Olive sat mournfully contemplating Sara Derwent's last letter--the last
she knew it would be. It was written, not with the frank simplicity of
their girlish confidence, but with the formal dignity of one who the
next day would become a bride. It spoke of no regret, no remorse for her
violated troth; it mentioned her former promise in a cold, business-like
manner, without inferring any changed love, but merely stating her
friends' opinion on the “evil of long engagements, and that she would be
much better married at once to Mr. Gwynne, than waiting some ten years
for Charles Geddes.”
But to Olive this change seemed a positive sin. She shuddered to think
of Sara's wicked faithlessness; she wept with pity, remembering poor
Charles. The sense of wrong, as well as of misery, had entered her world
at once; her idols were crumbling into dust. Life grew painful, and a
morbid bitterness was settling on her mind.
She read the account that Sara had somewhat boastfully written, of her
prospects, her pretty home, and of her lover's devotion to her. “This
clever man--this noble man (as people call him, and most of all his
mother)--I could wind him round my little finger. What think you, Olive?
Is not that something to be married for? You ask if I am happy. Yes,
certainly, happier than you can imagine.”
“That is true, indeed,” murmured Olive; and there came upon her a bitter
sense of the inequalities of life. It seemed that Heaven to some gave
all things; to others, nothing! But she hushed the complainings, for
they seemed impious. Upon her was the influence of the faith she had
been taught by Elspie, which though in the old Scotswoman it became
all the mystic horrors of Calvinism, yet in Olive's gentler and higher
nature, had worked out blessing instead of harm. For it was a faith
that taught the peace of resting child-like beneath the shadow of that
Omnipotent Will, which holds every tangled thread of fate within one
mighty Hand, which rules all things, and rules them continually for
good.
While thinking thus, Olive was sitting in her “bower.” It was a
garden-seat, placed under the thorn-tree, and shut out from sight of the
house by an espalier of apple-trees. Not very romantic, certainly, but
a most pleasant spot, with the sound of the “shallow river” gliding by,
and of many a bird that “sang madrigals” in the meadows opposite.
And Olive herself, as she sat with her hands crossed on her knee, her
bending head and pensive eyes out-gazing, added no little to the scene.
Many a beauty might have coveted the meek yet heavenly look which threw
sweetness over the pale features of the deformed girl.
Olive, sitting with her eyes cast down, was some time before she became
conscious that she was watched--long and earnestly, but by an innocent
watcher--her “little knight” as he had dubbed himself, Lyle Derwent. His
face looked out from the ivy-leaves at the top of the wall. Soon he had
leaped down, and was kneeling at her feet, just like a young lover in a
romance. Smiling, she told him so; for in truth she made a great pet
of the child, whose delicate beauty pleased her artist-eye, while his
gentleness won her affection.
“Well, and I will be your lover, Miss Olive,” said he, stoutly; “for I
love you very much indeed. I should so like to kiss you--may I?”
She stooped down; moved almost to tears.
“Why are you always so sad? why do you never laugh, like Sara or the
other young ladies we know?”
“Because I am not like Sara, or like any other girl. Ah! Lyle, all is
very different with me. But, my little knight, this can scarcely be
understood by one so young as you.”
“Though I am a little boy, I know thus much, that I love you, and think
you more beautiful than anybody else in the world.”
And speaking rather loudly and energetically, he was answered by a burst
of derisive laughter from behind the wall.
Olive crimsoned; it was one more of those passing wounds which her
sensitive nature now continually received. Was even a child's love for
her deemed so unnatural, and that it should be mocked at thus cruelly?
Lyle, with a quickness beyond his years, seemed to have divined her
thoughts, and his gentle temper was roused into passion.
“I will kill Bob, I will! Never mind him, sweet, dear, beautiful Miss
Rothesay; I love you, and I hate him.”
“Hush! Lyle, hush! that is wrong.” And then she was silent. The little
boy stood by her side, his face still burning with indignation.
Soon Olive's trouble subsided. She whispered to herself, “It must be
always thus--I will try to bear it,” and then she became composed. She
bade her little friend adieu, telling him she was going back into the
house.
