“Well, I never in my life knew such a change as Farnwood has made in Miss Manners,” observed old Hannah, the Woodford Cottage maid; who, though carefully kept in ignorance of any facts that could betray the secret of Christal's history, yet seemed at times to bear a secret grudge against her, as an interloper. “There she comes, riding across the country like some wild thing—she who used to be so prim and precise!”
“Poor young creature, she is like a bird just let out of a cage,” said Mrs. Rothesay, kindly. “It is often so with girls brought up as she has been. Olive, I am glad you never went to school.”
Olive's answer was stopped by the appearance of Christal, followed by one of the young Fludyer boys, with whom she had become a first-rate favourite. Her fearless frankness, her exuberant spirits, tempered only by her anxiety to appear always “the grand lady,” made her a welcome guest at Farnwood Hall. Indeed, she was rarely at home, save when appearing, as now, on a hasty visit, which quite disturbed Mrs. Rothesay's placidity, and almost drove old Hannah crazy.
“He is not come yet, you see,” Christal said, with a mysterious nod to Charley Fludyer. “I thought we should outride him—a parson never can manage a pony. But he will surely be here soon?”
“Whowill be here soon?” asked Olive, considerably surprised. “Are you speaking of Mr. Gwynne?”
“Mr. Gwynne, no! Far better fun than that, isn't it, Charley? Shall we tell the secret or not? Or else shall we tell half of it, and let her puzzle it out till he comes?” The boy nodded assent “Well, then, there is coming to see you to-day a friend of Charley's, who only arrived at Farnwood last night, and since then has been talking of nothing else but his old idol, Miss Olive Rothesay. So I told him to meet me here, and, lo! he comes.”
There was a hurried knock at the door, and immediately the little parlour was graced by the presence of an individual,—whom Olive did not recognise in the least. He seemed about twenty, slight and tall, of a complexion red and white; his features pretty, though rather girlish.
Olive bowed to him in undisguised surprise; but the moment he saw her his face became “celestial rosy red,” apparently from a habit he had, in common with other bashful youths, of blushing on all occasions.
“I see you do not remember me, Miss Rothesay. Of course I could not expect it. But I have not forgotten you.”
Olive, though still doubtful, instinctively offered him her hand. The tall youth took it eagerly, and as he looked down upon her, something in his expression reminded her of a face she had herself once looked down upon—her little knight of the garden at Oldchurch. In the impulse of the moment she called him again by his old name—“Lyle! Lyle Derwent!”
“Yes, it is indeed I!” cried the young man. “Oh, Miss Rothesay, you can't tell how glad I am to meet you again.”
“I am glad, too.” And Olive regarded him with that half-mournful curiosity with which we trace the lineaments of some long-forgotten face, belonging to that olden time, between which and now a whole lifetime seems to have intervened.
“Is that little Lyle Derwent?” cried Mrs. Rothesay, catching the name. “How very strange! Come hither, my dear boy! Alas, I cannot see you. Let me put my hand on your head.”
But she could not reach it, he was grown so tall. She seemed startled to think how time had flown.
“He is quite a man now, mamma,” said Olive; “you know we have not seen him for many years”——
Lyle added, blushing deeper than before—“The last time—I remember it well—was in the garden, one Sunday in spring—nine years ago.”
“Nine years ago! Is it then nine years since my Angus died?” murmured the widow; and a grave silence spread itself over them all. In the midst of it Christal and Charley, seeing this meeting was not likely to produce the “fun” they expected, took the opportunity of escaping.
Then came the questions, which after so long a period one shrinks from asking, afraid of answer. Olive learnt that old Mr. Derwent had ceased to scold, and poor Bob played his mischievous pranks no more. Both lay quiet in Oldchurch churchyard. Worldly losses, too, had chanced, until the sole survivor of the family found himself very poor.
“I should not even have gone to college,” said Lyle, “but for the kindness of my brother-in-law, Harold Gwynne.”
Olive started. “Oh, true—I forgot all about that. Then he has been a good brother to you?” added she, with a feeling of pleasure and interest.
“He has indeed. When my father died, I had not a relative in the world, save a rich old uncle who wanted to put me in his counting-house; but Harold stood between us, and saved me from a calling I hated. And when my uncle turned me off, he took me home. Yes! I am not ashamed to say that I owe everything in the world to my brother Harold. I feel this the more, because he was not quite happy in his marriage. She did not suit him—my sister Sara.”
