Night and day there rung in Olive's heart the last words of Harold's
letter, “I shall come home!” Simple they were; but they seemed so
strangely joyful--so full of hope. She could not tell why, but thinking
of him now, her whole world seemed to change. He was coming back! With
him came spring and sunshine, youth and hope!
It was yet early in the year. The little crocuses peeped out--the
violets purpled the banks. Now and then came soft west winds, sighing
sweetness over the earth. Not a breeze passed her by--not a flower
sprang in her sight--not one sunny day dawned to ripen the growing year,
but Olive's heart leaped within her; for she said, “He will come with
the spring--he will come with the spring!”
How and with what mind he would come--whether he would tell her he loved
her, or ask her to be his wife--she counted none of these things. Her
love was too unselfish, too utterly bound up in him. She only thought
that she would see his face, clasp his hand, and walk with him--the same
as in the dear old time. Not quite, perhaps, for she was conscious that
in the bond between them had come a change, a growth. How, she knew not,
but it had come. Sometimes she sat thinking--would he tell her all those
things which he had promised, and what could they be? And, above all,
would he call her, as in his letters, _Olive_? Written, it looked most
beautiful in her sight; but when spoken, it must be a music of which the
world could hold no parallel.
A little she strove to temper her happiness, for she was no love-sick
girl, but a woman, who, giving her heart--how wholly none but herself
could tell--had given it in the fear of God, and in all simplicity.
Having known the sorrow of love, she was not ashamed to rejoice in
love's joy. But she did so meekly and half-tremblingly, scarcely
believing that it was such, lest it should overpower her. She set
herself to all her duties, and above all, worked sedulously at a picture
which she had begun.
“It must be finished before Harold comes home,” said Harold's mother. “I
told him of it in my letters, you know.”
“Indeed. I do not remember that. And yet for this long while you have
let me see all your letters, I think.”
“All--except one I wrote when you were ill. But never mind it, my dear,
I can tell you what I said--or, perhaps Harold will,” answered Mrs.
Gwynne, her face brightening in its own peculiar smile of heartfelt
benevolence and lurking humour. And then the brief conversation ceased.
For a while longer these two loving hearts waited anxiously for Harold's
coming. At last he came.
It was in the sweetest month, the opening gate of the summer year--April
Mrs. Gwynne and Olive, only they two, had spent the day together at
Harbury; for little Ailie, a child too restless to be ruled by quiet
age, was now sent away to school. Mrs. Gwynne sat in her armchair,
knitting. Olive stood at the window, thinking how beautiful the garden
looked, just freshened with an April shower; and how the same passing
rain-cloud, melting in the west, had burst into a most gorgeous sunset
Her happiness even took a light tone of girlish romance. Looking at
the thorn-tree, now covered with pale green leaves, she thought with a
pleasant fancy, that when it was white with blossoms Harold, would
be here. And her full heart, hardly conscious why, ran over with a
trembling joy.
Nevertheless, amidst all her own hope, she remembered tenderly her poor
sister far away. And also Lyle, whom since that day he parted from
her she had never seen. Thinking, “How sweet it is to feel happy!” she
thought likewise--as those who have suffered ever must--“Heaven make all
the world happy too!”
It was just after this silent aspiration, which of all others must bring
an answering blessing down, that the long-desired one came home. His
mother heard him first.
“Hark--there's some one in the hall. Listen, Olive! It is his voice--I
know it is! He is come home--my son!--my dear son, Harold.” And with
eager, trembling steps, she hurried out.
Olive stayed behind. She had no right to go and meet him, as his mother
did. And after one wild throb, her heart sank, so faintly that she could
hardly stand.
His voice--his long silent voice! Hearing it, the old feeling came
over her. She shuddered, even with a sort of fear. “Heaven save me
from myself! Heaven keep my heart at peace! Perhaps he will not suffer
himself to love me, or does not wish me to love him. I have thought so
sometimes. Yes! I am quite calm--quite ready to meet him now.” And she
felt herself growing all white and cold as she stood.
The door opened, and Harold came in alone. Not one step could she
advance to meet him, not one word of welcome fell from her lips,--nor
from his, which were pale as her own. But as he clasped her hands and
held them fast, she felt him gazing down upon her--now, for the first
time, beginning to read her heart. Something in that fond--ay, it was
a fond look--was drawing her closer to him--something that told her she
was dearer than any friend. It might have happened so--that moment might
have proved the crowning moment of life, which blends two hearts of man
and woman into one love, making their being complete, as God meant it
should be.