“But you will forgive all, you will not think of anything that would
grieve you?” said Lyle, hesitatingly.
Olive promised, with a patient smile.
“And to prove this, will you kiss your little knight once again?”
Her soft drooping hair swept his cheek; her lips touched his. Lyle
Derwent never forgot this kiss of Olive Rothesay's.
The young girl entered the house. Within it was the quiet of a Sunday
afternoon. Her mother had gone to a distant church, and there was none
left “to keep house,” save one of the maids and the old grey cat, that
dosed on the window-sill in the sunshine. The cat was a great pet of
Olive's; and the moment it saw its young mistress, it was purring round
her feet, following her from room to room, never resting until she took
it up in her arms. The love even of a dumb animal touched her then. She
sat down on her own little low chair, spread on her lap the smooth white
apron which Miss Pussy loved--and so she leaned back, soothed by the
monotonous song of her purring favourite, and thinking that there was
at least one living creature who loved her, and whom she could make
perfectly happy.
She sat at the open window, seeing only the high, green privet hedge
that enclosed the front garden, the little wicket-gate, and the blue sky
beyond. How still everything was! By degrees the footsteps of a few late
church-goers vanished along the road; the bells ceased--first the quick,
sharp clang of the new church, and then the musical peal that rang out
from the grey Norman tower. There never were such bells as those
of Oldchurch! But they melted away in silence; and then the dreamy
quietness of the hour stole over Olive's sense.
She thought of many things--things which might have been sad, but for
the slumberous peace that took away all pain. It was just the hour
when she once used to sit on the floor, leaning against Elspie's knees,
generally reading aloud in the Book which alone the nurse permitted on
Sundays. Now and then--once in particular she remembered--old Elspie
fell asleep; and then Olive turned to her favourite study, the Book
of Revelations. Childlike she terrified herself over the mysterious
prophecies of the latter days, until at last she forgot the gloom and
horror, in reading of the “beautiful city, New Jerusalem.”
She seemed to see it--its twelve gates, angel-guarded, its crystal
river, its many-fruited tree--the Tree of Life. Her young but glowing
fancy created out of these marvels a visible material paradise. She knew
not that Heaven is only the continual presence of the Eternal. Yet she
was happy, and in her dreams she never pictured the land beyond the
grave but there came back to her, as though the nearest foreshadowing of
it, the visions of that Sunday afternoon.
She sat a long time thinking of them, and of herself--how much older she
felt since then, and how many troubles she had passed through. Troubles!
Poor child!--how little knew she those of the world! But even her own
small burthen seemed lightened now. She leaned her head against the
window, listening to the bees humming in the garden--bees, daring Sunday
workers, and even they seemed to toil with a kind of Sabbatic solemnity.
And then, turning her face upwards, Olive watched many a fair white
butterfly, that, having flitted awhile among the flowers, spread its
wings and rose far into the air, like a pure soul weary of earth, and
floating heavenward. How she wished that she could do likewise; and
leaving earth behind--its flowers as well as weeds, its sunshine as its
storm--soar into another and a higher existence!
Not yet, Olive--not yet! None receive the guerdon, save those who have
won the goal!
A pause in the girl's reverie--caused by a light sound that broke the
perfect quietness around. She listened; it was the rumbling of carriage
wheels along the road--a rare circumstance; for the people of Oldchurch,
if not individually devout, lived in a devout atmosphere, which made
pleasure-drives on the day of rest not “respectable.”
A momentary hope struck Olive that it might be her father returning
home. But he was a strict man; he never travelled on Sundays.
Nevertheless, Olive listened mechanically to the wheels: they dashed
rapidly on--came near--stopped. Yes, it must be her father.
She flew to the hall door to welcome him. There stood, not her father,
but a little hard-featured old man, Mr. Wyld, the family lawyer. Olive
drew back, sorely disappointed; for if in her gentle heart lingered
one positive aversion, it was felt towards this man--partly on his own
account, partly because his appearance seemed always the forewarning of
evil in the little household. He never came but at his departure Captain
Rothesay wore a frowning brow, and indulged in a hasty temper for days
and days. No marvel was there in Olive's dislike; yet she regretted
having shown it.
