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 knownthatvoice, 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.
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.
“He has given his life in saving mine. Oh, would that I had died for thee—my Harold—my Harold!”
This was evermore Olive's cry during the days of awful suspense, when they knew not but that every hour might be Harold's last. He had broken a bloodvessel in the lungs; through some violent mental emotion, the physician said. Nothing else could have produced such results in his usually strong and manly frame.
“And it was for me—for me!” moaned Olive. “Yet I doubted him—I almost called him cruel. Oh, that I should never have known his heart until now!”
Every feeling of womanly shame vanished before the threatening shadow of death. Night and day, Olive hovered about the door of Harold's room, listening for any sound. But there was always silence. No one passed in and out except his mother,—his mother, on whom Olive hardly dared to look, lest—innocent though she was—she might read reproach in Mrs. Gwynne's sorrowful eye. Once, she even ventured to hint this.
“I angry, because it was in saving you that this happened to my son? No, Olive, no! Whatever God sends, we will bear together.”
Mrs. Gwynne said this kindly, but her heart seemed frozen to every thought except one. She rarely quitted Harold's chamber, and scarcely noticed any person—not even Olive.
One night, or rather early morning, during the time of great crisis, she came out, and saw Olive standing in the passage, with a face whereon was written such utter woe, that before it even the mother's sorrow paled. It seemed to move Mrs. Gwynne deeply.
“My dear, how long have you been here?”
“All night.”
“Poor child—poor child!”
“It is all I can do for him and you. If I could only”——
“I guess what you would say. No, no! He must be perfectly quiet; he must not see or hearyou.” And the mother turned away, as though she had said too much. But what to Olive was it now to know that Harold loved her? She would have resigned all the blessing of his love to bring to him health and life. So crushed, so hopeless was her look, that Harold's mother pitied her. Thinking a moment, she said:
“He is fast asleep now. If it would comfort you, poor child, to look at him for one moment—but it must be only one”——
Olive bowed her head—she was past speaking—and followed Mrs. Gwynne. With a step as silent and solemn as though she were going to look on death, she went and looked on the beloved of her heart.
Harold lay; his face perfectly blanched, his dark hair falling heavily on the pillow, as if never to be stirred by life or motion more. They stood by his bed—the mother that bore him, and the woman who loved him dearer than her own soul. These two—the strongest of all earthly loves—so blended in one object, constrained them each to each. They turned from gazing on Harold, and sank into one another's arms.
For a few more days continued this agonised wrestling with death, during which they who would have given their life for Harold's could only look on and pray. During this time there came news to Olive from the world without—news that otherwise would have moved her, but which was now coldly received, as of no moment at all. Lyle Derwent had suddenly married; his heart, like many another, being “won in the rebound.” And Mrs. Flora Rothesay had passed away; dying, in the night, peacefully, and without pain, for they found her in the attitude of sleep.
But even for her Olive had no tears. She only shuddered over the letter, because it spoke of death. All the world seemed full of death. She walked in its shadow night and day. Her only thought and prayer was, “Give me his life—only his life, O God!”
And Harold's life was given her. But the hope came very faintly at first, or it might have been too much to bear. Day by day it grew stronger, until all present danger was gone. But there were many chances to be guarded against; and so, as soon as this change for the better arrived, Olive came to look at him in his sleep no more. His mother was very cautious over his every look and word, so that Olive could not even learn whether he had ever given any sign that he thought of her. And now that his health was returning, her womanly reserve came back; she no longer lingered at his door; even her joy was restrained and mingled with a trembling doubt.
At length, Harold was allowed to be moved to his mother's dressing-room. Very eager and joyful Mrs. Gwynne was, ransacking the house for pillows to make him lie easy on the sofa; and plaids to wrap him in;—full of that glad, even childish excitement with which we delight to hail the recovery of one beloved, who has been nearly lost. The pleasure extended itself over the whole household, to whom their master was very dear. Olive only sat in her own room, listening to every footstep.
