>Christal</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It ceased&mdash;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;&mdash;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&mdash;&ldquo;Christal.&rdquo;
       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&mdash;<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 &ldquo;take care of
      Christal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With a natural revulsion of feeling, Olive thrust the letter from her. Its
      touch seemed to pollute her fingers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, my mother&mdash;my poor, wronged mother!&mdash;well for you that you
      never lived to see this day. You&mdash;so good, so loving, so faithfully
      remembering him even to the last. But I&mdash;I have lived to shrink with
      abhorrence from the memory of my own father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly she stopped, aghast at thinking that she was thus speaking of the
      dead&mdash;the dead from whom her own life had sprung.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am bewildered,&rdquo; she murmured. &ldquo;Heaven help me! I know not what I say or
      do.&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;
    </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,
      &ldquo;Atone my sin!&rdquo; It silenced even the voice of her mother's wrongs.
    </p>
    <p>
      This duty then remained, to fulfil which&mdash;as it would appear&mdash;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&mdash;no longer
      to be ministered unto, but to minister,&mdash;this was to be her portion
      henceforth, and with this holy work was her lonely life to be filled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will do it,&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;living and dying&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;My sister!&rdquo; Olive gasped. &ldquo;She is my sister&mdash;my father's child.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;so
      proud of her birth&mdash;her position&mdash;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;&mdash;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?&mdash;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&mdash;whose mother had never owned
      that name. But then&mdash;was Olive to fix on herself the perpetual burden
      of this secret&mdash;the continual dread of its betrayal&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Olive&mdash;Olive!&rdquo;&mdash;the tone was more affectionate than usual. &ldquo;Are
      you never coming? I am quite tired of being alone. Do let me into the
      studio!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive sprang to her desk and hid the letter therein. Then, without
      speaking&mdash;she had no power to speak&mdash;she mechanically unlocked
      the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I am glad to get at you at last,&rdquo; cried Christal, merrily. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&mdash;a victim!&rdquo; cried Olive, in great agitation. But by an almost
      superhuman effort she repressed it, and added, quietly, &ldquo;Christal, my
      dear, don't mind me. It is nothing&mdash;only I feel ill&mdash;excited.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, what have you been doing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive instinctively answered the truth. &ldquo;I have been sitting here alone&mdash;thinking
      of old times&mdash;reading old letters.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whose? nay, but I will know,&rdquo; answered Christal, half playfully, half in
      earnest, as though there was some distrust in her mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was my father's&mdash;my poor father's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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,&mdash;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&mdash;the hand of <i>her sister</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O Christal! let us love one another&mdash;we two, who have no other tie
      left to us on earth.&rdquo;
     </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. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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. &ldquo;Pleasant! to be a mere lady's companion and
      reader! Miss Rothesay forgets who I am, I think,&rdquo; 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&mdash;a
      lady swindler&mdash;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&mdash;that of a rich man's deserted
      illegitimate child. The report added, that &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It <i>was</i> upon his head,&rdquo; burst forth Christal, whose sympathies, as
      by some fatal instinct, seemed attracted by a case like this. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;that&mdash;save
      one who was gone&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;He will be so glad, you know. I think of all his friends there is none
      whom my son regards more warmly than you,&rdquo; 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&mdash;expressing no regret, no pain. It was scarcely like the earnest
      letters which she had once written to him&mdash;that time was past. She
      tried to make it an epistle as from any ordinary acquaintance&mdash;easy
      and pleasant, full of everything likely to amuse him. She knew he would
      never dream how it was written&mdash;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&mdash;almost the last she had heard him utter&mdash;that
      she must always consider him &ldquo;as a friend and brother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will do so,&rdquo; she murmured. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;her own death, for instance&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;You are not angry with me for staying so long away, are you, Miss
      Rothesay?&rdquo; said Lyle, when he had received her congratulations on his
      recent acquisitions. &ldquo;You don't think this change in fortune will make any
      change in my heart towards you?&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;You have drawn the sweetest possible picture of rural felicity,&rdquo; she
      said, smiling; &ldquo;I earnestly hope you may realise it, my dear Lyle&mdash;But
      I suppose one must not call you so any more, since you are now Mr.
      Derwent, of Hollywood.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no; call me Lyle, nothing but Lyle. It sounds so sweet from your lips&mdash;it
      always did, even when I was a little boy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you remember them still?&rdquo; asked Lyle, a tone of deeper earnestness
      stealing through his affectations of sentiment. &ldquo;Do you remember how I was
      your little knight, and used to say I loved you better than all the
      world?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you think so? O Miss Rothesay, do you really think so?&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;as you are only just twenty-one. Tell me candidly&mdash;you
      know you may&mdash;do you think you were ever seriously in love?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is very strange for you to ask me these questions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo; And
      speaking in a subdued and tender voice, Olive held out her hand to Lyle.
    </p>
    <p>
      He snatched it eagerly. &ldquo;How I love to hear you speak thus! Oh, if I could
      but tell you all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may, indeed,&rdquo; said Olive, gently. &ldquo;I am sure, my dear Lyle, you can
      trust me. Tell me the whole story.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &mdash;&ldquo;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,&rdquo; Lyle answered, in much agitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Olive felt quite sorry for him. &ldquo;I did not expect this,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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?&rdquo; And she half smiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      He seemed now more confused than ever. &ldquo;One cannot but speak truth to
      you,&rdquo; he murmured. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what was it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That though I never loved but this my beautiful lady, once,&mdash;only
      once, for a very little while, I assure you,&mdash;I was half disposed to
      like some one else whom you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive thought a minute, and then said, very seriously, &ldquo;Was it Christal
      Manners?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was. She led me into it, and then she teased me out of it. But indeed
      it was not love&mdash;only a mere passing fancy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you tell her of your feelings?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only in some foolish verses, which she laughed at.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You should not have done that. It is very wicked to make any pretence
      about love.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;whom I do love, most passionately! It is <i>yourself</i>.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;your golden hair, and your sweet eyes. You seemed to me
      then, and you seem now, the most beautiful creature in the whole world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lyle, you are mocking me,&rdquo; said Olive, sadly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mocking you! It is very cruel to tell me so,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Forgive me,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash; here she
      paused, and her colour sensitively rose.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know what you would say,&rdquo; quickly added the young man. &ldquo;But I think
      nothing of it&mdash;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&mdash;my wife?&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;that of being loved by another as