“Indeed?” said Olive, and changed the conversation. After tea, Lyle, who appeared rather a sentimental young gentleman, proposed a moonlight walk in the garden. Miss Christal, after eyeing Olive and her cavalier with a mixture of amusement and vexation, as if she did not like to miss so excellent a chance of fun and flirtation, consoled herself with ball-playing and Charley Fludyer.
As their conversation grew more familiar, Olive was rather disappointed in Lyle. In his boyhood, she had thought him quite a little genius; but the bud had given more promise than the flower was ever likely to fulfil. Now she saw in him one of those not uncommon characters, who with sensitive feeling, and some graceful talent, yet never rise to the standard of genius. Strength, daring, and, above all, originality were wanting in his mind. With all his dreamy sentiment—his lip-library of perpetually quoted poets—and his own numberless scribblings (of which he took care to inform Miss Rothesay)—Lyle Der-went would probably remain to his life's end a mere “poetical gentleman.”
Olive soon divined all this, and she began to weary a little of her companion and his vague sentimentalities, “in linked sweetness long drawn out.” Besides, thoughts much deeper had haunted her at times, during the evening—thoughts of the marriage which had been “not quite happy.” This fact scarcely surprised her. The more she began to know of Mr. Gwynne—and she had seen a great deal of him, considering the few weeks of their acquaintance—the more she marvelled that he had ever chosen Sara Derwent for his wife. Their union must have been like that of night and day, fierce fire and unstable water. Olive longed to fathom the mystery, and could not resist saying.
“You were talking of your sister a-while ago. I stopped you, for I saw it pained mamma. But now I should so like to hear something about my poor Sara.”
“I can tell you little, for I was a boy when she died. But things I then little noticed, I put together afterwards. It must have been quite a romance, I think. You know my sister had a former lover—Charles Geddes. Do you remember him?”
“I do—well!” and Olive sighed—perhaps over the remembrance of the dream born in that fairy time—her first girlish dream of ideal love.
“He was at sea when Sara married. On his return the news almost drove him wild. I remember his coming in the garden—our old garden, you know—where he and Sara used to walk. He seemed half mad, and I went to him, and comforted him as well as I could, though little I understood his grief. Perhaps I should now!” said Lyle, lifting his eyes with rather a doleful, sentimental air; which, alas! was all lost upon his companion.
“Poor Charles!” she murmured. “But tell me more.”
“He persuaded me to take back all her letters, together with one from himself, and give them to my sister the next time I went to Harbury. I did so. Well I remember that night! Harold came in, and found his wife crying over the letters. In a fit of jealousy he took them and read them all through—together with that of Charles. He did not see me, or know the part I had in the matter, but I shall never forgethim.”
“What did he do?” asked Olive, eagerly. Strange that her question and her thoughts were not of Sara, but of Harold.
“Do? nothing! But his words—I remember them distinctly, they were so freezing, so stern. He grasped her arm, and said, 'Sara, when you said you loved me, you uttereda lie!When you took your marriage oath, you voweda lie!Every day since, that you have smiled in my face, you have lookeda lie!Henceforth I will never trust you—or any woman. '”
“And what followed?” cried Olive, now so strongly interested that she never paused to think if she had any right to ask these questions.
“Soon after, Sara came home to us. She did not stay long, and then returned to Harbury. Harold was never unkind to her—that I know. But, somehow, she pined away; the more so after she heard of Charles Geddes's sudden death.”
“Alas! he died too.”
“Yes; by an accident his own recklessness caused. But he was weary of his life, poor fellow! Well—Sara never quite recovered that shock. After little Ailie was born, she lingered a few weeks, and then died. It was almost a relief to us all.”
“What! did you not love your sister?”
“Of course I did; but then she was older than I, and had never cared for me much. Now, as to Harold, I owe him everything. He has been to me less like a brother than a father; not in affection, perhaps that is scarcely in his nature, but in kindness and in counsel. There is not in the world a better man than Harold Gwynne.”
Olive replied warmly. “I am sure of it, and I like you the more for acknowledging it.” Then, in some confusion, she added, “Pardon me, but I had quite gone back to the old times, when you were my little pet. I really must learn to show more formality and respect to Mr. Derwent.”
“Don't sayMr. Derwent. Pray call me Lyle, as you used to do.”
“That I will, with pleasure. Only,” she continued, smiling, “when I look up at you, I shall begin to feel quite an ancient dame, since I am so much older than you.”