“Mr. Wyld, I thought it was my father. I am sorry that he is not at home
to receive you.”
“Nay,--I did not come to see Captain Rothesay,” answered the lawyer,
betraying some confusion and hesitation beneath his usual smooth manner.
“The fact is, my dear young lady, I bring a letter for your mother.”
“From papa?” cried Olive, eagerly.
“No, not exactly; that is--. But can I see Mrs. Rothesay?”
“She is at church. She will be at home in half-an-hour, probably. Will
you wait?”
He shook his head.
“Nay, there is nothing wrong?”
“Don't alarm yourself, my dear.”
Olive shrank from the touch of his hand, as he led her into the parlour.
“Your papa is at my house. But I think, Miss Rothesay, as your mother is
not at home, you had better read the letter yourself.”
She took it. Slowly, silently, she read it through, twice; for the
words seemed to dazzle and blaze before her eyes. Then she looked up
helplessly. “I--I cannot understand.”
“I thought the doctor wrote plainly enough, and broke the matter
cautiously, too,” muttered Mr. Wyld; adding aloud, “Upon my honour, my
dear, I assure you your father is alive.”
“Alive! Oh, my poor father!” And then she sank down slowly where she
stood, as if pressed by some heavy, invisible hand. Mr. Wyld thought she
had fainted; but it was not so. In another moment she stood before him,
nerved by this great woe to a firmness which was awful in its rigid
composure.
“I can listen now. Tell me everything!”
He told her in a few words how Captain Rothesay had come to his house
the night before; and, while waiting his return, had taken up the
newspaper. “Suddenly, my clerk said, he let it fall with a cry, and was
immediately seized with the fit from which he has not yet recovered.
There is hope, the doctor thinks; but, in case of the worst, you must
come to him at once.”
“Yes, yes, at once!” She rose and walked to the door, guiding herself by
the wall.
“Nay, Miss Rothesay, what are you doing? You forget we cannot go without
your mother.”
“My mother! O, Heaven! it will kill my mother!”
And the thought brought tears, the first that had burst from her. It was
well.
She recovered to consciousness and strength. In this great crisis there
came to her the wisdom and forethought that lay dormant in her nature.
She became a woman--one of those of whom the world contains few--at once
gentle and strong, meek and fearless, patient to endure, heroic to act.
She sat down for a moment and considered. “Fourteen miles it is to
B----. If we start in an hour we shall reach there by sunset.” Then she
summoned the maid, and said, speaking steadily, that she might by no
sign betray what might in turn be betrayed to her mother--
“You must go and meet mamma as she comes from church; or, if not, go
into the church to her. Tell her there is a message come from papa,
and ask her to hasten home. Make haste yourself. I will keep house the
while.”
The woman left the room, murmuring a little, but never thinking to
disobey her young mistress, so sudden, so constraining, was the dignity
which had come upon the girl. Even Mr. Wyld felt it, and his manner
changed from condolence to respect.
“What can I do, Miss Rothesay? You turn from me. No wonder, when I have
had the misfortune to be the bearer of such evil tidings.”
“Hush!” she said. Mechanically she set wine before him. He drank talking
between the draughts, of his deep sorrow, and earnest hope that no
serious evil would befall his good friend, Captain Rothesay.
Olive could endure no more. She fled away, shut herself up in her own
room, and fell on her knees! but no words came, save the bitter cry, “O
God, have pity on us!” And there was no time, not even to pray, except
within her heart.
She pressed her hands on her brow, and once more thought what she had
to do. At that moment, through the quietness of the house, she heard the
clock striking four. Never had time's passing seemed so awful. The day
was fleeting on whose every moment perhaps hung a life.
Something she must do, or her senses would have failed. She thought of
little things that might be needed when they reached her father; went
into Mrs. Rothesay's room, and put up some clothes and necessaries, in
case they stayed more than one day at B----; a large, warm shawl,
too, for her mother might have to sit up all night. In these trifling
arrangements what a horrible reality there was? And yet she scarcely
felt it--she was half-stunned still.