      hopelessly as she herself loved.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Lyle, why talk to me in this way? You do not know how deeply it
      grieves me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It grieves you&mdash;you do not love me, then? Well,&rdquo; he added, sighing,
      &ldquo;I could hardly expect it at once; but you will grant me time, you will
      let me try to prove myself worthy of you&mdash;you will give me hope?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive shook her head mournfully. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lyle turned very pale. &ldquo;That means to say that you think me unworthy to be
      yours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;no&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;There must be some reason for this,&rdquo; he said at last. &ldquo;If I am dear to
      you, though ever so little, a stronger love for me might come in time.
      Will it be so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, never!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you quite sure?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite sure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps I am too late,&rdquo; he continued, bitterly. &ldquo;You may already love
      some one else. Tell me, I have a right to know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She blushed crimson, and then arose, not without dignity. &ldquo;I think, Lyle,
      you go too far; we will cease this conversation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forgive me, forgive me!&rdquo; cried Lyle, melted at once, and humbled too. &ldquo;I
      will ask no more&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you may regard me tenderly still. You may learn to feel for me as a
      sister&mdash;an elder sister. That is the fittest relation between us. You
      yourself will think so, in time.&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;I must&mdash;must worship you still; I always shall! You are so good&mdash;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&mdash;if you should
      marry&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall never marry,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Miss Rothesay, I wish to speak with you; and that no one may interrupt
      us, I will do this.&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;Rothesay,&rdquo;&mdash;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. &ldquo;Now tell me&mdash;for I <i>will</i> know&mdash;what
      has passed between you and&mdash;him who just now went hence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lyle Derwent?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. Repeat every word&mdash;every word!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why so? You are not acting kindly towards me,&rdquo; said Olive, trying to
      resume her wonted dignity, but still speaking in a placable, quiet tone.
      &ldquo;My dear Christal, you are younger than I, and have scarcely a right to
      question me thus.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Christal&mdash;Christal! Hush!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will not! I will speak. I wish every word were a dagger to stab you&mdash;wicked,
      wicked woman! who have come between me and my lover&mdash;for he is my
      lover, and I love him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You love him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You stole him from me&mdash;you bewitched him with your vile flatteries.
      How else could he have turned from <i>me</i> to <i>you</i>?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And lifting her graceful, majestic height, she looked contemptuously on
      poor shrinking Olive&mdash;ay, as her father&mdash;the father of both&mdash;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&mdash;she, or the young creature who stood before
      her, shaken by the storm of rage.
    </p>
    <p>
      She stretched out her hands entreatingly.&mdash;&ldquo;Christal, do listen.
      Indeed, indeed, I am innocent. I shall never marry that poor boy&mdash;never!
      I have just told him so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has asked you, then?&rdquo;&mdash;and the girl almost gnashed her teeth&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What am I to do&mdash;how am I to convince you? How hard this is!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;burning! Woe be to those who kindled the fire.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;You consider me a mere girl. But I learned to be a woman early. I had
      need.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor child!&mdash;poor child!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How dare you pity me? You think I am dying for love, do you? But no! It
      is pride&mdash;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&mdash;haughty, and wanted
      a position&mdash;I have humbled myself thus.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, Christal, if you never did really love him&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who told you that? Not I!&rdquo; she cried, her broken and contradictory speech
      revealing the chaos of her mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say, I did love him&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;I tell you, no! Never till this day did he breathe one word of love to
      me. I can show you his letters.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Letters! He wrote to you, then, and I never knew it. Oh! how I hate you!
      I could kill you where you stand!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She went to the open desk, and began searching there with trembling hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&mdash;what are you going to do?&rdquo; cried Olive, with sudden terror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;you
      need not stir or shriek.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;More wicked devices against me!&rdquo; cried the girl, passionately. &ldquo;But I
      will find out this plot too,&rdquo; and she began to unfold the paper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The letter&mdash;give me that letter. Oh, Christal! for the happiness of
      your whole life, I charge you&mdash;I implore you not to read it!&rdquo; cried
      Olive, springing forward, and catching her arm. But Christal thrust her
      back with violence. &ldquo;'Tis something you wish to hide from me; but I defy
      you! I <i>will</i> read!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;It is all a lie, a hideous lie! <i>You</i> have forged it&mdash;to shame
      me in the eyes of my lover.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not so,&rdquo; said Olive, most tenderly; &ldquo;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&mdash;my
      poor sister!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Sister!</i> And you are his child, his lawful child, while I&mdash;&mdash;
      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!&rdquo;
     </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,&mdash;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, &ldquo;Are you sleeping, my dear Olive?&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;sorrowfully&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;It is Harold's mother, my dear. Were you dreaming about my son?&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Take care of me! Oh, take care of me!&rdquo; she murmured; and as she felt
      herself drawn lovingly to that warm breast&mdash;the breast where Harold
      had once lain&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you have been ill for some days. I have been nursing you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what has happened in this house, the while? Oh, where is Christal,&mdash;poor
      Christal?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a frown on Mrs. Gwynne's countenance&mdash;a frown so stern that
      it brought back to Olive's memory all that had befallen. Earnestly
      regarding her, she said, &ldquo;Something has happened&mdash;something awful.
      How much of it do you know?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Everything! But, Olive, we must not talk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gwynne saw she had best comply, for there was still a piteous
      bewilderment in Olive's look. &ldquo;Lie still,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and I will tell you.
      I came to this house when that miserable girl was rushing from it. I
      brought her back&mdash;I controlled her, as I have ere now controlled
      passions as wild as hers, though she is almost a demon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, hush!&rdquo; murmured Olive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She told me everything. But all is safe, for I have possession of the
      letter; and I have nursed you myself, alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, how good, how wise, how faithful you have been!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;You shall tell me more another time,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;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,&mdash;Mrs. Gwynne entered
      with letters. Olive grew pale. To her fancy every letter that came to
      Harbury could only be from Rome.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good tidings, my dear; tidings from Harold. But you are trembling.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Everything sudden startles me now. I am very weak, I fear,&rdquo; murmured
      Olive. &ldquo;But you look so pleased!&mdash;All is well with him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All is quite well. He has written me a long letter, and here is one for
      you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For me!&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;loving where <i>she</i> did.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;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,&rdquo; she said seeing the burning blushes that rose one after the other