“Not at all,” Lyle answered, with an eagerness somewhat deeper than the mannish pride of youths who have just crossed the Rubicon that divides them from their much-scorned 'teens.' “I have advanced, and you seem to have stood still; there is scarcely any difference between us now.” And Olive, somewhat amused, let her old favourite have his way.
They spoke on trivial subjects, until it was time to return to the house. Just as they were entering, Lyle said:
“Look! there is my brother-in-law standing at the gate. Oh, Miss Rothesay, be sure you never tell him of the things we have been talking about.”
“It is not likely I shall ever have the opportunity. Mr. Gwynne seems a very reserved man.”
“He is so; and of these matters he now never speaks at all.”
“Hush! he is here;” and with a feeling of unwonted nervousness, as if she feared he had been aware of how much she had thought and conversed about him, Olive met Harold Gwynne.
“I am afraid I am an intruder, Miss Rothesay,” said the latter, with a half-suspicious glance at the tall, dark figure which stood near her in the moonlight.
“What! did you not know me, brother Harold? How funny!” And he laughed: his laugh was something like Sara's.
It seemed to ring jarringly on Mr. Gwynne's ear. “I was not aware, Miss Rothesay, that you knew my brother-in-law.”
“Oh, Miss Rothesay and I were friends almost ten years ago. She was our neighbour at Oldchurch.”
“Indeed.” And Olive thought she discerned in his face, which she had already begun to read, some slight pain or annoyance. Perhaps it wounded him to know any one who had known Sara. Perhaps—but conjectures were vain.
“I am glad you are come,” she said to Harold. “Mamma has been wishing for you all day. Lyle, will you go and tell her who is here. Nay, Mr. Gwynne, surely you will come back with me to the house?”
He seemed half-inclined to resist, but at last yielded. So he made one of the little circle, and “assisted” well at this, the first of many social evenings, at Farnwood Dell But at times, Olive caught some of his terse, keen, and somewhat sarcastic sayings, and thought she could imagine the look and tone with which he had said the bitter words about “never trusting woman more.”
He and Lyle went away together, and Christal, who had at last succeeded in apparently involving the light-hearted young collegian within the meshes of her smiles, took consolation in a little quiet drollery with Charley Fludyer; but even this resource failed when Charley spoke of returning home.
“I shall not go back with you to-night,” said Christal. “I shall stay at the Dell. You may come and fetch me to-morrow, with the pony you lent me; and bring Mr. Derwent, too, to lead it. To see him so employed would be excellent fun.”
“You seem to have taken a sudden passion for riding, Christal,” said Olive, with a smile, when they were alone.
“Yes, it suits me. I like dashing along across the country—it is excitement; and I like, too, to have a horse obeying me—'tis so delicious to rule! To think that Madame Blandin should consider riding unfeminine, and that I should have missed that pleasure for so many years! But I am my own mistress now. By the way,” she added, carelessly, “I wanted to have a few words with you, Miss Rothesay.” She had rarely called herOliveof late.
“Nay, my dears,” interposed Mrs. Rothesay, “do not begin to talk just yet—not until I am gone to bed; for I am very, very tired” And so, until Olive came downstairs again, Christal sat in dignified solitude by the parlour fire.
“Well,” said Miss Rothesay, when she entered, “what have you to say to me, my dear child?”
Christal drew back a little at the familiar word and manner, as though she did not quite like it. But she only said, “Oh, it is a mere trifle; I am obliged to mention it, because I understand Miss Vanbrugh left my money matters under your care until I came of age.”
“Certainly; you know it was by your consent, Christal.”
“O yes, because it will save me trouble. Well, all I wanted to say was, that I wish to keep a horse.”
“To keep a horse!”
“Certainly; what harm can there be in that? I long to ride about at my own will; go to the meets in the forest; even to follow the hounds. I am my own mistress, and I choose to do it,” said Christal in rather a high tone.
“You cannot, indeed, my dear,” answered Olive mildly. “Think of all the expenses it would entail—expenses far beyond your income.”
“I myself am the best judge of that.”
“Not quite. Because, Christal, you are still very young, and have little knowledge of the world. Besides, to tell you the plain truth—must I?”
“Certainly; of all things I hate deceit and concealment.” Here Christal stopped, blushed a little; and half-turning aside, hid further in her bosom a little ornament which occasionally peeped out—a silver cross and beads. Then she said in a somewhat less angry tone, “You are right; tell me all your mind.”
