COMING BACK
'If Thou shouldst bring me back to life,
More humble I should be,
More wise, more strengthened for the strife
More apt to lean on Thee.
Should death be standing at the gate,
Thus should I keep my vow,
But, Lord! whatever be my fate,
Oh, let me serve Thee now!'--Anne Bronte.
'This sickness is not unto death.'
The news that the crisis had passed, and that the disease that had so
long baffled the physician's skill had taken a favourable turn, soon
spread over the town like wildfire; the shadow of death no longer
lingered on the threshold of the vicarage; there were trembling voices
raised in the _Te Deum_ the next morning; the vicar's long pause in the
Thanksgiving was echoed by many a throbbing heart; Mildred's book was
wet with her tears, and even Chrissy looked softened and subdued.
There were agitated greetings in the church porch afterwards. Olive's
sick heart would have been satisfied with the knowledge that she was
beloved if she had seen Roy's glistening eyes and the silent pressure of
congratulation that passed between her father and Richard.
'Heriot, we feel that under Providence we owe our girl's life to you.'
'You are equally beholden to her aunt's nursing; but indeed, Mr.
Lambert, I look upon your daughter's recovery as little less than a
miracle. I certainly felt myself justified to prepare you for the worst
last night; at one time she appeared to be sinking.'
'She has been given back to us from the confines of the grave,' was the
solemn answer; and as he took his son's arm and they walked slowly down
the churchyard, he said, half to himself--'and a gift given back is
doubly precious.'
The same thought seemed in his mind when Richard entered the study late
that night with the welcome tidings that Olive was again sleeping
calmly.
'Oh, Cardie, last night we thought we should have lost our girl; after
all, God has been good to me beyond my deserts.'
'We may all say that, father.'
'I have been thinking that we have none of us appreciated Olive as we
ought; since she has been ill a hundred instances of her unselfishness
have occurred to me; in our trouble, Cardie, she thought for others, not
for herself. I never remember seeing her cry except once, and yet the
dear child loved her mother.'
Richard's face paled a little, but he made no answer; he remembered but
too well the time to which his father alluded--how, when in his jealous
surveillance he had banished her from her father's room, he had found
her haunting the passages with her pale face and black dress, or sitting
on the stairs, a mute image of patience.
No, there had been no evidence of her grief; others beside himself had
marvelled at her changeless and monotonous calm; she had harped on her
mother's name with a persistency that had driven him frantic, and he had
silenced the sacred syllables in a fit of nervous exasperation; from the
very first she had troubled and wearied him, she whom he was driven to
confess was immeasurably his superior. Yes, the scales had fallen from
his eyes, and as his father spoke a noble spirit pleaded in him, and the
rankling confession at last found vent in the deep inward cry--
'Father, I have sinned against heaven and before Thee, in that I have
offended one of Thy little ones,' and the _Deo gratias_ of an accepted
repentance and possible atonement followed close upon the words.
'Father, I want to speak to you.'
'Well, Cardie.'
'I know how my silence has grieved you; Aunt Milly told me. I was
wrong--I see it now.'
Richard's face was crimsoning with the effort, but the look in his
father's eyes as he laid his thin hand on his arm was sufficient reward.
'Thank God for this, my boy, that you have spoken to me at last of your
own accord; it has lifted a heavy burden from my heart.'
'I ought not to have refused my confidence; you were too good to me. I
did not deserve it.'
'You thought you were strong enough to remove your own stumbling-blocks;
it is the fault of the young generation, Cardie; it would fain walk by
its own lights.'
'I must allow my motives were mixed with folly, but the fear of
troubling you was predominant.'
'I know it, I know it well, my son, but all the same I have yearned to
help you. I have myself to blame in this matter, but the thought that
you would not allow me to share your trouble was a greater punishment
than even I could bear; no, do not look so sorrowful, this moment has
repaid me for all my pain.'
But it was not in Richard's nature to do anything by halves, and in his
generous compunction he refused to spare himself; the barrier of his
reserve once broken down, he made ample atonement for his past
reticence, and Mr. Lambert more than once was forced to admit that he
had misjudged his boy.