      in Olive's face. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, I should like to read it. He is very good to write to me,&mdash;very
      good indeed. I felt his kindness the more from being ill; that is why it
      made me weep,&rdquo; said Olive, faintly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;her sincere and faithful
      friend.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is that, and will be always! I am content, quite content;&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Tell Christal I long to see her,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Christal declared no power should induce her to meet Olive more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas! what are we to do?&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;my wicked, wicked father. Therefore I
      would not die.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;&mdash;
      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.&mdash;&mdash; But no! you will be glad
      to be freed from me forever.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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>
      &ldquo;Christal Manners.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The letter was afterwards apparently re-opened, and a hasty postscript
      added:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have thought of this,&rdquo; answered Mrs. Gwynne. &ldquo;But, Olive, it is a
      solemn secret&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not quite understand,&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;You, my dear, are my adopted daughter; therefore, my son
      should be to you as a brother. Will you trust Harold?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Trust him? There is nothing with which I could not trust him,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;Then trust him in this. I think he has almost a right&mdash;or one day he
      may have.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;I said that, my dear,&rdquo; observed Mrs. Gwynne, &ldquo;because I know his strong
      regard for you, and his anxiety for your happiness.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;I am ready to do all you wish,&rdquo; wrote Harold in reply. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Paris, Jan.&mdash;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,&mdash;as she, poor girl, will find,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      ... &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;you see how closely I observe her&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      ... &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      ... &ldquo;My dear Miss Rothesay, I do not like playing this underhand game&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;'And what did she answer?' asked I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'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&mdash;a
      poor penniless <i>Anglaise</i>.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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'&mdash;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,&mdash;and yours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      ... &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      ... &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &mdash;&ldquo;'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>
      &ldquo;'But,' said I, 'you might at least find her some other situation.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'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&mdash;a
      <i>nobody</i>.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Yet you took her as a pupil.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Oh, Monsieur, that was a different matter; and then I was so liberally
      paid. Now, if you should be a relative'&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'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>
      &ldquo;'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&mdash;but I
      will tell you all minutely. You see how I try to note down every trifle,
      knowing your anxiety.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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>
      &ldquo;'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>
      &ldquo;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>
      &ldquo;'But you know what has happened since? Attempt not to deceive me&mdash;you
      do! I read it in your eyes long ago, at the chapel. You are come to pity
      the poor nameless wretch&mdash;the&mdash;Ah! you know the horrible word.
      Well, do I look like that? Can you read in my face my mother's shame?'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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>
      &ldquo;'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>
      &ldquo;I drew back the hand I had offered. Forgive me, Olive!&mdash;let me this
      once call you so!&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;'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>
      &ldquo;'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 '&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'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&mdash;<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>
      &ldquo;'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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;that there is sometimes great evil done by that
      selfishness which we call a just pride.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;the
      haughtiness of her gesture. It was not tempered by the woman's
      half-insulting manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'I am come to make one last offer to Mademoiselle&mdash;who will do well
      to accept it, always with the advice of her English friend, or&mdash;whatever
      he may be,' she added, smirking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'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>
      &ldquo;'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>
      &ldquo;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>
      &ldquo;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>
      &ldquo;'Home with you! What then would they say of me&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;'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>
      &ldquo;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)&mdash;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!&mdash;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!'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &mdash;&ldquo;I have an awful tale to tell&mdash;one that I should fear to
      inform you, save that I can say, 'Thank God with me that the misery has
      passed&mdash;that He has overruled it into good.' So, reading this, do not
      tremble&mdash;do not let it startle you&mdash;feeble, as my mother tells
      me, you still are. '<i>Poor little Olive</i>.' She calls you so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;of what
      it matters not now. On the whole, my thoughts were happy&mdash;so happy
      that I did not see how close to me was standing Misery&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;She was climbing the parapet to leap into the arms of Death!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know not how that awful moment passed&mdash;what I said&mdash;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.&mdash;Olive,
      cry with me, 'Thank God, thank God!'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;thank God! His
      mercy is about us continually.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      ... &ldquo;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&mdash;I could almost have wept over her.
      Do you not think I am strangely changed? I do sometimes&mdash;but no more
      of this now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Christal made no allusion to the past. She said, 'She desired to speak to
      me about her future&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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>
      &ldquo;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;&mdash;I am,
      and I have ever been&mdash;a Roman Catholic.'
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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>
      &ldquo;'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>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      ... &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;especially <i>the first</i> she
      wrote.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </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, &ldquo;I shall come home!&rdquo; Simple they were; but they seemed so
      strangely joyful&mdash;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&mdash;the
      violets purpled the banks. Now and then came soft west winds, sighing
      sweetness over the earth. Not a breeze passed her by&mdash;not a flower
      sprang in her sight&mdash;not one sunny day dawned to ripen the growing
      year, but Olive's heart leaped within her; for she said, &ldquo;He will come
      with the spring&mdash;he will come with the spring!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      How and with what mind he would come&mdash;whether he would tell her he
      loved her, or ask her to be his wife&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;how wholly none but herself
      could tell&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;It must be finished before Harold comes home,&rdquo; said Harold's mother. &ldquo;I
      told him of it in my letters, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed. I do not remember that. And yet for this long while you have let
      me see all your letters, I think.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All&mdash;except one I wrote when you were ill. But never mind it, my
