There is not in the world a more exquisite sight than a beautiful old
age. It is almost better than a beautiful youth. Early loveliness
passes away with its generation, and becomes at best only a melancholy
tradition recounted by younger lips with a half-incredulous smile. But
if one must live to be the last relic of a past race, one would desire
in departing to leave behind the memory of a graceful old age. And since
there is only one kind of beauty which so endures, it ought to be a
consolation to those whom fate has denied the personal loveliness which
charms at eighteen, to know that we all have it in our power to be
beautiful at eighty.
Miss, or rather Mrs. Flora Rothesay--for so she was always
called--appeared to Olive the most beautiful old lady she had ever
beheld. It was a little after dusk on a dull wet day, when she reached
her journey's end. Entering, she saw around her the dazzle of a rich
warm fire-light, her cloak was removed by light hands, and she felt on
both cheeks the kiss of peace and salutation.
“Is that Olive Rothesay, Angus Rothesay's only child? Welcome to
Scotland--welcome, my dear lassie!”
The voice lost none of its sweetness for bearing, strongly and
unmistakably, the “.accents of the mountain tongue.” Though more in
tone than phrase, for Mrs. Flora Rothesay spoke with all the purity of a
Highland woman.
Surely the breezes that rocked Olive's cradle had sung in her memory for
twenty years, for she felt like coming home the moment she set foot
in her native land. She expressed this to Mrs. Flora, and then, quite
overpowered, she knelt and hid her face in the old lady's lap, and her
excitement melted away in a soft dew--too sweet to seem like tears.
“The poor lassie! she's just wearied out!” said Mrs. Flora, laying her
hands on Olive's hair. “Jean, get her some tea. Now, my bairn, lift
up your face. Ay, there it is--a Rothesay's, every line! and with the
golden hair too. Ye have heard tell of the weird saying, about the
Rothesays with yellow hair? No? We will not talk of it now.” And the
old lady suddenly looked thoughtful--even somewhat grave. When Olive
rose up, she made her bring a seat opposite to her own arm-chair, and
there watched her very intently.
Olive herself noticed her aunt with curious eyes. Mrs. Flora's attire
was quite a picture, with the ruffled elbow-sleeves and the long, square
boddice, over which a close white kerchief hid the once lovely neck and
throat of her whom old Elspie had chronicled--and truly--as “the Flower
of Perth.” The face, Olive thought, was as she could have imagined Mary
Queen of Scots grown old. But age could never obliterate the charm of
the soft languishing eyes, the almost infantile sweetness of the mouth.
Therein sat a spirit, ever lovely, because ever loving; smiling away all
natural wrinkles--softening down all harsh lines. You regarded them no
more than the faint shadows in a twilight landscape, over which the
soul of peace is everywhere diffused. There was peace, too, in the very
attitude--leaning back, the head a little raised, the hands crossed,
each folded round the other's wrist. Olive particularly noticed these
hands. On the right was a marriage-ring which had outlasted two lives,
mother and daughter; on the left, at the wedding-finger, was another,
a hoop of gold with a single diamond. Both seemed less ornaments
than tokens--gazed on, perhaps, as the faint landmarks of a long past
journey, which now, with its joys and pains alike, was all fading into
shadow before the dawn of another world.
“So they called you 'Olive,' my dear,” said Mrs. Flora. “A strange name!
the like of it is not in our family.”
“My mother gave it me from a dream she had.”
Olive.
“Now, my bairn, lift up your face.”
[Illustration: Page 314, Now, my bairn, lift up your face]
“Ay, I mind it; Harold Gwynne told me, saying that Mrs. Rothesay had
told _him_. Was she, then, so sweet and dainty a creature--your mother?
Once Angus spoke to me of her--little Sybilla Hyde. She was his
wife then, though we did not know it. Poor Angus, we loved him very
much--better than he thought. Tears again, my dearie!”
“They do not harm me, Aunt Flora.”
“And so you know my dear Alison Balfour? She was younger than I, and yet
you see we have both grown auld wives together. Little Olive, ye
have come to me in a birthday gift, my dear. I am eighty years old
to-day--just eighty years, thank the Lord!”
The old lady reverently raised her blue eyes--true Scottish eyes--limpid
and clear as the dew on Scottish heather. Cheerful they were withal,
for they soon began to flit hither and thither, following the motions
of Jean's “eident hand” with most housewifely care. And Jean herself, a
handmaid prim and ancient, but youthful compared to her mistress,
seemed to watch the latter's faintest gesture with most affectionate
observance. Of all the light traits which reveal character, none is more
suggestive than the sight of a mistress whom her servants love.
After tea Mrs. Mora insisted on Olive's retiring for the night. “Your
room has a grand view over the Braid Hills. They call them hills here;
but oh! if ye had seen the blue mountains sweeping in waves from the old
house at home. Night and day I was wearying for them, for years after I
came to live at Morningside. But one must e'en dree one's weird!”
She always spoke in this rambling way, wandering from the subject, after
the fashion of old age. Olive could have listened long to the pleasant
stream of talk, which seemed murmuring round her, wrapping her in a
soft dream of peace. She laid down her tired head on the pillow, with an
unwonted feeling of calmness and rest. Even the one weary pain that
ever pursued her sank into momentary repose. Her last waking thought
was still of Harold; but it was more like the yearning of a spirit from
beyond the grave.