Mrs. Gwynne came to her at last “It is all done, my dear, and he is not so weak as we feared. But he is very much exhausted still. We must take great care even now.”
“Certainly,” answered Olive. She knew what the anxious mother meant, and dared not utter the longing at her heart.
“I hardly know what to do,” said Mrs. Gwynne, restlessly. “He has been asking to see you.”
“To see me! And—may I!”——
“I told him not to-day, and I was right. Child, look at your own face now! Until you can calm yourself, you shall not see my Harold.” Without offering any opposition, Olive sat down. Mrs. Gwynne was melted. “Nay,” she said, “you shall do as you will, little patient one! I left him asleep now; you shall stay by him until he wakes. Come.”
She took her to the door, but quitted her there, perhaps remembering the days when she too was young.
Olive entered noiselessly, and took her place by Harold's side. He was sleeping; though it was not the death-like sleep in which she had beheld him, that mournful night; but a quiet, healthful slumber. His whole face seemed softened and spiritualised, as is often the case with strong men, whom a long illness has brought low. With childlike helplessness there seems to come a childlike peace. Olive knew now why Mrs. Gwynne had said, a few days since, that Harold looked as he had done when he was a little boy—his mother's only boy.
For a few minutes Olive sat silently watching. She felt how utterly she loved him—how, had he died, the whole world would have faded from her like a blank dream. And even now, should she have to part from him in any way——
“I cannot—I cannot It would be more than I could bear.” And from the depth of her heart rose a heavy sigh.
Harold seemed to hear it. He moved a little, and said, faintly. “Who is there?”
“It is I.”
“Olive—little Olive.” His white cheek flushed, and he held out his hand.
She, remembering his mother's caution, only whispered, “I am so glad—so glad!”
“It is a long time since I saw you,” he said brokenly. “Stand so that I can look at you, Olive!” She obeyed. He looked long and wistfully at her face. “You have been weeping, I see. Wherefore?”
“Because I am so happy to think you are better.”
“Is that true? Do you think so much of me?” And a pale but most joyful smile broke over his face; though, leaving it, the features trembled with emotion. Olive was alarmed.
“You must not talk now—not one word. Remember how very ill you have been. I will sit by you here. Oh, what can I ever do or say in gratitude for all you have done for me?”
“Gratitude!” Harold echoed the word, as if with pain, and then lay still, looking up at her no more. Gradually there came a change over his countenance, as if some bitter thought were slowly softening into calmness. “Olive,” he said, “you speak of gratitude, then what must be mine to you? In those long hours when I lay conscious, but silent, knowing that there might be but a breath between me and eternity, how should I have felt had I not learnt from you that holy faith which conquers death?”
“Thank God! thank God! But you are weak, and must not speak.”
“I must, for I am stronger now; I draw strength from your very presence—you, who have been my life's good angel. Let me tell you so while I can.”
“While you can!”
“Yes; for I sometimes think that, though I am thus far better, I shall never be quite myself again; but slowly, perhaps without suffering, pass away from this world.”
“Oh, no!—oh, no!” And Olive clasped his hand tighter, looking up with a terrified air. “You cannot—shall not die! I—I could not bear it” And then her face was dyed with a crimson blush—soon washed away by a torrent of tears.
Harold turned feebly round, and laid his right hand on her head. “Little Olive! To think that you should weep thus, and I should be so calm!” He waited awhile, until her emotion had ceased. Then he said, “Lift up your face; let me look at you. Nay, tremble not, for I am going to speak very solemnly;—of things that I might never have uttered, save for such an hour as this. You will listen, my own dear friend, my sister, as you said you would be?”
“Yes—yes, always!”
“Ah! Olive, you thought not that you were more to me than any friend—any sister—that I loved you—not calmly, brotherly—but with all the strength and passion of my heart, as a man loves the woman he would choose out of all the world to be his wife.”