      dear, I can tell you what I said&mdash;or, perhaps Harold will,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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, &ldquo;How sweet it is to feel happy!&rdquo; she thought
      likewise&mdash;as those who have suffered ever must&mdash;&ldquo;Heaven make all
      the world happy too!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Hark&mdash;there's some one in the hall. Listen, Olive! It is his voice&mdash;I
      know it is! He is come home&mdash;my son!&mdash;my dear son, Harold.&rdquo; 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&mdash;his long silent voice! Hearing it, the old feeling came
      over her. She shuddered, even with a sort of fear. &ldquo;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&mdash;quite ready to meet him now.&rdquo; 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,&mdash;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&mdash;now, for the first time,
      beginning to read her heart. Something in that fond&mdash;ay, it was a
      fond look&mdash;was drawing her closer to him&mdash;something that told
      her she was dearer than any friend. It might have happened so&mdash;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&mdash;melting from cloud to glory&mdash;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,&mdash;&ldquo;O God, if this happiness should be, make me worthy of
      it&mdash;worthy of him!&mdash;If not, keep us both safe until the eternal
      meeting!&rdquo;
     </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,
      &ldquo;Come to us, little Olive,&mdash;come! Shall she, mother?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; 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&mdash;so firm, yet soft&mdash;so gentle, yet so close and warm.
      It filled her with a sense of rest and protection&mdash;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, &ldquo;Mine&mdash;mine&mdash;always mine!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So they sat and talked together&mdash;she, and Harold, and Harold's mother&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;How happy it is to come home!&rdquo; said Harold. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, tell me of the Vanbrughs,&rdquo; cried Olive eagerly. &ldquo;Then you did see
      them at last, though you never said anything about it in your letters?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo; And he pressed her
      hand closer while he spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      She answered, &ldquo;Still, tell me all.&rdquo; And she felt that, so listening, the
      heaviest worldly sorrow would have fallen light.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Were they so poor then? I feared this,&rdquo; said Olive compassionately.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;for I had read another very like it, once. But
      that is changed now, thank God,&rdquo; said Harold, softly. &ldquo;Well, so it was:
      the painter dreamed his dream, the little sister stayed at home and
      starved.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Starved! oh, no! you cannot mean that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;the studio. 'Michael's room must always be comfortable,'
      said Miss Meliora&mdash;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&mdash;it might trouble Michael
      She would get better in the spring.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Meliora! But you were very kind to her&mdash;you went to see her
      often?&mdash;I knew you would.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was no time,&rdquo; Harold answered, sadly. &ldquo;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&mdash;dying.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Harold paused&mdash;but Olive was too much moved to speak. He went on&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Meliora! poor simple, loving soul!&rdquo; And Olive melted into quiet
      tears. After a while she inquired in what way this blow had fallen upon
      Michael Vanbrugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Strangely, indeed,&rdquo; said Harold. &ldquo;It was I who told him first of his
      sister's death. He received the news quite coldly&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you saw him again?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash;, and that Michael Vanbrugh slept
      eternally beneath the blue sky of Rome.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He had his wish&mdash;he had his wish!&rdquo; said Olive, gently. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You told me so once before,&rdquo; answered Harold, in a low tone. &ldquo;Do you
      remember? It was at the Hermitage of Braid.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;&ldquo;Allow me the pleasure, Miss
      Rothesay.&rdquo; It stung her to the heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, you need not, when you are already tired. It is still early. I
      had much rather go home alone.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;just once
      more.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;You call him unfortunate; how know you that?&rdquo; said Harold, quickly. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great he was, but not happy. I think I had rather be the poor little
      sister who spent her life for him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, in a foolish affection which was all in vain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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, &ldquo;Olive?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she answered, trembling a little&mdash;but not much&mdash;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,
      &ldquo;Is there anything you would say to me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no&mdash;nothing&mdash;only good night.&rdquo; 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&mdash;knocking&mdash;crashing&mdash;a
      sound of mingled voices&mdash;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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;I am awake and safe; the fire is not in my room. Tell me, what must I
      do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dress quickly&mdash;there is time. Think of all you can save, and come,&rdquo;
       she heard Harold reply. His passionate cry of &ldquo;Olive!&rdquo; 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&mdash;her thoughts quick, vivid, and painfully
      minute. There came into her mind everything she would lose&mdash;her
      household mementos&mdash;the unfinished picture&mdash;her well-beloved
      books. She saw herself penniless&mdash;homeless&mdash;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. &ldquo;Miss Rothesay! hasten. The fire
      is gaining on us fast!&rdquo; 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&mdash;that knew no fear, except when it trembled with Olive's name.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quick&mdash;quick! I cannot rest till I have you safe. Olive! for God's
      sake, come! Bring with you anything you value, only come!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had but two chief treasures, always kept near her&mdash;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.
      &ldquo;Is there no hope of saving it&mdash;my pretty cottage&mdash;my dear home,
      where my mother died!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Since you are safe, let the house burn&mdash;I care not,&rdquo; muttered
      Harold. He seemed strangely jealous even of her thoughts&mdash;her tears.
      &ldquo;Be content,&rdquo; he said&mdash;&ldquo;you see, much has been done.&rdquo; He pointed to
      the lawn strewn with furniture. &ldquo;All is there&mdash;your picture&mdash;your
      mother's little chair&mdash;everything I thought you cared for I have
      saved.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And my life, too. Oh! it is so sweet to owe you all!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;she watching the doomed house&mdash;he only watching
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The night is cold&mdash;you shiver. I am glad I thought to bring this.&rdquo;
       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>
      &ldquo;You must not stay here,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Come with me home!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Home!&rdquo; and she looked wistfully at the ruins of her own. 2 D
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;to my home&mdash;my mother's. You know for the present it must
      indeed be yours. Come!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;all was
      a dizzy dream. Through it, she faintly heard him whisper as though to
      himself; &ldquo;I have saved her&mdash;I hold her fast&mdash;little Olive&mdash;little
      Olive!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;She is safe&mdash;oh thank God!&rdquo; cried Mrs. Gwynne. &ldquo;And you, too, my
      dear son&mdash;my brave Harold!&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;He has given his life in saving mine. Oh, would that I had died for thee&mdash;my
      Harold&mdash;my Harold!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;And it was for me&mdash;for me!&rdquo; moaned Olive. &ldquo;Yet I doubted him&mdash;I
      almost called him cruel. Oh, that I should never have known his heart
      until now!&rdquo;
     </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,&mdash;his mother, on whom Olive hardly dared to
      look, lest&mdash;innocent though she was&mdash;she might read reproach in
      Mrs. Gwynne's sorrowful eye. Once, she even ventured to hint this.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I angry, because it was in saving you that this happened to my son? No,
