THE OLIVE LEAF.
Intense rapture filled the heart of Sir Ronald Alden when he read that
little note. He had been so long in the night of sorrow, so long in
the wide, waste waters of affliction, so long dead in life, that this
word from the woman he loved so passionately was in very truth an olive
branch to him.
He went to the mirror and looked at his face; it was handsome still,
though thin, haggard and bearing the traces of deep emotions; he looked
like a man on whom some terrible blight had fallen, for whom life had
proved a failure and a wreck.
“Now,” he said to himself, “I will bid good-by to sorrow. Clarice has
been avenged. The years of gloom that I have passed since her death
should atone for my sin in marrying her without love. The white dove
beckons me, the olive branch has come, a long farewell to the night,
and hail to the morning! My love has saved me, whom I have worshiped
with more than human affection.”
It was a surprise to his servants when that same day Sir Ronald walked
from the hall with a bright face, his head erect and cheerful words on
his lips. They had not seen him so for many a long month; it was as
though he had arisen from the dead. He walked through the long, closed,
desolate rooms, where silence and desolation had reigned so long.
“It will be so bright,” he thought, “when I can bring my darling home.
Aldenmere will be like the Garden of Eden then.”
“There is a change,” said one servant to another. “His sorrow has
fallen from him like a dark garment. Thank Heaven, he is not going to
spend his whole life in mourning over a dead wife! We may hear the
joy-bells ring at Aldenmere once more.”
And one day, to their greater surprise, he ordered his horse to be
saddled and rode away.
“I never thought,” said the head groom, “to saddle a horse for my
master again. I am thankful to see this day.”
So, leaving rejoicing hearts behind him, Ronald rode on through the
blossoming limes and the tall magnolia trees, through woodland shade
and by the river side, until he reached Leeholme Park--the place he had
never ceased to see in his dreams, and had never dared to enter again.
The lime blossoms wooed him to enter the park; the birds were singing
sweetest invitations to him from the trees. Was it in sheer mockery
that he stood there, his hat raised, his head bent and the words of a
prayer on his lips? What was he promising?
“I will try to merit it, my God! I will lavish money on those who need
it. I will build churches, endow schools far and wide. I will seek
objects for charity. I will be a just, a faithful steward, only give
Thou to me that which my heart desires and craves for!”
It did not enter the mind of the man who stood among the tufted limes
with summer beauty and fragrance floating round him, that the great God
does as He will, that no man may say to Him, “Give me this and I will
do right; withhold it and I do wrong.”
All his life long he had coveted one good. Let God give him that, and
he would be a just steward. Let God withhold it and he would shut
himself up in solitude, wasting the rich life and the countless gifts
that had been given to him.
As he drew near the stately home, where his white dove, as his heart
called her, dwelt, he grew nervous and confused. What if the welcome he
received were a cold one? What if Lord and Lady Lorriston resented his
conduct? Perhaps the best and most straightforward plan would be to see
them first.
He saw the rose garden where, on that night, now so long ago, he had
kissed the only face he had ever loved. Then he entered once again the
doors where he had been so long a stranger; he read surprise even in
the faces of the well-trained servants, when he asked for the earl and
countess.
Perhaps Lord Lorriston had never felt more surprised in his life than
when Sir Ronald Alden was shown into the study. Sir Ronald stood
bravely before him.
“My lord,” he said, “will you forgive me if I speak plainly? Englishmen
best understand brief words. I have loved your daughter, Lady
Hermione, all my life. Some years since a fatal and inexplicable
mistake parted us. I thought she was to blame; she believed the fault
mine, and the consequences were estrangement. I pray my dead wife’s
pardon if I say I married her from pique, not love. Now the fatal
mistake is cleared away, and I am here as a suitor for your daughter’s
hand. If you can forgive me and welcome me as such, I am, in truth,
a happy man; if you cannot, tell me my fate briefly. I am used to
suffering and can bear it.”
The only answer Lord Lorriston made was to take the thin, white hands
in his own and bid him thrice welcome to Leeholme.