These words trembled on lips white as though they had been the lips of death. Olive heard; but she only pressed his hand without speaking.
Harold went on. “I tell you this, because now, when I feel so changed that all earthly things grow dim, I am not too proud to say I love you. Once I was. You stole into my heart before I was aware. Oh! how I wrestled against this love—I, who had been once deceived, so that I believed in no woman's truth. At last, I resolved to trust in yours, but I would try to be quite sure of it first You remember how I talked to you, and how you answered, in the Hermitage of Braid? Then I knew you loved, but I thought you loved not me.”
“How could you think so? Oh! Harold—Harold!”
As she uttered his name, tremulously as a woman breathes for the first time the beloved name in the beloved ear, Harold started. But still he answered calmly,
“Whether that thought was true or not, would not change what I am about to say now. All my pride is gone—I only desire that you should know how deeply I loved you: and that, living or dying, I shall love you evermore.”
Olive tried to answer—tried to tell him the story of her one great love—so hopeless, yet so faithful—so passionate, yet so dumb. But she could utter nothing save the murmur—“Harold! Harold!” And therein he learnt all.
Looking upon her, there came into his face an expression of unutterable joy. He made an effort to raise himself, but in vain. “Come,” he murmured, “come near me, Olive—my little Olive that loves me!—is it not so?”
“Ever—from the first, you only—none but you!”
“Kiss me, then, my own faithful one,” he said faintly.
Olive leaned over him, and kissed him on the eyes and mouth. He tried to fold his arms round her, but failed.
“I have no strength at all,” he said, sorrowfully. “I cannot take her to my heart—my darling—my wife! So worn-out am I—so weak.”
“But I am strong,” Olive answered. She put her arm under his head, and made him lean on her shoulder. He looked up smiling.
“Oh, this is sweet, very sweet! I could sleep—I could almost die—thus”——
“No, God will not let you die, my Harold,” whispered Olive; and then neither spoke again.
Overpowered by an emotion which was too much for his feeble strength, Harold lay quiet By degrees, when the room darkened—for it was evening—his breathing grew deeper, and he fell asleep, his head still resting on Olive's shoulder.
She looked down upon him—his wasted face—his thin hand, that, even in slumber, still clung helplessly to hers. What a tide of emotion swept through her heart! It seemed that therein was gathered up for him every tenderness that woman's soul could know. She loved him at once with the love of mother, sister, friend, and wife—loved him as those only can who have no other kindred tie—nothing in the whole wide world to love beside. She laid her cheek against his hair—but softly, lest she should waken him.
“I thought to have led a whole long lonely life for thy sake, Harold! And I would have led it, without murmuring, either against Heaven or thee, knowing my own un-worthiness. But since it is not to be so, I will give thee instead a whole life of faithful love—a wife's love—such as never was wife's before.”
And then, over long years, her fancy went back, discerning how all things had worked together to this end. She saw how patience had ripened into hope, and suffering into joy. Not one step of the whole weary way had been trodden in vain—not one thorn had pierced her feet, that had not while entering there distilled a saving balm.
Travelling over many scenes, her memory beheld Harold, as in those early days when her influence and her prayers had changed his heart, and led him from darkness to light. Again, as in the first bitterness of her love for him; when continually he tortured her, never dreaming of the wounds he gave. And once more, as in the time, when knowing her fate, she had calmly prepared to meet it, and tried to make herself a true friend unto him—he so unresponsive, cold, and stern. Remembering him thus, she looked at him as he lay, turning for rest and comfort to her—only her. Once more she kissed his forehead as he slept, and then her lips uttered the words with which Mrs. Flora had blessed her.
“O God, I thank Thee, for Thou hast given me my heart's desire!”
Soon after, Mrs. Gwynne entered the room. But no blush came to Olive's cheek—too solemn was her joy.
“Hush!” she whispered; “do not wake him. He loves me—I know it now. You will not be angry?—I have loved him always.”
“I knew it, Olive.”