But at the same instant Mrs. Gwynne came in. Their hands fell from one
another; Harold quitted Olive's side, and began talking to his mother.
Olive stood by herself in the window. She felt as if her whole destiny
was changing--melting from cloud to glory--like the sunset she had
watched an hour before. Whatever was the mystery that had kept him
silent, she believed that in the secret depth of his heart Harold loved
her. Once she had thought, that were this knowledge true, the joy would
overpower her reason. Now, it came with such a solemnity, that all
agitation ceased. Her hands were folded on her heart, her eyes looked
heavenwards. Her prayer was,--“O God, if this happiness should be, make
me worthy of it--worthy of him!--If not, keep us both safe until the
eternal meeting!”
Then, all emotion having passed away, she went back quietly to Harold
and his mother.
They were sitting together on the sofa, Harold holding his mother's
hand in one of his. When Olive approached, he stretched out the other,
saying, “Come to us, little Olive,--come! Shall she, mother?”
“Yes,” was Mrs. Gwynne's low answer. But Olive heard it. It was the
lonely heart's first welcome home.
For an hour afterwards she sat by Harold's side in the gathering
darkness, feeling her hand safe clasped in his. Never was there any
clasp like Harold's--so firm, yet soft--so gentle, yet so close and
warm. It filled her with a sense of rest and protection--she, long
tossed about in the weary world. Once or twice she moved her hand, but
only to lay it again in his, and feel his welcoming fingers close over
it, as if to say, “Mine--mine--always mine!”
So they sat and talked together--she, and Harold, and Harold's
mother--talked as if they were one loving household, whose every
interest was united. Though, nevertheless, not one word was spoken that
might break the seal upon any of their hearts.
“How happy it is to come home!” said Harold. “How blessed to feel that
one has a home! I thought so more strongly than ever I had done before,
one day, at Home, when I was with Olive's old friend, Michael Vanbrugh.”
“Oh, tell me of the Vanbrughs,” cried Olive eagerly. “Then you did see
them at last, though you never said anything about it in your letters?”
“No; for it was a long story, and both our thoughts were too full. Shall
I tell it now? Yet it is sad, it will pain you, Olive.” And he pressed
her hand closer while he spoke.
She answered, “Still, tell me all.” And she felt that, so listening, the
heaviest worldly sorrow would have fallen light.
“I was long before I could discover Mr. Vanbrugh, and still longer
before I found out-his abode. Day after day I met him, and talked with
him at the Sistine, but he never spoke of his home, or asked me thither.
He had good reason.”
“Were they so poor then? I feared this,” said Olive compassionately.
“Yes, it was the story of a shattered hope. As I think, Vanbrugh was a
man to whom Fortune could never come. He must have hunted her from
him all his life, with his pride, his waywardness, his fitful morose
ambition. I soon read his character--for I had read another very like
it, once. But that is changed now, thank God,” said Harold, softly.
“Well, so it was: the painter dreamed his dream, the little sister
stayed at home and starved.”
“Starved! oh, no! you cannot mean that!”
“It would have been so, save for Lord Arundale's benevolence, when we
found them out at last. They lived in a miserable house, which had
but one decent room--the studio. 'Michael's room must always be
comfortable,' said Miss Meliora--I knew her at once, Olive, after all
you had told me of her. The poor little woman! she almost wept to hear
the sound of my English voice, and to talk with me about you. She said,
'she was very lonely among strangers, but she would get used to it in
time. She was not well too, but it would never do to give way--it might
trouble Michael She would get better in the spring.'”
“Poor Meliora! But you were very kind to her--you went to see her
often?--I knew you would.”
“There was no time,” Harold answered, sadly. “The day after this we
sought out Michael Vanbrugh, in his old haunt, the Sistine Chapel. He
was somewhat discomposed, because his sister had not risen in time to
set his palette, and get all things ready in his painting-room at home.
I went thither, and found her--dying.”
Harold paused--but Olive was too much moved to speak. He went on--
“So sudden was the call that she would not believe it herself. She kept
saying continually, that she must contrive to rise before Michael came
back at night. Even when she knew she was dying, she seemed to think
only of him; but always in her simple, humble way. I remember how she
talked, brokenly, of some draperies she had to make for his model that
day--asking me to get some one else to do it, or the picture would be
delayed. Once she wept, saying, 'who would take care of Michael when
she was gone?' She would not have him sent for--he never liked to be
disturbed when he was at the Sistine. Towards evening she seemed to lie
eagerly listening, but he did not come home. At last she bade me give
her love to Michael: she wished he had come, if only to kiss her before
she died--he had not kissed her for thirty years. Once more, just when
she seemed passing into a death-like sleep, she half-roused herself, to
beg some one would take care that Michael's tea was all ready for him
against he came home. After this she never spoke again.”