Late into the night they talked, and when they parted the basis of a
perfect understanding was established between them; if his son's tardy
confidence had soothed and gratified Mr. Lambert, Richard on his side
was equally grateful for the patience and loving forbearance with which
his father strove to disentangle the webs that insidious argument had
woven in his clear young brain; there was much lurking mischief, much to
clear away and remove, difficulties that only time and prayerful
consideration could surmount; but however saddened Mr. Lambert might
feel in seeing the noxious weeds in that goodly vineyard, he was not
without hope that in time Richard's tarnished faith might gleam out
brightly again.
During the weeks that ensued there were many opportunities for hours of
quiet study and talk between the father and son; in his new earnestness
Mr. Lambert became less vague, this fresh obstacle roused all his
energy; there was something pathetic in the spectacle of the worn
scholar and priest buckling on his ancient armour to do battle for his
boy; the old flash came to his eye, the ready vigour and eloquence to
his speech, gleams of sapient wisdom startled Richard into new
reverence, causing the young doubter to shrink and feel abashed.
'If one could only know, if an angel from heaven might set the seal to
our assurance!' he exclaimed once. 'Father, only to know, to be sure of
these things.'
'Oh, Cardie, what is that but following the example of the affectionate
but melancholy Didymus; "Blessed are they that have not seen and yet
have believed"; the drowning mariner cannot see the wind that is lashing
the waves that threaten to engulf his little bark, cannot "tell whence
it comes or whither it goes," yet faith settles the helm and holds the
rudder, and bids him cling to the spar when all seems over.'
'But he feels it beyond and around him; he feels it as we feel the
warmth of the latent sunshine or the permeating influences of light; we
can see the light, father,' he continued eagerly, 'we can lift our eyes
eagle-wise to the sun if we will; why should our inner light be quenched
and clouded?'
'To test our faith, to make us hold on more securely; after all, Cardie,
the world beyond--truth revealed--religion--look to us often through
life like light seen from the bottom of a well--below us darkness, then
space, narrowed to our perception, a glimmering of blue sky sown thick
with stars--light, keen and arrowy, shining somewhere in the depths;
some of us rise to the light, drawn irresistibly to it, a few remain at
the bottom of the well all their lives.'
'And some are born blind.'
'Let us leave them to the mercy of the Great Physician; in our case
scales may fall from our eyes, and still with imperfect vision we may
look up and see men as trees walking, but we must grope on still. Ah, my
boy, when in our religious hypochondria whole creeds desert us, and
shreds and particles only remain of a fragmentary and doubtful faith,
don't let us fight with shadows, which of their very nature elude and
fade out of our grasp; let us fall on our knees rather, Cardie, and
cry--"Lord, I believe--I will believe; help Thou my unbelief."'
Many and many such talks were held, the hours and days slipping away,
Mildred meanwhile devoting herself to the precious work of nursing Olive
back to convalescence.
It was a harder task than even Dr. Heriot expected; slowly, painfully,
almost unwillingly, the girl tottered back to life; now and then there
were sensible relapses of weakness; prostration, that was almost
deathlike, then a faint flicker, followed by a conscious rally, times
when they trembled and feared and then hoped again; when the shadowy
face and figure filled Mildred with vague alarm, and the blank
despondency in the large dark eyes haunted her with a sense of pain.
In vain Mildred lavished on her the tenderest caresses; for days there
was no answering smile on the pallid face, and yet no invalid could be
more submissive.
Unresistingly, uncomplainingly, Olive bore the weakness that was at
times almost unendurable; obediently she took from their hands the
nourishment they gave her; but there seemed no anxiety to shake off her
illness; it was as though she submitted to life rather than willed it,
nay, as though she received it back with a regret and reluctance that
caused even her unselfishness a struggle.
Was the cloud returning? Had they been wrong to pray so earnestly for
her life? Would she come back to them a sadder and more weary Olive, to
tax their forbearance afresh, instead of winning an added love; was she
who had been as a little child set in their midst for an example of
patient humility, to carry this burden of despondent fear about with her
from the dark valley itself?