Harold's mother stood a long time in silence. Heaven only knows what struggle there might have been in her heart—so bound up as it was in him—her only child. Ere it ended—he awoke.
“Mother!—is not that my mother?”
“Yes!” Mrs. Gwynne answered. She went up and kissed them both, first her son, and afterwards Olive. Then, without speaking, she quitted the room, leaving them alone together.
It was a Sunday afternoon, not bright, but dull. All the long day the low clouds had been dropping freshness down;—the soft May-rain, which falls warm and silent, as if the spring were weeping itself away for very gladness. Through the open window came the faint odour which the earth gives forth during rain—an odour of bursting leaves and dew-covered flowers. On the lawn you could almost “have seen the grass grow.” And though the sky was dull and grey, still the whole air was so full of summer, so rich in the promise of what the next day would be, that you did not marvel to hear the birds singing as merrily as if it had been sunshine. There was one thrush to which Olive had stood listening for half-an-hour. He sat sheltered in the heart of the great syringa bush. Though the rain kept dropping continually from its flowers, he poured out a song so long and merry, that he even disturbed his friends in the parlour—the happy silent three—mother, son, and the son's betrothed.
Mrs. Gwynne, who sat in the far corner, put down her book—the best Book, for Sunday and all other days—the only one she ever read now. Harold, still feeble, lying back in his armchair by the window, listened to the happy bird.
“Do you like to hear it, or shall I close the window?” said Olive, coming towards him.
“Nay, it does me good; everything does me good now,” he answered, smiling. And then he lay a long time, quietly looking on the garden and the misty view beyond. Olive sat, looking alone at him; watching him in that deep peace, that satisfied content with which our eyes drink in every lineament beloved, when, all sorrow past, the fulness of love has come. No need had she to seek his, as though asking restlessly, “Do you love me?” In her own love's completeness she desired no demonstration of his. To her it was perfect joy only to sit near him and to look at his face; the face which, whether seen or remembered, shone distinct from every other face in the wide world; and had done so from the first moment when it met her sight. Very calm and beautiful it was now; so beautiful, that even his mother turned round and looked at him for a moment with dimmed eyes.
“You are sure you feel quite well to-day? I mean as well as usual. You are not sitting up too long, or wearying yourself too much?”
“Oh, no, mother! I think I could even exert myself more; but there is such sweetness in this dreamy life. I am so happy! It will be almost a pain to go back to the troublesome world again.”
“Do not say so, my son. Indeed, we must have you quite well soon—the sooner the better—and then you will return to all your old duties. When I sat in church this morning, I was counting how many Sundays it would possibly be before I heard my son Harold's voice there again.”
Harold moved restlessly.
“What say you, Olive, my dear?” continued Mrs. Gwynne. “Will it not be a pleasure to hear him in his own pulpit again? How soon, think you, will he be able to preach?”
“I cannot tell,” answered Olive, in a low voice; and she looked anxiously at her betrothed. For well she knew his heart, and well she guessed that though that heart was pure and open in the sight of God and inhersight, it might not be so in that of every man. And although his faith was now the Christian faith—even, in many points, that of the Church—still Olive doubted whether he would ever be a Church of England minister again. No wonder that she watched his face in anxious love, and then looked from him to his mother, who, all unconscious, continued to speak.
“In truth, all your parishioners will be glad to have you back. Even Mrs. Fludyer was saying so yesterday; and noticing that it was a whole year since you had preached in your own church. A long absence! Of course, it could not be helped; still it was rather a pity. Please God, it shall not happen again—shall it, Harold?”
“Mother—mother!” His hands were crushed together, and with a look of pain. Olive stole to his side.
“Perhaps we are talking too much. Shall we go away, Harold, and leave you to sleep?”
“Hush, Olive! hush!” he whispered. “I have thought of this before. I knew I must tell it to her—all the truth.”
“But not now—not now. Wait till you are stronger; wait a week—a day.”