      Olive, no! Whatever God sends, we will bear together.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;My dear, how long have you been here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor child&mdash;poor child!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is all I can do for him and you. If I could only&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess what you would say. No, no! He must be perfectly quiet; he must
      not see or hear <i>you.</i>&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;He is fast asleep now. If it would comfort you, poor child, to look at
      him for one moment&mdash;but it must be only one&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Olive bowed her head&mdash;she was past speaking&mdash;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&mdash;the mother that bore him, and the woman who loved him
      dearer than her own soul. These two&mdash;the strongest of all earthly
      loves&mdash;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&mdash;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 &ldquo;won in the rebound.&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Give me his
      life&mdash;only his life, O God!&rdquo;
     </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;&mdash;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 &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly,&rdquo; answered Olive. She knew what the anxious mother meant, and
      dared not utter the longing at her heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hardly know what to do,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gwynne, restlessly. &ldquo;He has been
      asking to see you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To see me! And&mdash;may I!&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo; Without
      offering any opposition, Olive sat down. Mrs. Gwynne was melted. &ldquo;Nay,&rdquo;
       she said, &ldquo;you shall do as you will, little patient one! I left him asleep
      now; you shall stay by him until he wakes. Come.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;his mother's only boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a few minutes Olive sat silently watching. She felt how utterly she
      loved him&mdash;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&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot&mdash;I cannot It would be more than I could bear.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Who is
      there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is I.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Olive&mdash;little Olive.&rdquo; His white cheek flushed, and he held out his
      hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      She, remembering his mother's caution, only whispered, &ldquo;I am so glad&mdash;so
      glad!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a long time since I saw you,&rdquo; he said brokenly. &ldquo;Stand so that I
      can look at you, Olive!&rdquo; She obeyed. He looked long and wistfully at her
      face. &ldquo;You have been weeping, I see. Wherefore?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because I am so happy to think you are better.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that true? Do you think so much of me?&rdquo; And a pale but most joyful
      smile broke over his face; though, leaving it, the features trembled with
      emotion. Olive was alarmed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must not talk now&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gratitude!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Olive,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank God! thank God! But you are weak, and must not speak.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must, for I am stronger now; I draw strength from your very presence&mdash;you,
      who have been my life's good angel. Let me tell you so while I can.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;While you can!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no!&mdash;oh, no!&rdquo; And Olive clasped his hand tighter, looking up
      with a terrified air. &ldquo;You cannot&mdash;shall not die! I&mdash;I could not
      bear it&rdquo; And then her face was dyed with a crimson blush&mdash;soon washed
      away by a torrent of tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      Harold turned feebly round, and laid his right hand on her head. &ldquo;Little
      Olive! To think that you should weep thus, and I should be so calm!&rdquo; He
      waited awhile, until her emotion had ceased. Then he said, &ldquo;Lift up your
      face; let me look at you. Nay, tremble not, for I am going to speak very
      solemnly;&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;yes, always!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! Olive, you thought not that you were more to me than any friend&mdash;any
      sister&mdash;that I loved you&mdash;not calmly, brotherly&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </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. &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How could you think so? Oh! Harold&mdash;Harold!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Whether that thought was true or not, would not change what I am about to
      say now. All my pride is gone&mdash;I only desire that you should know how
      deeply I loved you: and that, living or dying, I shall love you evermore.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive tried to answer&mdash;tried to tell him the story of her one great
      love&mdash;so hopeless, yet so faithful&mdash;so passionate, yet so dumb.
      But she could utter nothing save the murmur&mdash;&ldquo;Harold! Harold!&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; he murmured,
      &ldquo;come near me, Olive&mdash;my little Olive that loves me!&mdash;is it not
      so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ever&mdash;from the first, you only&mdash;none but you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kiss me, then, my own faithful one,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;I have no strength at all,&rdquo; he said, sorrowfully. &ldquo;I cannot take her to
      my heart&mdash;my darling&mdash;my wife! So worn-out am I&mdash;so weak.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I am strong,&rdquo; Olive answered. She put her arm under his head, and
      made him lean on her shoulder. He looked up smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, this is sweet, very sweet! I could sleep&mdash;I could almost die&mdash;thus&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, God will not let you die, my Harold,&rdquo; 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&mdash;for it was
      evening&mdash;his breathing grew deeper, and he fell asleep, his head
      still resting on Olive's shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      She looked down upon him&mdash;his wasted face&mdash;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&mdash;loved him as those only
      can who have no other kindred tie&mdash;nothing in the whole wide world to
      love beside. She laid her cheek against his hair&mdash;but softly, lest
      she should waken him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;a wife's love&mdash;such
      as never was wife's before.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;he
      so unresponsive, cold, and stern. Remembering him thus, she looked at him
      as he lay, turning for rest and comfort to her&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;O God, I thank Thee, for Thou hast given me my heart's desire!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Soon after, Mrs. Gwynne entered the room. But no blush came to Olive's
      cheek&mdash;too solemn was her joy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush!&rdquo; she whispered; &ldquo;do not wake him. He loves me&mdash;I know it now.
      You will not be angry?&mdash;I have loved him always.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knew it, Olive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Harold's mother stood a long time in silence. Heaven only knows what
      struggle there might have been in her heart&mdash;so bound up as it was in
      him&mdash;her only child. Ere it ended&mdash;he awoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother!&mdash;is not that my mother?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes!&rdquo; 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;&mdash;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&mdash;an odour of bursting leaves and dew-covered
      flowers. On the lawn you could almost &ldquo;have seen the grass grow.&rdquo; 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&mdash;the happy silent three&mdash;mother, son, and the son's
      betrothed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gwynne, who sat in the far corner, put down her book&mdash;the best
      Book, for Sunday and all other days&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Do you like to hear it, or shall I close the window?&rdquo; said Olive, coming
      towards him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, it does me good; everything does me good now,&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Do you love me?&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not say so, my son. Indeed, we must have you quite well soon&mdash;the
      sooner the better&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Harold moved restlessly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What say you, Olive, my dear?&rdquo; continued Mrs. Gwynne. &ldquo;Will it not be a
      pleasure to hear him in his own pulpit again? How soon, think you, will he
      be able to preach?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot tell,&rdquo; 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&mdash;even, in many points, that of the Church&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;shall it, Harold?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother&mdash;mother!&rdquo; His hands were crushed together, and with a look of
      pain. Olive stole to his side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps we are talking too much. Shall we go away, Harold, and leave you