Mildred was secretly trembling over these thoughts; they harassed and
oppressed her; she feared lest Richard's new reverence and love for his
sister should be impaired when he found the old infirmity still clinging
to her; even now the sad look in her eyes somewhat oppressed him.
'Livy, you look sometimes as though you repented getting well,' he said
affectionately to her one day, when her languor and depression had been
very great.
'Oh no, please don't say so, Cardie,' she returned faintly, but the last
trace of colour forsook her face at his words; 'how can--how can you say
that, when you know you wanted me?' and as the tears began to flow,
Richard, alarmed and perplexed, soothed and comforted her.
Another day, when her father had been sitting by her, reading and
talking to her, he noticed that she looked at him with a sort of puzzled
wonder in her eyes.
'What is it, my child?' he asked, leaning over her and stroking her hair
with caressing hand. 'Do you feel weary of the reading, Olive?'
'No, oh no; it was beautiful,' she returned, with a trembling lip; 'I
was only thinking--wondering why you loved me.'
'Love you, my darling! do not fathers love their children, especially
when they have such good affectionate children?'
'But I am not good,' she returned, with something of her old shrinking.
'Oh, papa, why did you and Cardie want me so, your poor useless Olive;
even Cardie loves me now, and I have done nothing but lie here and give
trouble to you all; but you are all so good--so good,' and Olive buried
her pale face in her father's shoulder.
The old self-depreciation waking up to life, the old enemy leaguing with
languor and despondency to mar the sweet hopefulness of convalescence.
Mildred in desperation determined to put her fears to the proof when
Olive grew strong enough to bear any conversation.
The opportunity came sooner than she hoped.
One day the cloud lifted a little. Roy had been admitted to his sister's
room, and his agitation and sorrow at her changed appearance and his
evident joy at seeing her again had roused Olive from her wonted
lethargy. Mildred found her afterwards lying exhausted but with a smile
on her face.
'Dear Roy,' she murmured, 'how good he was to me. Oh, Aunt Milly,'
clasping Mildred's hands between her wasted fingers, 'I don't deserve
for them to be so dear and good to me, it makes me feel as though I were
wicked and ungrateful not to want to get well.'
'I dreaded to hear you say this, Olive,' returned Mildred. As she sat
down beside her, her grieved look seemed a reproach to Olive.
'It was not that I wanted to leave you all,' she said, laying her cheek
against the hand she held, 'but I have been such a trouble to every one
as well as to myself; it seemed so nice to have done with it all--all
the weariness and disappointment I mean.'
'You were selfish for once in your life then, Olive,' returned Mildred,
trying to smile, but with a heavy heart.
'I tried not to be,' she whispered. 'I did not want you to be sorry,
Aunt Milly, but I knew if I lived it would all come over again. It is
the old troublesome Olive you are nursing,' she continued softly, 'who
will try and disappoint you as she has always done. I can't get rid of
my old self, and that is why I am sorry.'
'Sorry because we are glad; it is Olive and no other that we want.'
'Oh, if I could believe that,' returned the girl, her eyes filling with
tears; 'but it sounds too beautiful to be true, and yet I know it was
only Cardie's voice that brought me back, he wanted me so badly, and he
asked me to stay. I heard him--I heard him sob, Aunt Milly,' clutching
her aunt with weak, nerveless fingers.
'Are you sure, Olive? You were fainting, you know.'
'Yes, I was falling--falling into dark, starry depths, full of living
creatures, wheels of light and flame seemed everywhere, and then
darkness. I thought mamma had got me in her arms, she seemed by me
through it all, and then I heard Cardie say I should break his heart,
and then he sobbed, and papa blessed me. I heard some gate close after
that, and mamma's arms seemed to loosen from me, and I knew then I was
not dying.'
'But you were sorry, Olive.'
'I tried not to be; but it was hard, oh, so hard, Aunt Milly. Think what
it was to have that door shut just as one's foot was on the threshold,
and when I thought it was all over and I had got mamma back again; but
it was wrong to grieve. I have not earned my rest.'