“No, not an hour. It is right!”
“What are you talking to my son about?” said Mrs. Gwynne, with a quick jealousy, which even yet was not altogether stilled.
Neither of the betrothed spoke.
“You are not hiding anything from me, Harold; from me, your mother!”
“My mother—my noble, self-denying, mother!” murmured Harold, as if thinking aloud. “Surely, if I sinned for her, God will forgive me!”
“Sinned for me! What are you talking of, Harold? Is there anything in your mind—anything I do not know?” And her eyes—still tender, yet with a half-formed suspicion—were fixed searchingly on her son. And when, as if to shield him even from his mother, Olive leaned over him, Mrs. Gwynne's voice grew stern with reproof.
“Stand aside, Olive. Let me see his face. Not even you have a right to interpose between me and my son.”
Olive moved a little aside. Very meek was she—as one had need to be whom Mrs. Gwynne would call daughter and Harold wife. Yet by her meekness she had oftentimes controlled them both. She did so now.
“Olive—darling,” whispered Harold, his eyes full of love; “my mother says right Let her come and sit by me a little. Nay, stay near, though. I must have you in my sight—it will strengthen me.”
She pressed his hand, and went away to the other end of the room.
Then Harold said, tenderly, “Mother, I want to tell you something.”
“It is no misfortune—no sin? O, my son, I am too old to bear either!” she answered, as she sat down, trembling a little.
“My own mother—my mother that I love, dearer now than ever in my life before—listen to me, and then judge me. Twelve or fourteen years ago, there was a son—an only son—who had a noble mother. She had sacrificed everything for him—the time came when he had to sacrifice something for her. It was a point of conscience; light, perhaps,then—but still it caused him a struggle. He must conquer it, and he did so. He stifled all scruples, pressed down all doubts, and became a minister of a Church in whose faith he did not quite believe.”
“Go on,” said Mrs. Gwynne, hurriedly. “I had a fear once—a bitter fear. But no matter! Go on!”
“Well, he did this sin, for sin it was, though done for his mother's sake. He had better have supported her by the labour of his hands, than have darkened his soul by a lie. But he did not think of that then. All the fault was his—not his mother's; mind—I saynot his mother's.”
She looked at him, and then looked away again.
“He could blame no one but himself—he never did—though his first faint doubts grew, until they prisoned him like a black mist, through which he could see neither earth nor heaven. Men's natures are different; his was not meant for that of a quiet village priest. Circumstances, associations, habits of mind—all were against him. And so his scepticism and his misery increased, until in despair of heaven, he plunged into the oblivion of an earthly passion. He went mad for a woman's beauty,—for her beauty only!”
Harold pressed his hand upon his brow, as if old memories stung him still. His betrothed saw it, but she felt no pain. She knew that her own love had shone down into his heart's dark depths, removing every stain, binding up every wound. By that love's great might she had saved him, won him, and would have power to keep him evermore.
“Mother,” Harold pursued, “I must pass on quickly to the end. This man's one error seemed to cause all fate to rise against him that he might become an infidel to God and to man. At last he had faith in no living soul except his mother. This alone saved him from being the vilest wretch that ever crawled, as he was already the most miserable.”
A faint groan—only one—broke from the depth of the mother's heart, but she never spoke.
“There was no escape—his pride shut out that. So, year after year, he fulfilled his calling, and lived his life, honestly, morally—towards man, at least; but towards Heaven it was one long, awful lie. For he—a minister in God's temple—was in his heart an infidel.”
Harold stopped. In his strong excitement he had forgotten his mother. She, letting go his hand, glided to her knees; there she knelt for a long time, her lips moving silently. At last she rose, her grand figure lifted to its utmost height, her face very stern, her voice without one tone of tremulous age, or mother's anguish.
“And this hypocrite in man's sight—this blasphemer in the face of God—is my son Harold?”
“Was, but is not—never will be more. Oh, mother, have mercy! for Heaven has had mercy too.—I am no sceptic now. I believe, ay, fervently and humbly believe.”