      to sleep?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, Olive! hush!&rdquo; he whispered. &ldquo;I have thought of this before. I knew
      I must tell it to her&mdash;all the truth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But not now&mdash;not now. Wait till you are stronger; wait a week&mdash;a
      day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not an hour. It is right!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you talking to my son about?&rdquo; said Mrs. Gwynne, with a quick
      jealousy, which even yet was not altogether stilled.
    </p>
    <p>
      Neither of the betrothed spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are not hiding anything from me, Harold; from me, your mother!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My mother&mdash;my noble, self-denying, mother!&rdquo; murmured Harold, as if
      thinking aloud. &ldquo;Surely, if I sinned for her, God will forgive me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sinned for me! What are you talking of, Harold? Is there anything in your
      mind&mdash;anything I do not know?&rdquo; And her eyes&mdash;still tender, yet
      with a half-formed suspicion&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Stand aside, Olive. Let me see his face. Not even you have a right to
      interpose between me and my son.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Olive moved a little aside. Very meek was she&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Olive&mdash;darling,&rdquo; whispered Harold, his eyes full of love; &ldquo;my mother
      says right Let her come and sit by me a little. Nay, stay near, though. I
      must have you in my sight&mdash;it will strengthen me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She pressed his hand, and went away to the other end of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then Harold said, tenderly, &ldquo;Mother, I want to tell you something.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is no misfortune&mdash;no sin? O, my son, I am too old to bear
      either!&rdquo; she answered, as she sat down, trembling a little.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My own mother&mdash;my mother that I love, dearer now than ever in my
      life before&mdash;listen to me, and then judge me. Twelve or fourteen
      years ago, there was a son&mdash;an only son&mdash;who had a noble mother.
      She had sacrificed everything for him&mdash;the time came when he had to
      sacrifice something for her. It was a point of conscience; light, perhaps,
      <i>then</i>&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go on,&rdquo; said Mrs. Gwynne, hurriedly. &ldquo;I had a fear once&mdash;a bitter
      fear. But no matter! Go on!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;not his mother's; mind&mdash;I say <i>not his
      mother's.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked at him, and then looked away again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He could blame no one but himself&mdash;he never did&mdash;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&mdash;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,&mdash;for her beauty only!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Mother,&rdquo; Harold pursued, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A faint groan&mdash;only one&mdash;broke from the depth of the mother's
      heart, but she never spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was no escape&mdash;his pride shut out that. So, year after year,
      he fulfilled his calling, and lived his life, honestly, morally&mdash;towards
      man, at least; but towards Heaven it was one long, awful lie. For he&mdash;a
      minister in God's temple&mdash;was in his heart an infidel.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;And this hypocrite in man's sight&mdash;this blasphemer in the face of
      God&mdash;is my son Harold?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was, but is not&mdash;never will be more. Oh, mother, have mercy! for
      Heaven has had mercy too.&mdash;I am no sceptic now. I believe, ay,
      fervently and humbly believe.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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 &ldquo;was dead, and alive again&mdash;was lost and found,&rdquo; and
      then she clung to him once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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>
      &ldquo;Do not talk more, you are too weak. Let me tell the rest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You there, Olive? Go! Leave my son to me; you have no part here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Harold held his betrothed fast. &ldquo;Nay, mother. Take her and bless her,
      for it was she who saved your son.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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 &ldquo;daughter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, my Harold!&rdquo; she said, when, all trace of emotion having passed from
      either, she sat quietly by her son's side. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No matter for me! My Harold,&rdquo; she added, a little moved, &ldquo;if you had
      trusted me, and told me your sufferings at any time all these years,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked at her, and slowly, slowly there rose in his eyes&mdash;those
      clear, proud, manly eyes!&mdash;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&mdash;the first and last
      she ever beheld him shed&mdash;were given not to her, but to his mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mrs. Gwynne resumed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave Harbury! your dear old home, from which you have often said you
      could never part! Oh, mother, mother!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is nothing&mdash;do not think of it, my son! Afterwards, what must you
      do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot tell. Olive, think for me!&rdquo; said Harold, looking helplessly
      towards her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Olive advised&mdash;timidly at first, but growing firmer as she proceeded&mdash;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&mdash;at least, so far as Harold's yet doubtful
      health permitted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I shall grow strong now, I know. Mother&mdash;Olive! my heart is
      lightened of the load of years!&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;to thank God!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go with her, Olive,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;daughter.&rdquo; 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&mdash;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&mdash;as she had now a right to do. She
      did so! He felt the kiss on his brow, and smiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Little Olive&mdash;good little Olive, she always comes when I most need
      her,&rdquo; he said, fondly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;the broad beautiful forehead that I love? It was not good
      of you, my Harold.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not jest, Olive; I cannot. If I go abroad, I must go alone. What will
      become of my mother and Ailie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They shall stay and comfort me. Nay, you will not forbid it. How could I
      go on with my painting, living all alone?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, there is another sting,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;Not one word say you;&mdash;but
      I feel it. How many years you may have still to work on alone!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you think I fear that? Nay&mdash;I do not give my heart like some
      women I have known&mdash;from dread of living to be an old maid, or to
      gain a house, a name, and a husband;&mdash;I gave it for love, pure love!
      If I were to wait for years&mdash;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&mdash;to share
      all your cares, and rejoice in all your joys! Indeed&mdash;indeed I am
      content.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You might, my gentle one, but not I. Little you think how strong is man's
      pride&mdash;how stronger still is man's love. We will not look to such a
      future&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He spoke hurriedly, like the proud Harold of old&mdash;ay, the pride
      mingled with a stronger passion still. But Olive smiled both down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Harold,&rdquo; she said, parting his hair with her cool soft hands, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; he muttered, &ldquo;how often ignorantly I must have made you suffer, how
      often, blindly straggling with my own pride, have I tortured you. But
      still&mdash;still I loved you. Forgive me, dear!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, there is nothing to forgive. The joy has blotted out all the pain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It shall do so when you are once mine. That must be soon, Olive&mdash;soon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She answered firmly, though a little blushing the while: &ldquo;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&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;Oh, Harold!&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;this happiness is almost more than I can bear.
      To think that you should love me thus&mdash;me poor little Olive!
      Sometimes I feel&mdash;as I once bitterly felt&mdash;how unworthy I am of
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Darling! why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because I have no beauty; and, besides&mdash;I cannot speak it, but you
      know&mdash;you know!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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&mdash;tender, though grave: &ldquo;Olive, if you love me, and
      believe that I love you, never grieve me by such thoughts again. To me you