'Hush, my child, you must not take up a new lease of life so sadly; this
is a gift, Olive, a talent straight from the Master's hands, to be
received with gratitude, to be used joyfully; by and by, when you are
stronger, you will find more beautiful work your death would have left
unfinished.'
A weary look crossed Olive's face.
'Shall I ever be strong enough to work again?'
'You are working now; nay, my child,' as Olive looked up with languid
surprise, 'few of us are called upon to do a more difficult task than
yours; to take up life when we would choose death, to bear patiently the
discipline of suffering and inaction, to wait till He says "work."'
'Dear Aunt Milly, you always say such comforting things. I thought I was
only doing nothing but give you trouble.'
'There you were wrong, Olive; every time you suppress an impatient sigh,
every time you call up a smile to cheer us, you are advancing a step,
gaining a momentary advantage over your old enemy; you know my favourite
verses--
"Broadest streams from narrowest sources,
Noblest trees from meanest seeds,
Mighty ends from small beginnings,
From lowly promise lofty deeds.
"Acorns which the winds have scattered,
Future navies may provide;
Thoughts at midnight, whispered lowly,
Prove a people's future guide."
I am a firm believer in little efforts, Olive.'
Olive was silent for a few minutes, but she appeared thinking deeply;
but when she spoke next it was in a calmer tone.
'After all, Aunt Milly, want of courage is my greatest fault.'
'I cannot deny it, dear.'
'I am so afraid of responsibility that it seemed easier to die than to
face it. You were right; I was selfish to want to leave you all.'
'You must try to rejoice with us that you are spared.'
'Yes, I will try,' with a sigh; but as she began to look white and
exhausted, Mildred thought it wiser to drop the conversation.
The family circle was again complete in the vicarage, and in the
evenings a part of the family always gathered in the sickroom. This was
hailed as a great privilege by the younger members--Roy, Polly, and
Chriss eagerly disputing it. It was an understood thing that Richard
should be always there; Olive seemed restless without him. Roy was her
next favourite; his gentleness and affection seemed to soothe her; but
Mildred noticed that Polly's bright flow of spirits somewhat oppressed
her, and it was not easy to check Chriss's voluble tongue.
One evening Ethel was admitted. She had pleaded so hard that Richard had
at last overcome Olive's shrinking reluctance to face any one outside
the family circle; but even Olive's timidity was not proof against
Ethel's endearing ways; and as Miss Trelawny, shocked and distressed at
her changed appearance, folded the girl silently in her arms, the tears
gathered to her eyes, and for a moment she seemed unable to speak.
'You must not be so sorry,' whispered Olive, gratefully; 'Aunt Milly
will soon nurse me quite well.'
'But I was not prepared for such a change,' stammered Ethel. 'Dear
Olive, to think how you must have suffered! I should hardly have known
you; and yet,' she continued, impulsively, 'I never liked the look of
you so well.'
'We tell her she has grown,' observed Richard, cheerfully; 'she has only
to get fat to make a fine woman. Aunt Milly has contrived such a
bewitching head-dress that we do not regret the loss of all that
beautiful hair.'
'Oh, Cardie, as though that mattered;' but Olive blushed under her
brother's affectionate scrutiny. Ethel Trelawny was right when she owned
Olive's appearance had never pleased her more, emaciated and changed as
she was. The sad gentleness of the dark, unsmiling eyes was infinitely
attractive. The heavy sallowness was gone; the thin white face looked
fair and transparent; little rings of dark hair peeped under the lace
cap; but what struck Ethel most was the rapt and elevated expression of
the girl's face--a little dreamy, perhaps, but suggestive of another and
nobler Olive.
'Oh, Olive, how strange it seems, to think you have come back to us
again, when Mildred thought you had gone!' ejaculated Ethel, in a tone
almost of awe.
'Yes,' returned Olive, simply; 'I know what death means now. When I come
to die, I shall feel I know it all before.'
'But you did not die, dear Olive!' exclaimed Ethel, in a startled voice.