“Poor Meliora! poor simple, loving soul!” And Olive melted into quiet
tears. After a while she inquired in what way this blow had fallen upon
Michael Vanbrugh.
“Strangely, indeed,” said Harold. “It was I who told him first of his
sister's death. He received the news quite coldly--as a thing impossible
to realise! He even sat down to the table, as if he expected her to come
in and pour out his tea; but afterwards, leaving the meal untouched, he
went and shut himself up in his painting-room, without speaking a word.
And then I quitted the house.”
“But you saw him again?”
“No; for I left Rome immediately. However, I had a friend who watched
over him and constantly sent me news. So I learnt that after his
sister's death a great change came over him. His one household stay
gone, he seemed to sink down helpless as a child. He would wander about
the house, as though he missed something--he knew not what; his painting
was neglected, he became slovenly in his dress, restless in his look.
No one could say he grieved for his sister, but he missed her--as
one misses the habit of a lifetime. So he gradually changed, and grew
speedily to be a worn-out, miserable old man. A week since I heard that
his last picture had been bought by the Cardinal F----, and that Michael
Vanbrugh slept eternally beneath the blue sky of Rome.”
“He had his wish--he had his wish!” said Olive, gently. “And his
faithful little sister had hers; for nothing ever parted them. Women are
content thus to give up their lives to some one beloved. The happiness
is far beyond the pain.”
“You told me so once before,” answered Harold, in a low tone. “Do you
remember? It was at the Hermitage of Braid.”
He stopped, thinking she would have replied; but she was silent. Her
silence seemed to grow over him like a cloud. When the lights came in,
he looked the same proud, impassive Harold Gwynne, as in the old time.
Already his clasp had melted from Olive's hand. Before she could guess
the reason why, she found him speaking, and she answering coldly,
indifferently. All the sweetness of that sweet hour had with it passed
away.
This sudden change so pained her, that very soon she began to talk of
returning home. Harold rose to accompany her, but he did so with the
formal speech of necessary courtesy--“Allow me the pleasure, Miss
Rothesay.” It stung her to the heart.
“Indeed, you need not, when you are already tired. It is still early. I
had much rather go home alone.”
Harold sat down again at once.
She prepared to depart. She shook hands with his mother, and then with
himself, saying in a voice that, lest it should tremble, she made very
low, quiet, and cold, how glad she was that he had come home safe.
However, before she reached the garden gate, Harold followed her.
“Excuse me, but my mother is not easy for you to set off thus; and we
may as well return to our old custom of walking home together--just once
more.”
What could he mean? Olive would have asked him, but she dared not. Even
yet there was a veil between their hearts. Would it ever be drawn aside?
There were few words spoken on the way to Farnwood, and those few
were of ordinary things. Once Olive talked of Michael Vanbrugh and his
misfortunes.
“You call him unfortunate; how know you that?” said Harold, quickly. “He
needed no human affection, and so, on its loss, suffered no pain; he
had no desire save for fame; his pride was never humbled to find himself
dependent on mere love. The old painter was a great and a happy man.”
“Great he was, but not happy. I think I had rather be the poor little
sister who spent her life for him.”
“Ay, in a foolish affection which was all in vain.”
“Affection is never in vain. I have thought sometimes that as to give
is better than to receive, they who love are happier than they who are
loved.”
Harold was silent. He remained so until they stood at Miss Rothesay's
door. Then bidding her good-bye, he took her two hands, saying, as if
inquiringly, “Olive?”
“Yes,” she answered, trembling a little--but not much--for her dream of
happiness was fading slowly away, and she was sinking back into her old
patient, hopeless self. That olden self alone spoke as she added, “Is
there anything you would say to me?”
“No, no--nothing--only good night.” And he hastily walked away.
An hour after, Olive closed her heavy eyes, that burned with long
weeping, and lay down to sleep, thinking there was no blessing like the
oblivion of night, after every weary day! She lay down, little knowing
what mystery of fate that quiet night was bearing in its bosom.
From her first sleep she started in the vague terror of one who has been
suddenly awakened. There was a great noise--knocking--crashing--a sound
of mingled voices--and, above all, her name called. Anywhere, waking or
sleeping, she would have known _that_ voice, for it was Harold Gwynne's.