“I think, then, that though your income is sufficient to give you independence, it cannot provide you with luxuries. Also,” she continued, speaking very gently, “it seems to me scarcely right, that a young girl like you, without father or brother, should go riding and hunting in the way you purpose.”
“That still is my own affair—no one has a right to control me.” Olive was silent. “Do you mean to sayyouhave? Because you are in some sort my guardian, are you to thwart me in this manner? I will not endure it.”
And there rose in her the same fierce spirit which had startled Olive on the first night of the girl's arrival at Woodford Cottage, and which, something to her surprise, had lain dormant ever since, covered over with the light-hearted trifling which formed Christal's outward character. “What am I to do?” thought Olive, much troubled. “How am I to wrestle with this girl? But I will do it—if only for Meliora's sake. Christal,” she said affectionately, “we have never talked together seriously for a long time; not since the first night we met.”
“I remember, you were good to me then,” answered Christal, a little subdued.
“Because I was grieved for you—I pitied you.” “Pitied!” and the angry demon again rose. Olive saw she must not touch that chord again.
“My dear,” she said, still more kindly; “indeed I have neither the wish nor the right to rule you; I only advise.” “And to advice I am ready to listen. Don't mistake me, Miss Rothesay. I liked you—I do still—very much indeed; but you don't quite understand or sympathise with me now.”
“Why not, dear? Is it because I have little time to be with you, being so much occupied with my mother, and with my profession?”
“Ay, that is it,” said Christal, loftily. “My dear Miss Rothesay, I am much obliged to you for all your kindness; but we do not suit one another. I have found that out since I visited at Farnwood Hall. There is a difference between a mere artist working for a livelihood, and an independent lady.”
Even Christal, abrupt as her anger had made her, blushed for the rudeness of this speech. But false shame kept her from offering any atonement.
Olive's slight figure expressed unwonted dignity. In her arose something of the old Rothesay pride, but still more of pride in her Art. “There is a difference; but, to my way of thinking, it is often on the side of the artist.”
Christal made no answer, and Olive continued, resuming her usual manner. “Come, we will not discuss this matter. All that need be decided now, is, whether or not I shall draw the sum you will require to buy your horse. I will, if you desire it; because, as you say, I have indeed no control over you. But, my dear Christal, I entreat you to pause and consider; at least till morning.”
Olive rose, for she was unequal to further conversation. Deeply it pained her that this girl, whom she wished so to love, should evidently turn from her, not in dislike, but in a sort of contemptuous indifference. Still she made one effort more. As she was retiring, she went up, bade her good-night, and kissed her as usual.
“Do not let this conversation make any division between us, Christal.”
“Oh no,” said Christal, rather coldly. “Only,” she added, in the passionate, yet mournful tone, which she had before used when at Woodford Cottage; “only, you must not interfere with me, Olive. Remember, I was not brought up like you. I had no one to control me, no one to teach me to control myself. It could not be helped! and it is too late now.”
“It is never too late,” cried Olive. But Christal's emotion had passed, and she resumed her lofty manner.
“Excuse me, but I am a little too old to be lectured; and, I have no doubt, shall be able to guide my own conduct. For the future, we will not have quite such serious conversations as this. Good-night!”
Olive went away, heavy at heart. She had long been unaccustomed to wrestle with an angry spirit. Indeed, she lived in an atmosphere so pure and full of love, that on it never gloomed one domestic storm. She almost wished that Christal had not come with them to Farnwood. But then it seemed such an awful thing for this young and headstrong creature to be adrift on the wide world. She determined that, whether Christal desired it or no, she would never lose sight of her, but try to guide her with so light a hand, that the girl might never even feel the sway.
Next morning Miss Manners abruptly communicated her determination not to have the horse, and the matter was never again referred to. But it had placed a chasm between Olive and Christal, which the one could not, the other would not pass. And as various other interests grew up in Miss Rothesay's life, her anxiety over this wayward girl a little ceased. Christal stayed almost wholly at Farnwood Hall; and in humble, happy, Farnwood Dell, Olive abode, devoted to her Art and to her mother.
Weeks glided into months; and within the three-mile circle of the Hall, the Parsonage, and the Dell, was as pleasant a little society as could be found, anywhere. Frequent meetings, usually confined to themselves alone, produced the necessary intimacy of a country neighbourhood.