'No one can know but Lazarus and the widow's son; and they have told us
nothing.'
'Aunt Milly says they were not allowed to tell; she thinks there is
something awful in their silence; but all the same I shall always feel
that I know what dying means.'
Ethel looked at her with a new reverence in her eyes. Was this the
stammering, awkward Olive?
'Tell me what you mean,' she whispered gently; 'I cannot understand. One
must die before one can solve the mystery.'
'And was I not dying?' returned Olive, in the same dreamy tone. 'When I
close my eyes I can bring it all back; the faintness, the dizziness, the
great circles of light, the deadly, shuddering cold creeping over my
limbs, every one weeping round me, and yet beyond a great silence and
darkness; we begin to understand what silence means then.'
'A great writer once spoke of "voices at the other end of silence,"'
returned Ethel, in a stifled tone. This strange talk attracted and yet
oppressed her.
'But silence itself--what is silence?--one sometimes stops to think
about it, and then its grandeur seems to crush one. What if silence be
the voice of God!'
'Dear Livy, you must not excite yourself,' interrupted Richard; but his
tone was awestruck too.
'Great thoughts do not excite,' she returned, calmly. She had forgotten
Ethel--all of them. From the couch where she lay she could see the dark
violet fells, the soft restful billows of green, silver splashes of
light through the trees. How peaceful and quiet it all looked. Ah! if it
had only been given her to walk in those green pastures and 'beside the
still waters of the Paradise of God;' if that day which shall be known
to the Lord 'had come to her when "at eventide it shall be
light;"'--eventide!--alas! for her there still must remain the burden
and heat of the day--sultry youth, weariness of premature age, 'light
that shall neither be clear nor dark,' before that blessed eventide
should come, 'and she should pass through the silence into the rest
beyond.'
'Aunt Milly, if you or Cardie would read me something,' she said at
last, with a wonderful sadness in her voice; and as they hastened to
comply with her wish, the brief agitation vanished from her face. What
if it were not His will! what if some noble work stood ready to her
faltering hand, "content to fill a little space, if Thou be glorified!"
'Oh, I must learn to say that,' she whispered.
'Are you tired, Livy?' asked Richard at last, as he paused a moment in
his reading; but there was no answer. Olive's eyes were closed. One thin
hand lay under her cheek, a tear hung on the eyelashes; but on the
sleeping face there lay an expression of quiet peace that was almost
childlike.
It was noticed that Olive mended more rapidly from that evening. Dr.
Heriot had recommended change of air; and as Olive was too weak to bear
a long journey, Mildred took her to Redcar for a few weeks. Richard
accompanied them, but did not remain long, as his father seemed
unwilling to lose him during his last few months at home.
During their absence two important events took place at the vicarage.
Dad Fabian paid his promised visit, and the new curate arrived. Polly's
and Chriss's letter brimmed over with news. 'Every one was delighted
with her dear old Dad,' Polly wrote; 'Richard was gracious, Mr. Lambert
friendly, and Roy enthusiastically admiring.'
Dad had actually bought a new coat and had cut his hair, which Polly
owned was a grief to her; 'and his beard looked like everybody else's
beard,' wrote the girl with a groan. If it had not been for his
snuff-box she would hardly have known him. Some dealer had bought his
_Cain_, and the old man's empty pockets were replenished.
It was a real joy to Olive's affectionate heart to know that Roy's
juvenile efforts were appreciated by so great a man.
Mildred, who was almost as simple in worldly matters as her niece, was
also a devout believer in Dad Fabian's capabilities. The dark-lined
picture of Cain fleeing from his avenging conscience, with his weeping
guardian angel by his side, had made a great impression on her.
Olive and she had long talks over Polly's rapid scrawls. Roy had genius,
and was to be an artist after all. He was to enter a London studio after
Christmas. Dad Fabian knew the widow of an artist living near Hampstead
who would board and lodge him, and look after him as though he were a
son of her own; and Dad Fabian himself was to act as his sponsor,
art-guide, and chaperon.