      are all beautiful&mdash;in heart and mind, in form and soul.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;I am content, since I am fair in your sight, my Harold&mdash;my only
      love!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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,&mdash;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&mdash;the
      well-beloved name.&mdash;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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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>?&mdash;say,
      rather, its new dawn;&mdash;its fulfilment in a deeper, holier bond than
      is ever dreamed of by girlish sentiment or boyish passion&mdash;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&mdash;the
      tie which God created from the beginning, making man and woman to be one
      flesh, and pronouncing it &ldquo;good.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It is good! None can question it who sees the look of peace and full
      contentment&mdash;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&mdash;rare as such marriages ever are;
      but one sees it sometimes;&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;a birthday gift; for Ailie was nine years old that day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, how good you are to me, my sweet, dear, new mamma!&rdquo; cried the happy
      little one, clinging round Olive's neck. &ldquo;What a pretty, pretty book! And
      you have written in it my name&mdash;'Ailie.' But,&rdquo; she added, after a shy
      pause, &ldquo;I wish, if you do not mind, that you would put there my whole long
      name, which I am just learning to write.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I will, my pet. Come, tell me what shall I say&mdash;word for word,
      'Alison'&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that is it&mdash;my beautiful long name&mdash;which I like so much,
      though no one ever calls me by it&mdash;<i>Alison Sara Gwynne.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sara! did they call you Sara?&rdquo; said Olive, letting her pen fall. She took
      the little girl in her arms, and looked long and wistfully into the large
      oriental eyes&mdash;so like those which death had long sealed. And her
      tears rose, remembering the days of her youth. How strange&mdash;how very
      strange, had been her whole life's current, even until now! She thought of
      her who was no more&mdash;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>&mdash;The word brought back&mdash;as it often did when
      Harold's daughter called her by that name&mdash;another memory, never
      forgotten, though sealed among the holy records of the past. Even on her
      marriage-day the thought had come&mdash;&ldquo;O thou, to whom in life I gave
      all love, all duty,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </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
      &ldquo;vocation.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;any oblivion, to deaden its cruel pain,&mdash;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&mdash;the same bright-eyed, benevolent, simple
      soul. &ldquo;Ah, you are come again this week, too, my dear Mrs. Harold Gwynne&mdash;(I
      can hardly remember your new name even yet)&mdash;but I fear your coming
      is vain; though, day after day, I beseech your sister to see you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She will not, then?&rdquo; said Olive, sighing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
       said the compassionate nun.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Speak to her once more. Do not tell her I am here: only speak of me to
      her,&rdquo; said Olive. And she waited anxiously until Sister Ignatia came back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;I hope, if she were to
      see you suddenly, before she had time to reflect&mdash;only not now&mdash;you
      look so agitated yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no; I can always be calm at will&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;Why did you come here?&rdquo; she said hoarsely; &ldquo;I sent you word I wished to
      see no one&mdash;that I was utterly dead to the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But not to me&mdash;oh, not to me, my sister!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sister!&rdquo; she repeated, with flashing eyes, and then crossed herself
      humbly, muttering, &ldquo;The evil spirit must not rise again. Help me, Blessed
      Mother&mdash;good saints, help me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She told her rosary over once, twice, and then turned to Olive, subdued.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now say what you have to say to me. I told you I had no anger in my heart&mdash;I
      even asked your forgiveness. I only desire to be left alone&mdash;to spend
      the rest of my bitter life in penance and prayer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I cannot leave you, my sister.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish you would not call me so, nor take my hand, nor look at me as you
      do now&mdash;as you did the first night I saw you, and again on that
      awful, awful day!&rdquo; And Christal sank back on one of the little beds&mdash;the
      thornless pillow where some happy child slept&mdash;and there sobbed
      bitterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      More than once she motioned Olive away, but Olive would not go. &ldquo;Do not
      send me away! If you knew how I suffer daily from the thought of you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You suffer! happy as they tell me you are&mdash;you, with your home and
      your husband!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Christal, even my husband grieves&mdash;my husband, who would do
      anything in the whole world for your peace. You have forgotten Harold.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A softness came over Christal's face. &ldquo;No, I have not forgotten him. Day
      and night I pray for him who saved more than my life&mdash;my soul. For
      that deed may God bless him!&mdash;and God pardon me.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;You seem well in health, and you have a peaceful look. I am glad of it&mdash;I
      am glad you are happy, and married to Harold Gwynne. He told me of his
      love for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not with me&mdash;not with me. But I desire not to talk of myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall I talk then about your friend Harold&mdash;your <i>brother</i>? He
      told me to say he would ever be so to you,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </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>
      &ldquo;I have told you now nearly all that has happened among us this year. You
      have spoken of all your friends, save one.&rdquo; She hesitated, and at last
      uttered the name of Lyle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush!&rdquo; said Christal. But her cheek's paleness changed not; her heavy eye
      neither kindled nor drooped. &ldquo;Hush! I do not wish to hear that name. It
      has passed out of my world for ever&mdash;blotted out by the horrors that
      followed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you have forgotten&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forgotten all. It was but a dream of my old vain life&mdash;it troubles
      me no more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank God!&rdquo; murmured Olive, though in her heart she marvelled to think
      how many false reflections there were of the one true love&mdash;the only
      love that can endure&mdash;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. &ldquo;How good and thoughtful of him, my dear Harold&mdash;my
      husband!&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;ay, even had the end come never in her life on earth,&mdash;rather
      than not have known the sweetness of loving&mdash;the glory of loving one
      like him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Harold met her with a smile. &ldquo;I have been waiting long&mdash;I could not
      let my little Olive walk home alone.&rdquo;
     </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&mdash;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, &ldquo;to send the cobwebs out of his brain,&rdquo; 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&mdash;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. &ldquo;Harold, are you content? You would
      not send me from you?&mdash;you would not wish to live your whole life
      without me now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No&mdash;no!&rdquo; he cried, pressing her hand close to his heart. The mute
      gesture said enough&mdash;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,&mdash;the stormy night of early winter&mdash;for
      the wind had risen, and swept howling over the heathery ridge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I have my plaid here, and you will not mind the cold, my lassie&mdash;Scottish
      born,&rdquo; 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>
      &ldquo;I glory in the wind,&rdquo; cried Harold, tossing back his head, and shaking
      his wavy hair, something lion-like. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And on her part, Olive with her clinging sweetness, her upward gaze, was a
      type of true woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think,&rdquo; Harold continued, &ldquo;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&mdash;thus!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He planted his foot firmly on the ground, lifted his proud head, and
      looked out fearlessly with his majestic eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I,&rdquo; said Olive, &ldquo;thus.&rdquo;
     </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.  Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.



