When Olive returned to consciousness she was lying on her own bed, the
same whereon her mother had died. Olive almost thought that she herself
had died too, so still lay the shadows of the white curtains, cast by
the one faint night-lamp that was hidden on the floor. She breathed
heavily in a kind of sigh, and then she was aware of some watcher close
beside, who said, softly, “Are you sleeping, my dear Olive?”
In her confused fancy, the voice seemed to her like Harold's. She
imagined that she was dead, and that he was sitting beside her
bier--sorrowfully--perhaps even in tenderness, as he might look on her
_then_. So strong was the delusion, that she feebly uttered his name.
“It is Harold's mother, my dear. Were you dreaming about my son?”
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.
“Take care of me! Oh, take care of me!” she murmured; and as she felt
herself drawn lovingly to that warm breast--the breast where Harold
had once lain--she could there have slept herself into painless death,
wherein the only consciousness was this one thought of him.
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.
“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.”
“Yes, you have been ill for some days. I have been nursing you.”
“And what has happened in this house, the while? Oh, where is
Christal,--poor Christal?”
There was a frown on Mrs. Gwynne's countenance--a frown so stern that
it brought back to Olive's memory all that had befallen. Earnestly
regarding her, she said, “Something has happened--something awful. How
much of it do you know?”
“Everything! But, Olive, we must not talk.”
“_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!”
Mrs. Gwynne saw she had best comply, for there was still a piteous
bewilderment in Olive's look. “Lie still,” she said, “and I will tell
you. I came to this house when that miserable girl was rushing from
it. I brought her back--I controlled her, as I have ere now controlled
passions as wild as hers, though she is almost a demon.”
“Hush, hush!” murmured Olive.
“She told me everything. But all is safe, for I have possession of the
letter; and I have nursed you myself, alone.”
“Oh, how good, how wise, how faithful you have been!”
“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.”
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.
“You shall tell me more another time,” she said; and then, sinking back
on her pillow, still holding fast the hand of Harold's mother, she lay
and slept till morning.
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.
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.
But in illness there is great peace sometimes, especially after a
long mental struggle. In the dreamy quiet of her sick-room, all things
belonging to the world without, all cares, all sufferings, grew dim to
Olive. Ay, even her love. It became sanctified, as though it had been
an affection beyond the grave. She lay for hours together, thinking of
Harold; of all that had passed between them--of his goodness, his tender
friendship; of hers to him, more faithful than he would ever know.
It was very sweet, too, to be nursed so tenderly by Harold's mother--to
feel that there was growing between them a bond like that of parent and
child. Often Mrs. Gwynne even said so, wishing that in her old age she
could have a daughter like Olive; and now and then, when Olive did not
see, she stole a penetrating glance, as if to observe how her words were
received.
One day when Olive was just able to sit up, and looked, in her white
drapery and close cap, so like her lost mother,--Mrs. Gwynne entered
with letters. Olive grew pale. To her fancy every letter that came to
Harbury could only be from Rome.
“Good tidings, my dear; tidings from Harold. But you are trembling.”
“Everything sudden startles me now. I am very weak, I fear,” murmured
Olive. “But you look so pleased!--All is well with him?”
“All is quite well. He has written me a long letter, and here is one for
you!”
“For me!” The poor pale face lighted up, and the hand was eagerly
stretched out. But when she held the letter, she could not open it for
trembling. In her feebleness, all power of self-control vanished. She
looked wistfully at Harold's writing, and burst into tears.
Mrs. Gwynne regarded Olive for a moment, as _his_ mother naturally
would, jealous over her own claim, yet not blaming the one whose only
blame was “loving where _she_ did.” But she said nothing, or in any way
betrayed the secret she had learnt. Perhaps, after all, she was proud
that her son should be so truly loved, and by such a woman.
Leaning over Olive, she soothed her with great tenderness. “You are
indeed too weak to hear anything of the world without. I ought to have
taken better care of you, my dear child. Nay, never mind because you
gave way a little,” she said seeing the burning blushes that rose
one after the other in Olive's face. “It was quite natural. The most
trifling thing must agitate one who has been so very, very ill. Come,
will you read your letter, or shall I put it by till you are stronger?”
“No, no, I should like to read it. He is very good to write to me,--very
good indeed. I felt his kindness the more from being ill; that is why it
made me weep,” said Olive, faintly.
“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 _we both_ are
to hear from him,” said Mrs. Gwynne, with a light but kindly emphasis.
And then Olive was left alone.
Oh that Harold had seen her as she sat! Oh that _he_ 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.
Harold wrote much as he had always done, perhaps a little more
reservedly, and with a greater degree of measured kindliness. He took
care to answer every portion of Olive's letter, but wrote little about
himself, or his own feelings. He had not been able to find out the
Vanbrughs, he said, though he would try every possible means of so
doing before he left Rome for Paris. Miss Rothesay must always use his
services in everything, when needed, he said, nor forget how much he was
“her sincere and faithful friend.”
“He is that, and will be always! I am content, quite content;” and she
gazed down, calmly smiling at the letter on her knee.
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.
“Tell Christal I long to see her,” she said. “To-morrow I shall be quite
strong, I think, and then I will go to her room myself, and never quit
her until we are reconciled.”
But Christal declared no power should induce her to meet Olive more.
“Alas! what are we to do?” cried Olive, sorrowfully; and the whole
night, during which she was disturbed by the restless sounds in
Christars room, she lay awake, planning numberless compassionate devices
to soothe and win over this obdurate heart. Something told her they
would not be in vain; love rarely is! When it was almost morning, she
peacefully fell asleep.
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.
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.
But when afterwards her room was searched, they found a letter addressed
to Miss Rothesay. It ran thus:
“I would have killed myself days since, but that I know in so doing, I
should release you from a burden and a pang which I wish to last your
life, as it must mine. Also, had I died, I might have gone to hell, and
there met him whom I hate,--my wicked, wicked father. Therefore I would
not die.
“But I will not stay to be tyrannised over, or insulted by hypocritical
pity. I will neither eat your bread, nor live upon the cowardly charity
of---- the man who is dead. I intend to work for my own maintenance;
most likely, to offer myself as a teacher in the school where I was
brought up. I tell you this plainly; though I tell you, at the same
time, that if you dare to seek me there, or drag me thence.---- But no!
you will be glad to be freed from me forever.
“One thing only I regret; that, in justice to my own mother, I must no
longer think tenderly of _yours_. For yourself all is ended between us.
Pardon I neither ask nor grant; I only say, Farewell.
“Christal Manners.”
The letter was afterwards apparently re-opened, and a hasty postscript
added:
“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.”
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.
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.