'My guardian thinks very highly of Dad,' wrote Polly, in her pretty,
childish handwriting. 'He calls him an unappreciated genius, and says
Roy will be quite safe under his care. Dad is a little disappointed
Roy's forte is landscape painting; he wanted him to go in for high art;
but Roy paints clouds better than faces.'
'Dear Roy, how we shall miss him!' sighed Olive, as she laid the letter
down.
'Polly more than any one,' observed Mildred, thinking how strange it
would be to see one bright face without the other close to it.
The new curate was rather a tame affair after this.
'His name is Hugh Marsden, and he is to live at Miss Farrer's, the
milliner,' announced Olive one day, when she had received a letter from
Richard. 'Miss Farrer has two very nice rooms looking over the
market-place. Her last lodger was a young engineer, and it made a great
difference to her income when he left her. Richard says he is a "Queen's
man, and a very nice fellow;" he is only in deacon's orders.'
'Let us see what Chriss has to say about him in her letter,' returned
Mildred; but she contemplated a little ruefully the crabbed, irregular
writing, every word looking like a miniature edition of Contradiction
Chriss herself.
'Mr. Marsden has arrived,' scrawled Chriss, 'and has just had tea here.
I don't think we shall like him at all. Roy says he is a jolly fellow,
and is fond of cricket and fishing, and those sort of things, but he
looks too much like a big boy for my taste; I don't like such large
young men; and he has big hands and feet and a great voice, and his
laugh is as big as the rest of him. I think him dreadfully ugly, but
Polly says "No, he has nice honest eyes."
'He tried to talk to Polly and me; only wasn't it rude, Aunt Milly? He
called me my dear, and asked me if I liked dolls. I felt I could have
withered him on the spot, only he was so stupid and obtuse that he took
no notice, and went on about his little sister Sophy, who had twelve
dolls, whom she dressed to represent the twelve months in the year, and
how she nearly broke her heart when he sat down on them by accident and
smashed July.'
Roy gave a comical description of the whole thing and Chriss's wrathful
discomfiture.
'We have just had great fun,' he wrote; 'the Rev. Hugh has just been
here to tea; he is a capital fellow--up to larks, and with plenty of go
in him, and with a fine deep voice for intoning; he is wild about
training the choir already. He talked a great deal about his mother and
sisters; he is an only son. I bet you anything, you women will be bored
to death with Dora, Florence, and Sophy. If they are like him they are
not handsome. One thing I must tell you, he riled Contradiction awfully
by asking her if she liked dolls; she was Pugilist Pug then and no
mistake. You should have seen the air with which she drew herself up. "I
suppose you take me for a little girl," quoth she. Marsden's face was a
study. "I am afraid you will take her for a spoilt one," says Dad,
patting her shoulder, which only made matters worse. "I think your
sister must be very silly with her twelve seasons," bursts out Chriss.
"I would sooner do algebra than play with dolls; but if you will excuse
me, I have my Caesar to construe;" and she walked out of the room with
her chin in the air, and every curl on her head bristling with wrath.
Marsden sat open-mouthed with astonishment, and Dad was forced to
apologise; and there was Polly all the time "behaving like a little
lady."'
'As though Polly could do wrong,' observed Mildred with a smile, as she
finished Roy's ridiculous effusion.
It was the beginning of October when they returned home. Olive had by
this time recovered her strength, and was able to enjoy her rambles on
the sand; and though Mr. Lambert found fault with the thin cheeks and
lack of robustness, his anxiety was set at rest by Mildred, who declared
Olive had done credit to her nursing, and a little want of flesh was all
the fault that could be found with her charge.
The welcome home was sweet to the restored invalid. Richard's kiss was
scarcely less fond than her father's. Roy pinched her cheek to be sure
that this was a real, and not a make-believe, Olive; while Polly
followed her to her room to assure herself that her hair had really
grown half an inch, as Aunt Milly declared it had.
Nor was Mildred's welcome less hearty.
'How good it is to see you in your old place, Aunt Milly,' said Richard,
with an affectionate glance, as he placed himself beside her at the
tea-table.
'We have missed you, Milly!' exclaimed her brother a moment afterwards.