*** START: FULL LICENSE ***

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase &ldquo;Project
Gutenberg&rdquo;), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
http://gutenberg.org/license).


Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works

1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B.  &ldquo;Project Gutenberg&rdquo; is a registered trademark.  It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.  See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (&ldquo;the Foundation&rdquo;
 or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.

1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase &ldquo;Project Gutenberg&rdquo; appears, or with which the phrase &ldquo;Project
Gutenberg&rdquo; is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:

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

1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase &ldquo;Project Gutenberg&rdquo; associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.

1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.

1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
&ldquo;Plain Vanilla ASCII&rdquo; or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original &ldquo;Plain Vanilla ASCII&rdquo; or other
form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that

- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
     address specified in Section 4, &ldquo;Information about donations to
     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.&rdquo;

- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
     License.  You must require such a user to return or
     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
     Project Gutenberg-tm works.

- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
     of receipt of the work.

- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
&ldquo;Defects,&rdquo; such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.

1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the &ldquo;Right
of Replacement or Refund&rdquo; described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.


Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org.


Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541.  Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
http://pglaf.org/fundraising.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.

The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
business@pglaf.org.  Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
page at http://pglaf.org

For additional contact information:
     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
     Chief Executive and Director
     gbnewby@pglaf.org


Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit http://pglaf.org

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate


Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.

Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone.  For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.


Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.


Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:

     http://www.gutenberg.org

This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.


</pre>
  </body>
</html>
generated by cgit v1.2.3 (git 2.25.1) at 2026-01-06 10:04:18 +0000