It was past four--and Mrs. Rothesay had not come. Every minute seemed an
eternity. Olive walked to the window and looked out. There was the same
cheerful sunshine--the bees humming, and the butterflies flitting about,
in the sweet stillness of the Sabbath afternoon, as she had watched them
an hour ago. One little hour, to have brought into her world such utter
misery!
She thought of it all, dwelling vividly on every accompaniment of
woe--even as she remembered to have done when she first learned that
Elspie would die. She pictured her mother's coming home; and almost
fancied she could see her now, walking across the fields. But no; it was
some one in a white dress, strolling by the hedgerow's side; and Mrs.
Rothesay that day wore blue--her favourite pale blue muslin in which she
looked so lovely. She had gone out, laughing at her daughter for saying
this. What if Olive should never see her in that pretty dress again!
All these fancies, and more, clung to the girl's mind with a horrible
pertinacity. And then, through the silence, she heard the Oldchurch
bells awaking again, in the dull minute-peal which told that
service-time was ended, and the afternoon funerals were taking place.
Olive, shuddering, closed her ears against the sound, and then, gazing
out once more, she saw her mother stand at the gate. Mrs. Rothesay
looked up at the window and smiled.
Olive had never thought of that worst pang of all--how she should break
the news to her mother--her timid, delicate mother, whose feeble frame
quivered beneath the lightest breath of suffering. Scarcely knowing what
she did, she flew down stairs.
“Not there, mamma, not there!” she cried, as Mrs. Rothesay was about to
enter the parlour. Olive drew her into another room, and made her sit
down.
“What is all this, my dear!--why do you look so strange! Is not your
papa come home? Let us go to him.”
“We will, we will! But mamma!”--One moment she looked speechlessly in
Mrs. Rothesay's face, and then fell on her neck, crying, “I can't, I
can't keep it from you any longer. Oh, mother, mother! there is great
trouble come upon us; we must be patient; we must bear it together. God
will help us.”
“Olive!” The shrill terror of Mrs. Rothesay's voice rung through the
room.
“Hush! we must be quiet, very quiet. Papa is dangerously ill at B----,
and we must start at once. I have arranged all. Come, mamma, dearest!”
But her mother had fainted.
There was no time to lose. Olive snatched some restoratives, and then
made ready to depart. Mrs. Rothesay, still insensible, was lifted into
the carriage. She lay there, for some time, quite motionless, supported
in her daughter's arms--to which never had she owed support before. As
Olive looked down upon her, strange, new feelings came into the girl's
heart. Filial tenderness seemed transmuted into a devotion passing
the love of child to mother, and mingled therewith was a sense of
protection, of watchful guardianship.
She thought, “What if my father should die, and we two should be left
alone in the world! Then she will have none to look to save me, and I
will be to her in the stead of all. Once, I think, she loved me very
little; but, oh! mother, dearly we love one another now.”
When Mrs. Rothesay's senses returned, she lifted her head, with a
bewildered air. “Where are we going? What has happened? I can't think
clearly of anything.”
“Dearest mamma, do not try--I will think for us both. Be content; you
are quite safe with your own daughter.”
“My daughter--ah! I remember, I fainted, as I did long years ago, when
they told me something about my daughter. Are you she--that little child
whom I cast from my arms? and now I am lying in yours!” she cried, her
mind seeming to wander, as if distraught by this sudden shock.
“Hush, mamma! don't talk; rest quiet here.”
Mrs. Rothesay looked wistfully in her daughter's face, and there seemed
to cross her mind some remembered sense of what had befallen. She clung
helplessly to those sustaining arms--“Take care of me, Olive!--I do not
deserve it, but take care of me!”
“I will, until death!” was Olive's inward vow.
And so, travelling fast, but in solemn silence, they came to B----.
Alas! it was already too late! By Angus Rothesay's bed they stood--the
widow and the fatherless!