'Heriot was saying only last night that the vicarage did not seem itself
without you.'
'Nothing is right without Aunt Milly!' cried Polly, with a squeeze; and
Roy chimed in, indignantly, 'Of course not; as though we could do
without Aunt Milly!'
The new curate was discussed the first evening. Mr. Lambert and Richard
were loud in their praises; and though Chriss muttered to herself in a
surly undertone, nobody minded her.
His introduction to Olive happened after a somewhat amusing fashion.
He was crossing the hall the next day, on his way to the vicar's study,
when Roy bade him go into the drawing-room and make acquaintance with
Aunt Milly.
It happened that Mildred had just left the room, and Olive was sitting
alone, working.
She looked up a little surprised at the tall, broad-shouldered young man
who was making his way across the room.
'Royal told me I should find you here, Miss Lambert. I hope your niece
has recovered the fatigue of her journey.'
'I am not Aunt Milly; I am Olive,' returned the girl, gravely, but not
refusing the proffered hand. 'You are my father's new curate, Mr.
Marsden, I suppose?'
'Yes; I beg your pardon, I have made a foolish mistake I see,' returned
the young man, confusedly, stammering and flushing over his words.
'Royal sent me in to find his aunt, and--and--I did not notice.'
'What does it matter?' returned Olive, simply. The curate's evident
nervousness made her anxious to set him at his ease. 'You could not
know; and Aunt Milly looks so young, and my illness has changed me. It
was such a natural mistake, you see,' with the soft seriousness with
which Olive always spoke now.
'Thank you; yes, of course,' stammered Hugh, twirling his felt hat
through his fingers, and looking down at her with a sort of puzzled
wonder. The grave young face under the quaint head-dress, the soft dark
hair just parted on the forehead, the large earnest eyes, candid, and
yet unsmiling, filled him with a sort of awe and reverence.
'You have been very ill,' he said at last, with a pitying chord in his
voice. 'People do not look like that who have not suffered. You remind
me,' he continued, sitting down beside her, and speaking a little
huskily, 'of a sister whom I lost not so very long ago.'
Olive looked up with a sudden gleam in her eyes.
'Did she die?'
'Yes. You are more fortunate, Miss Lambert; you were permitted to get
well.'
'You are a clergyman, and you say that,' she returned, a little
breathlessly. 'If it were not wrong I should envy your sister, who
finished her work so young.'
'Hush, Miss Lambert, that is wrong,' replied Hugh. His brief nervousness
had vanished; he was quite grave now; his round, boyish face, ruddy and
brown with exercise, paled a little with his earnestness and the memory
of a past pain.
'Caroline wanted to live, and you want to die,' he said, in a voice full
of rebuke. 'She cried because she was young, and did not wish to leave
us, and because she feared death; and you are sorry to live.'
'I have always found life so hard,' sighed Olive. It did not seem
strange to her that she should be talking thus to a stranger; was he not
a clergyman--her father's curate--in spite of his boyish face? 'St. Paul
thought it was better, you know; but indeed I am trying to be glad, Mr.
Marsden, that I have all this time before me.'
'Trying to be glad for the gift of life!' Here was a mystery to be
solved by the Rev. Hugh Marsden, he who rejoiced in life with the whole
strength of his vigorous young heart; who loved all living things, man,
woman, and child--nay, the very dumb animals themselves; who drank in
light and vigour and cheerfulness as his daily food; who was glad for
mere gladness' sake; to whom sin was the only evil in the world, and
suffering a privilege, and not a punishment; who measured all things,
animate and inanimate, with a merciful breadth of views, full of that
'charity that thinketh no evil,'--he to be told by this grave, pale girl
that she envied his sister who died.
'What is the matter--have I shocked you?' asked Olive, her sensitiveness
taking alarm at his silence.
'Yes--no; I am sorry for you, that is all, Miss Lambert. I am young, but
I am a clergyman, as you say. I love life, as I love all the good gifts
of my God; and I think,' hesitating and dropping his voice, 'your one
prayer should be, that He may teach you to be glad.'