As it sometimes happens that persons, or families taught to love each other unknown, when well known learn to hate; so, on the contrary, it is no unfrequent circumstance for those who have lived for years in enmity, when suddenly brought together, to become closer friends than if there had been no former antipathy between them. So it was with the Rothesays and the Gwynnes.
Once after Mrs. Gwynne and her son had spent a long pleasant evening at the Dell, Olive chanced to light upon the packet of Harold's letters, which, years before, she had put by, with the sincere wish that she might never hear anything of him more.
“You would not wish so now, Olive—nor would I,” said Mrs. Rothesay, when her daughter had smilingly referred to the fact. “The society of the Gwynnes has really proved a great addition to our happiness. How kind and warmhearted Mrs. Gwynne is—so earnest in her friendship for us, too!”
“Yes, indeed. Do you know, it struck me that it must have been from her report of us, that aunt Flora Rothesay sent the kind message which the Gwynnes brought to-day. I own, it made me happy! To think that my long-past romantic dream should be likely to come true, and that next year we should go to Scotland and see papa's dear old aunt.”
“Youwill go, my child.”
“And you too, darling. Think how much you would like it, when the summer comes. You will be quite strong then; and how pleasant it will be to know that good aunt Flora, of whom the Gwynnes talk so much. She must be a very, very old lady now, though Mrs. Gwynne says she is quite beautiful still. But she can't be so beautiful as my own mamma. O, darling, there never will be seen such a wondrous old lady as you, when you are seventy or eighty, Then, I shall be quite elderly myself. We shall seem just like two sisters—growing old together.”
Olive never spoke, never dreamed of any other possibility than this.
Calmly, cheerfully, passed the winter, Miss Rothesay devoting herself, as heretofore, to the two great interests of her life; but she had other minor interests gathering up around her, which in some respects were of much service. They prevented that engrossing study, which was often more than her health could bear. Once when reading letters from Rome, from Mr. Vanbrugh and Meliora, Olive said,
“Mamma, I think on the whole I am happier here than I was at Woodford Cottage. I feel less of an artist and more of a woman.”
“And, Olive, I am happy too—happy to think that my child is safe with me, and not carried off to Rome.” For Olive had of course told her mother of that circumstance in her life, which might have changed its current so entirely. “My daughter, I would not have you leave me to marry any man in the world!”
“I never shall, darling!” she answered. And she felt that this was true. Her heart was absorbed in her mother.
Nevertheless, the other interests before mentioned, though quite external, filled up many little crevices in that loving heart which had room for so many affections. Among these was one which, in Olive's whole lifetime, had been an impulse, strong, but ever unfulfilled—love for a child. She took to her heart Harold's little daughter, less regarding it as his, than as poor Sara's. The more so, because, though a good and careful, he was not a very loving father. But he seemed gratified by the kindness that Miss Rothesay showed to little Ailie; and frequently suffered the child to stay with her, and be taught by her all things, save those in which it was his pleasure that his daughter should remain ignorant—the doctrines of the Church of England.
Sometimes in her visiting of the poor, Olive saw the frightful profanities of that cant knowledge which young or ignorant minds acquire, and by which the greatest mysteries of Christianity are lowered to a burlesque. Then she inclined to think that Harold Gwynne was right, and that in this temporary prohibition he acted as became a wise father and “a discreet and learned minister of God's Word.” As such she ever considered him; though she sometimes thought he received and communicated that Word less through his heart than through his intellect. His moral character and doctrines were irreproachable, but it seemed to her as if the dew of Christian love had never fallen on his soul.
This feeling gave her, in spite of herself, a sort of awe for him, which she would not willingly have felt towards her pastor, and one whom she so much regarded and respected. Especially as on any other subject she ever held with him full and free communion, and he seemed gradually to unbend his somewhat hard nature, as a man will do who inclines in friendship towards a truly good woman.
Perhaps here it would be as well to observe, that, close and intimate friends as they were, the tie was such that none of their two households, no, not even the most tattling gossips of Farnwood and Harbury, ever dreamed of saying that Harold Gwynne was “in love” with Miss Rothesay. The good folks did chatter now and then, as country gossips will, about him and Christal Manners; and perhaps they would have chattered more, if the young lady had not been almost constantly at the Hall, whither Mr. Gwynne rarely went. But they left the bond between him and Olive Rothesay untouched, untroubled by their idle jests. Perhaps those who remembered the beautiful Mrs. Harold Gwynne, imagined the widower would never choose a second wife sodifferentfrom his first; or perhaps there was cast about the daughter, so devotedly tending her blind mother, a sanctity which their unholy and foolish tongues dared not to violate.