Mrs. Gwynne uttered a great cry, and fell on his neck. Never since the time when he was a child in her arms had he received such a passionate clasp—an embrace mingled with weeping that shook the whole frame of the aged mother. For a moment she lifted her head, murmured a thanksgiving for the son who “was dead, and alive again—was lost and found,” and then she clung to him once more.
“Olive kept aloof, until, seeing what a ghastly paleness was coming over the face of her betrothed, she came and stood beside him, saying,
“Do not talk more, you are too weak. Let me tell the rest.”
“You there, Olive? Go! Leave my son to me; you have no part here.”
But Harold held his betrothed fast. “Nay, mother. Take her and bless her, for it was she who saved your son.”
And then, in a few broken words, he told the rest of the tale; told it so that not even his mother could be wounded by the thought of a secret known to Olive and concealed from her—of an influence that over her son was more powerful than her own. Afterwards, when Olive's arms were round her neck, and Olive's voice was heard imploring pardon for both, her whole heart melted within her. Solemnly she blessed her son's betrothed, and called her “daughter.”
“Now, my Harold!” she said, when, all trace of emotion having passed from either, she sat quietly by her son's side. “Now I understand all. Olive is right; with your love of action, and a spirit that would perhaps find a limitation in the best forms of belief, you never can be again a minister of the English Church. We must not think of it any more.”
“But, mother, how shall we live? That is what tortures me! Whither shall we turn if we go from Harbury? Alone, I could bear anything, but you”——
“No matter for me! My Harold,” she added, a little moved, “if you had trusted me, and told me your sufferings at any time all these years,—I would have given up everything here, and lived, as I once did, when you were a youth at college. It was not hard then, nor would it have been now. O my son, you did not half know your mother!”
He looked at her, and slowly, slowly there rose in his eyes—those clear, proud, manly eyes!—two great crystal tears. He was not ashamed of them; he let them gather and fall. And Olive loved him dearer, ay, ten thousand times, even though these tears—the first and last she ever beheld him shed—were given not to her, but to his mother.
Mrs. Gwynne resumed.
“Let us think what we must do; for we have no time to lose. As soon as you are quite strong, you must give up the curacy, and we will leave Harbury.”
“Leave Harbury! your dear old home, from which you have often said you could never part! Oh, mother, mother!”
“It is nothing—do not think of it, my son! Afterwards, what must you do?”
“I cannot tell. Olive, think for me!” said Harold, looking helplessly towards her.
Olive advised—timidly at first, but growing firmer as she proceeded—that he should carry out his old plan of going to America. They talked over the project for a long time, until it grew matured. Ere the afternoon closed, it was finally decided on—at least, so far as Harold's yet doubtful health permitted.
“But I shall grow strong now, I know. Mother—Olive! my heart is lightened of the load of years!”
And truly it seemed so. Nay, when tea-time came he even rose and walked across the room with something of his old firm step, as if the returning health were strong within him.
After tea, Harbury bells broke out in their evening chime. Mrs. Gwynne rose; Olive asked if she were thinking of going to church!
“Yes—to thank God!”
“Go with her, Olive,” said Harold, as he watched his mother from the room. Olive followed, but Mrs. Gwynne said she would rather go to church alone, and Harold must not be left. Olive stayed with her a few minutes, rendering all those little services which youth can so sweetly pay to age. And sweet too was the reward when Harold's mother kissed her, and once more called her “daughter.” So, full of content, she went down-stairs to her betrothed.
Harold was again sitting in his favourite arm-chair by the window. The rain had lately ceased, and just at the horizon there had come to the heavy grey sky a golden fringe—a line of watery light, so dazzling that the eye could scarcely bear it. It filled the whole room, and fell like a glory on Harold's head. Olive stood still to look at him. Coming closer, she saw that he was not asleep, though his eyes were cast down in painful thought. Something in his expression reminded her of that which he had worn on the night when he first came to Edinburgh, and she had leaned over him, longing to comfort him—as she had now a right to do. She did so! He felt the kiss on his brow, and smiled.