Just between waking and sleeping Olive was roused by music. Her door had
been left ajar, and the sound she heard was the voices of the household,
engaged in their evening devotion. The tune was that sweetest of all
Presbyterian psalmody, “plaintive Martyrs.” Olive caught some words
of the hymn--it was one with which she had often, often been lulled to
sleep in poor old Elspie's arms. Distinct and clear its quaint rhymes
came back upon her memory now:
The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want,
He makes me down to lie
In pastures green, He leadeth me
The quiet waters by.
Yea, though I walk in death's dark vale,
Yet will I fear none ill;
For Thou art with me, and Thy rod
And staff me comfort still.
Poor lonely Olive lay and listened. Then rest, deep and placid, came
over her, as over one who, escaped from a stormy wrack and tempest,
falls asleep amid the murmur of “quiet waters,” in a pleasant land.
She awoke in the morning, as if waking in another world. The clear cold
air, thrilled with sunshine, filled her room. It was the “best room,”
furnished with a curious mingling of the ancient and the modern. The
pretty chintz couch laughed at the oaken, high-backed chair, stiff with
a century of worm-eaten state. On either side the fireplace hung two
ancient engravings, of Mary Stuart and “bonnie Prince Charlie,” both
garnished with verses, at once remarkable for devoted loyalty and
eccentric rhythm. Between the two was Sir William Ross's sweet, maidenly
portrait of our own Victoria. Opposite, on a shadowed wall, with one
sunbeam kissing the face, was a large well-painted likeness, which Olive
at once recognised. It was Mrs. Flora Rothesay, at eighteen. No wonder,
Olive thought, that she was called “the Flower of Perth.” But strange it
was, that the fair flower had been planted in no good man's bosom; that
this lovely and winning creature had lived, bloomed, withered--“an
old maid.” Olive, looking into the sweet eyes that followed her
everywhere--as those of some portraits do--tried to read therein the
foreshadowing of a life-history of eighty years. It made her dreamy
and sad, so she arose and looked out upon the sunny slopes of the
Braid Hills until her cheerfulness returned. Then she descended to the
breakfast-table.
It was too early for the old lady to appear, but there were waiting
three or four young damsels--invited, they said, to welcome Miss
Rothesay, and show her the beauties of Edinburgh. They talked
continually of “dear Auntie Mora,” and were most anxious to “call
cousins” with Olive herself, who, though she could not at all make out
the relationship, was quite ready to take it upon faith. She tried
very hard properly to distinguish between the three Miss M'Gillivrays,
daughters of Sir Andrew Rothesay's half-sister's son, and Miss Flora
Anstruther, the old lady's third cousin and name-child, and especially
little twelve-years-old Maggie Oliphant, whose grandfather was Mrs.
Flora's nephew on the mother's side, and first cousin ta Alison Balfour.
All these conflicting relationships wrapped Olive in an inexplicable
net; but it was woven of such friendly arms that she had no wish to
get free. Her heart opened to the loving welcome; and when she took
her first walk on Scottish ground, it was with a sensation more akin to
happiness than she had felt for many a long month.
“And so you have never before seen your aunt,” said one of the
M'Gillivrays;--for her life, Olive could not tell whether it was Miss
Jane, Miss Janet, or Miss Marion, though she had tried for half-an-hour
to learn the difference. “You like her of course--our dear old Auntie
Flora?”
“Aunt to which of you?” said Olive, smiling.
“Oh, she is everybody's Auntie Flora; no one ever calls her anything
else,” observed little Maggie Oliphant, who, during all their walk clung
tenaciously to Miss Rothesay's hand, as most children were prone to do.
“I think,” said the quiet Miss Anstruther, lifting up her brown eyes,
“that in all _our_ lives put together, we will never do half the good
that Aunt Flora has done in hers. Papa says, every one of her friends
ought to be thankful that she has lived an old maid!”
“Yes, indeed, for who else would have had patience with her cross old
brother Sir Andrew, until he died?” said Janet M'Gillivray.
“And who,” added her sister, “would have come and been a mother to us
when we lost our own, living with us, and taking care of us for seven
long years?”
“I am sure,” cried blithe Maggie, “my brothers and I used often to say,
that if Auntie Flora had been young, and any disagreeable husband
had come to steal her from us, we would have hooted him away down the
street, and pelted him with stones.”
Olive laughed; and afterwards said, thoughtfully, “She has then lived a
happy life--has this good Aunt Flora!”
“Not always happy,” answered the eldest and gravest of the M'Gillivrays.
“My mother once heard that she had some great trouble in her youth. But
she has outlived it, and conquered it in time. People say such things
are possible: I cannot tell,” added the girl, with a faint sigh.
There was no more said of Mrs. Flora, but oftentimes during the day,
when some passing memory stung poor Olive, causing her to turn wearily
from the mirth of her young companions, there came before her in gentle
reproof the likeness of the aged woman who had lived down her one great
woe--lived, not only to feel but to impart cheerfulness.
A few hours after, Olive saw her aunt sitting smiling amidst a little
party which she had gathered together, playing with the children,
sympathising with those of elder growth, and looked up to by old and
young with an affection passing that of mere kindred. And then there
came a balm of hope to the wounded spirit that had felt life's burden
too heavy to be borne.
“How happy you are, and how much everyone loves you!” said Olive, when
Mrs. Flora and herself were left alone, and their hearts inclined each
to each with a vague sympathy.
“Yours must have been a noble woman's life.”
“I have tried to make it so, as far as I could, my dear bairn; and the
little good I have done has come back upon me fourfold. It is always
so.”
“And you have been content--nay happy!”
“Ay, I have! God quenched the fire on my own hearth, that I might learn
to make that of others bright My dear, one's life never need be empty of
love, even though, after seeing all near kindred drop away, one lingers
to be an old maid of eighty years.”