Thus Olive went on her way, showing great tenderness to little Ailie, and, as it seemed, being gradually drawn by the child to the father. Besides, there was another sympathy between them, caused by the early associations of both, and by their common Scottish blood. For Harold had inherited from his father nothing but his name; from his mother everything besides. Born in Scotland, he was a Scotsman to the very core. His influence awakened once more every feeling that bound Olive Rothesay to the land of her birth—her father's land. All things connected therewith took, in her eyes, a new romance. She was happy, she knew not why—happy as she had been in her dreamy girlhood. It seemed as though in her life had dawned a second spring.
Perhaps there was but one thing which really troubled her; and that was the prohibition in her teaching of little Ailie. She talked the matter over with her mother; that is, she uttered aloud her own thoughts, to which Mrs. Rothesay meekly assented; saying, as usual, that Olive was quite right. And at last, after much hesitation, she made up her mind to speak openly on the subject with Mr. Gwynne.
For this arduous undertaking, at which in spite of herself she trembled a little, she chose a time when he had met her in one of her forest-walks, which she had undertaken, as she often did, to fulfil some charitable duty, usually that of the clergyman or the clergyman's family.
“How kind you are, Miss Rothesay; and to come all through the wintry forest, too! It was scarcely fit for you.”.
“Then it certainly was not for Mrs. Gwynne. I was quite glad to relieve her; and it gives me real pleasure to read and talk with John Dent's sick mother. Much as she suffers, she is the happiest old woman I ever saw in my life.”
“What makes her happy, think you?” said Harold continuing the conversation as if he wished it to be continued, and so falling naturally into a quiet arm-in-arm walk.
Olive answered, responding to his evident intention, and passing at once, as in their conversations they always did, to a subject of interest, “She is happy, because she has a meek and trusting faith in God; and though she knows little she loves much.”
“Can one love Him whom one does not fully know?” It was one of the sharp searching questions that Mr. Gwynne sometimes put, which never failed to startle Olive, and to which she could not always reply; but she made an effort to do so now.
“Yes, when what we do know of Him commands love. Does Ailie, even Ailie, thoroughly know her father? And yet she loves him.”
“That I cannot judge; but most true it is, we know as little of God as Ailie knows of her father—ay, and look up to Heaven with as blindfold ignorance as Ailie looks up to me.
“Alas! Ailie's is indeed blindfold ignorance!” said Olive, not quite understanding his half-muttered words, but thinking they offered a good opportunity for fulfilling her purpose. “Mr. Gwynne, may I speak to you about something which has long troubled me?”
“Troubled you, Miss Rothesay? Surely that is not my fault? I would not for the world do aught that would give pain to one so good as you.”
He said this very kindly, pressing her arm with a brotherly gentleness, which passed into her heart; imparting to her not only a quick sense of pleasure, but likewise courage.
“Thank you, Mr. Gwynne. This does really pain me. It is the subject on which we talked the first time that ever you and I met, and of which we have never since spoken—your determination with respect to little Ailie's religious instruction.”
“Ah!” A start, and a dark look. “Well, Miss Rothesay, what have you to say?”
“That I think you are not quite right—nay, quite wrong,” said Olive, gathering resolution. “You are taking from your child her only strength in life—her only comfort in death. You keep from her the true faith; she will soon make to herself a false one.”
“Nay, what is more false than the idle traditions taught by ranting parents to their offspring—the Bible travestied into a nursery talc—heaven transformed into a pretty pleasure-house—and hell and its horrors brought as bugbears to frighten children in the dark. Do you think I would have my child turned into a baby saint, to patter glibly over parrot prayers, exchange pet sweetmeats for missionary pennies, and so learn to keep up a debtor and creditor account with Heaven? No, Miss Rothesay, I would rather see her grow up a heathen.”
Olive, awed by his language, which was bitter even to fierceness, at first made him no answer. At length, however, she ventured, not without trembling, to touch another chord.
“But—suppose that your child should be taken away, would you have her die as she lives now, utterly ignorant of all holy things?”
“Would I have her die an infant bigot—prattling blindly of subjects which in the common course of nature no child can comprehend? Would I have her chronicled in some penny tract as a 'remarkable instance of infant piety' a small 'vessel of mercy,' to whom the Gospel was miraculously revealed at three years old?”