At first, she thought she must still be dreaming some horrible dream;
but consciousness came quick, as it often does at such a time. Before
the next outcry was raised she had guessed its meaning. Upon her had
come that most awful waking--the waking in a house on fire.
There are some women who in moments of danger gain an almost miraculous
composure and presence of mind. Olive was one of these. Calmly she
answered Harold's half-frenzied call to her from without her door.
“I am awake and safe; the fire is not in my room. Tell me, what must I
do?”
“Dress quickly--there is time. Think of all you can save, and come,” she
heard Harold reply. His passionate cry of “Olive!” had ceased; he was
now as self-possessed as she.
Her room was light as day, with the reflection of the flames that
were consuming the other end of the long straggling house. She dressed
herself, her hands never trembling--her thoughts quick, vivid, and
painfully minute. There came into her mind everything she would
lose--her household mementos--the unfinished picture--her well-beloved
books. She saw herself penniless--homeless--escaping only with life.
But that life she owed to Harold Gwynne. How everything had chanced she
never paused to consider. There was a sweetness, even a wild gladness,
in the thought of peril from which Harold had come to save her.
She heard his voice eager with anxiety. “Miss Rothesay! hasten. The fire
is gaining on us fast!” And added to his was the cry of her faithful old
servant, Hannah, whom he had rescued too. He seemed to stand firm amidst
the confusion and terror, ruling every one with the very sound of his
voice--that knew no fear, except when it trembled with Olive's name.
“Quick--quick! I cannot rest till I have you safe. Olive! for God's
sake, come! Bring with you anything you value, only come!”
She had but two chief treasures, always kept near her--her mother's
portrait, and Harold's letters; the letters she hid in her bosom, the
picture she carried in her arms. Thus laden, she quitted the burning
house.
It was an awful scene. The utter loneliness of the place precluded any
hope of battling with the fire; but, the night being still and windless,
it advanced slowly. Sometimes, mockingly, it almost seemed to die away,
and then rose up again in a hurricane of flame.
[Illustration: Page 401, Olive and Harold]
Olive and Harold stood on the lawn, she clinging to his hand like a
child. “Is there no hope of saving it--my pretty cottage--my dear home,
where my mother died!”
“Since you are safe, let the house burn--I care not,” muttered Harold.
He seemed strangely jealous even of her thoughts--her tears. “Be
content,” he said--“you see, much has been done.” He pointed to the lawn
strewn with furniture. “All is there--your picture--your mother's little
chair--everything I thought you cared for I have saved.”
“And my life, too. Oh! it is so sweet to owe you all!”
He quitted her for a moment to speak to some of the men whom he had
brought with him from Harbury, then he came back, and stood beside Olive
on the lawn--she watching the doomed house--he only watching her.
“The night is cold--you shiver. I am glad I thought to bring this.” He
took off his plaid and wrapped her in it, holding his arm round her
the while. But she scarcely felt it then. Through the yawning,
blazing windows, she saw the fire within, lighting up in its laughing
destruction the little parlour where her mother used to sit, twining
round the white-curtained bed whereon her mother's last breath had been
sighed away peacefully in her arms. She stood speechless, gazing upon
this piteous household ruin, wherein were engulfed so many memories. But
very soon there came the crash of the sinking roof, and then a cloud of
dense smoke and flame arose, sweeping over where she and Harold stood,
falling in showers of sparks around their feet.
Instinctively, Olive clung to Harold, hiding her blinded eyes upon his
arm. She felt him press her to him, for an instant only, but with the
strong true impulse, taught by one only feeling.
“You must not stay here,” he said. “Come with me home!”
“Home!” and she looked wistfully at the ruins of her own. 2 D
“Yes--to my home--my mother's. You know for the present it must indeed
be yours. Come!”
He gave her his arm to lean on. She tried to walk, but, quite
overpowered, staggered, fainted, and fell. When she awoke, she felt
herself borne like a child in Harold's arms. No power had she to move or
speak--all was a dizzy dream. Through it, she faintly heard him whisper
as though to himself; “I have saved her--I hold her fast--little
Olive--little Olive!”
When they reached the Parsonage door, he stood still a moment,
passionately looking down upon her face. One minute he strained her
closer to his heart, and then placed her in his mother's arms.
“She is safe--oh thank God!” cried Mrs. Gwynne. “And you, too, my
dear son--my brave Harold!” And she turned to him as he stood, leaning
breathless against the wall.
He tried to speak, but in vain. There was one gasp; the blood poured in
a torrent from his mouth, and he fell down at his mother's feet.