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.
“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.”
“I have thought of this,” answered Mrs. Gwynne. “But, Olive, it is a
solemn secret--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.”
“I do not quite understand,” said Olive, yet she changed colour a
little.
Mrs. Gwynne kindly dropped her eyes, and avoided looking at her
companion, as she said, “You, my dear, are my adopted daughter;
therefore, my son should be to you as a brother. Will you trust Harold?”
“Trust him? There is nothing with which I could not trust him,” said
Olive, earnestly. She had long found out that praise of Harold was as
sweet to his mother's heart as to her own.
“Then trust him in this. I think he has almost a right--or one day he
may have.”
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.
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 _Olive's
sake_.
“I said that, my dear,” observed Mrs. Gwynne, “because I know his strong
regard for you, and his anxiety for your happiness.”
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.
“I am ready to do all you wish,” wrote Harold in reply. “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!”
From that time his letters came frequently and regularly. Passages from
them will best show how his work of mercy sped.
“Paris, Jan.--I have had no difficulty in gaining admittance to the
_pension_, 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
_milord_. Christal is there, in the situation she planned. I found out
speedily,--as she, poor girl, will find,--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.”
... “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--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--you see how closely I observe
her--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.”
... “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.”
... “My dear Miss Rothesay, I do not like playing this underhand
game--it almost makes me despise myself. Yet it is with a good intent;
and I would do anything from my friendship for you.
“I have heard much about your sister to-day from a girl who is a
_pensionnaire_ 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--no marvel are those storms of passion, in
which, according to Clotilde, she indulges, 'just as if she were a great
English _miladi_, when she is nobody at all, as I told her once,' said
the triumphant little French girl.
“'And what did she answer?' asked I.
“'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 _only_ the teacher--a poor
penniless _Anglaise_.'
“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'--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,--and yours.”
... “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.”
... “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.”
--“'She was _un petit diable_ 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.'
“'But,' said I, 'you might at least find her some other situation.'
“'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--a
_nobody_.'
“'Yet you took her as a pupil.'
“'Oh, Monsieur, that was a different matter; and then I was so liberally
paid. Now, if you should be a relative'----
“'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.'
“'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--but
I will tell you all minutely. You see how I try to note down every
trifle, knowing your anxiety.
“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.
“'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?'
“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.
“'But you know what has happened since? Attempt not to deceive me--you
do! I read it in your eyes long ago, at the chapel. You are come to pity
the poor nameless wretch--the--Ah! you know the horrible word. Well, do
I look like that? Can you read in my face my mother's shame?'
“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.'
“'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.)
“I drew back the hand I had offered. Forgive me, Olive!--let me this
once call you so!--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--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,
“'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?'
“'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
'----
“'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 _right_ I
had to know? I answered her as, after a struggle with myself, I thought
best--_how_, 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.
“'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!'
“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--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--that there is sometimes great evil done by that
selfishness which we call a just pride.
“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--the haughtiness of her gesture. It was not tempered
by the woman's half-insulting manner.
“'I am come to make one last offer to Mademoiselle--who will do well to
accept it, always with the advice of her English friend, or--whatever he
may be,' she added, smirking.
“'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.
“'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.'
“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.'
“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.'
“'Home with you! What then would they say of me--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.'
“'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.'
“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)--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!--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 _my_ God!'”
--“I have an awful tale to tell--one that I should fear to inform you,
save that I can say, 'Thank God with me that the misery has passed--that
He has overruled it into good.' So, reading this, do not tremble--do not
let it startle you--feeble, as my mother tells me, you still are. '_Poor
little Olive_.' She calls you so.”
“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--of what it
matters not now. On the whole, my thoughts were happy--so happy that I
did not see how close to me was standing Misery--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--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.
“She was climbing the parapet to leap into the arms of Death!
“I know not how that awful moment passed--what I said--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.--Olive, cry with me, 'Thank God, thank God!'
“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--thank God! His mercy
is about us continually.
“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--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--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.”
... “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--I could almost have wept
over her. Do you not think I am strangely changed? I do sometimes--but
no more of this now.
“Christal made no allusion to the past. She said, 'She desired to speak
to me about her future--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.
“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.'
“Christal looked for a moment like her own scornful self. '_Us
Protestants?_' she echoed; and then she said, humbly, 'One more
confession can be nothing to me now. I have deceived you all;--I am, and
I have ever been--a Roman Catholic.'
“She thought, perhaps, I should have blamed her for this long course of
religious falsehood. I blame _her!_ (Olive, for God's sake do not let my
mother read all I write to you. She shall know everything soon, but not
now.)
“'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.'
“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?”
... “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.”
“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.”
“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--especially _the first_ she
wrote.”
“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.
_Home!_ Thank God!”