“Little Olive—good little Olive, she always comes when I most need her,” he said, fondly.
“Little Olive is very happy in so doing. And now tell me what you were thinking of, that you pressed your lips together, and knotted your forehead—the broad beautiful forehead that I love? It was not good of you, my Harold.”
“Do not jest, Olive; I cannot. If I go abroad, I must go alone. What will become of my mother and Ailie?”
“They shall stay and comfort me. Nay, you will not forbid it. How could I go on with my painting, living all alone?”
“Ay, there is another sting,” he answered. “Not one word say you;—but I feel it. How many years you may have still to work on alone!”
“Do you think I fear that? Nay—I do not give my heart like some women I have known—from dread of living to be an old maid, or to gain a house, a name, and a husband;—I gave it for love, pure love! If I were to wait for years—if I were never your wife at all, but died only your betrothed, still I should die satisfied. Oh, Harold, you know not how sweet it is to love you, and be loved by you—to share all your cares, and rejoice in all your joys! Indeed—indeed I am content.”
“You might, my gentle one, but not I. Little you think how strong is man's pride—how stronger still is man's love. We will not look to such a future—I could not bear it. If I go, you shall go with me, my wife! Poor or not, what care I, so you are mine?”
He spoke hurriedly, like the proud Harold of old—ay, the pride mingled with a stronger passion still. But Olive smiled both down.
“Harold,” she said, parting his hair with her cool soft hands, “do not be angry with me! You know I love you dearly. Sometimes I think I must have loved you before you loved me, long. Yet I am not ashamed of this.”
“Ah!” he muttered, “how often ignorantly I must have made you suffer, how often, blindly straggling with my own pride, have I tortured you. But still—still I loved you. Forgive me, dear!”
“Nay, there is nothing to forgive. The joy has blotted out all the pain.”
“It shall do so when you are once mine. That must be soon, Olive—soon.”
She answered firmly, though a little blushing the while: “It should be to-morrow; if for your good. But it would not be. You must not be troubled with worldly cares. To see you so would break my heart. No—you must be free to work, and gain fame and success. My love shall never fetter you down to anxious poverty. I regard your glory even dearer than yourself, you see!”
Gradually she led him to consent to her entreaty that they should both work together for their dearest ones; and that in the home which she with her slender means could win, there should ever be a resting-place for Mrs. Gwynne and for little Ailie.
Then they put aside all anxious talk, and sat in the twilight, with clasped hands, speaking softly and brokenly; or else never speaking at all; only feeling that they were together—they two, who were all in all to each other, while the whole world of life went whirling outside, never touching that sweet centre of complete repose. At last, Olive's full heart ran over.
“Oh, Harold!” she cried, “this happiness is almost more than I can bear. To think that you should love me thus—me poor little Olive! Sometimes I feel—as I once bitterly felt—how unworthy I am of you.”
“Darling! why?”
“Because I have no beauty; and, besides—I cannot speak it, but you know—you know!”
She hid her face burning with blushes. The words and act revealed how deeply in her heart lay the sting which had at times tortured her her whole life through—shame for that personal imperfection with which Nature had marked her from her birth, and which, forgotten in an hour by those who learned to love her, still seemed to herself a perpetual humiliation. The pang came, but only for the last time, ere it quitted her heart for ever.
For, dispelling all doubts, healing all wounds, fell the words of her betrothed husband—tender, though grave: “Olive, if you love me, and believe that I love you, never grieve me by such thoughts again. To me you are all beautiful—in heart and mind, in form and soul.”
Then, as if silently to count up her beauties, he kissed her little hands, her soft smiling mouth, her long gold curls. And Olive hid her face in his breast, murmuring,
“I am content, since I am fair in your sight, my Harold—my only love!”