“Do not—oh! do not speak thus,” cried Olive, shrinking from him, for she saw in his face a look she had never seen before—an expression answering to the bitter, daring sarcasm of his tone.
“You think me a strange specimen of a Church of England clergyman? Well, perhaps you are right! I believe I am rather different to my brethren.” He said this with sharp irony. “Nevertheless, if you inquire concerning me in the neighbourhood, I think you will find that my moral conduct has never disgraced my cloth.”
“Never!” cried Olive warmly. “Mr. Gwynne, pardon me if I have overstepped the deference due to yourself and your opinions. In some things I cannot fathom them or you; but that you are a good, sincere, and pious man, I most earnestly believe.”
“Do you!”
Olive started. The two words were simple, but she thought they had an under-meaning, as though he were mocking either himself or her, or both. But she thought this could only be fancy; when in a minute or two after, he said in his ordinary manner,
“Miss Rothesay, we have been talking earnestly, and you have unconsciously betrayed me into speaking more warmly than I ought to speak. Do not misjudge me. All men's faith is free; and in some minor points of Christianity, I perhaps hold peculiar opinions. As regards little Ailie, I thank you for your kind interest in this matter, which we will discuss again another time.”
They had now reached John Dent's cottage. Olive asked if he would not enter with her.
“No, no; you are a far better apostle than your clergyman. Besides, I have business at home, and must return. Good morning, Miss Rothesay.”
He lifted his hat with a courtly grace, but his eyes showed that reverence which no courts could command—the reverence of a sincere man for a noble-hearted woman. And so he walked back into the forest.
The dwelling which Miss Rothesay entered was one of the keeper's cottages, built within the forest. The door stood open, for the place was too lowly, even for robbers; and, besides, its inmates had nothing to lose. Still, Olive thought it was wrong to leave a poor bedridden old woman in a state of such unprotected desolation. As her step was heard crossing the threshold, there was a shrill cry from the inner room.
“John, John—the lad!—hast thee found the lad?”
“It is not your son—'tis I. Why, what has happened, my good Margery?” But the poor old creature fell back and wrung her hands, sobbing bitterly.
“The lad!—dun ye know aught o' the lad? Poor Reuben!—he wunnot come back no more! Alack! alack!”
And with some difficulty Olive learnt that Margery's grandson, the keeper's only child, had gone into the forest some days before, and had never returned. It was no rare thing for even practised woodsmen to be lost in this wild, wide forest; and at night, in the winter time there was no hope. John Dent had gone out with his fellows, less to find the living than to bring back the dead.
Filled with deep pity Olive sat down by the miserable grandmother; but the poor soul refused to be comforted.
“John'll go mad—clean mad! There beant nowheres such a good lad as our Reuben; and to be clemmed to death, and froze! O Lord, tak' pity on us, miserable sinners!”
For hours Olive sat by the old woman's bedside. The murky winter day soon closed in, and the snow began to fall; but still there was nothing heard save the wind howling in the forest. Often Margery started up, crying out that there were footsteps at the door, and then sank back in dumb despair.
At last there was a tramp of many feet on the frozen ground, the latch was lifted, and John Dent burst in.
He was a sturdy woodsman, of a race that are often seen in this forest region, almost giant-like in height and bulk. The snow lay thick on his uncovered head and naked breast, for he had stripped off all his upper garments to wrap round something that was clasped tightly in his arms. He spoke to no one, looked at no one, but laid his burden before the hearth supported on his knees. It was the corpse of a boy blue and shrivelled, like that of one frozen to death. He tried to chafe and bend the fingers, but they were as stiff as iron; he wrung the melting snow out of the hair, and, as the locks became soft and supple under his hand, seemed to think there was yet a little life remaining.
“Why dunnot ye stir, ye fools! Get t' blanket—pull't off the ould woman. I tell 'ee the lad's alive.”
No one moved, and then the frantic father began to curse and swear. He rushed into old Margery's room.
“Get up wi' thee. How darest thee lie hallooing there. Come and help t' lad!” and then he ran back to where poor Reuben's body lay extended on the hearth, surrounded by the other woodsmen, most of whom were pale with awe, some even melting into tears. John Dent dashed them all aside, and took his son again in his arms. Olive, from her corner, watched the writhings of his rugged features, but she ventured not to approach.
“Tak' heart, tak' heart, John!” said one of the men.
“He didna suffer much, I reckon,” said another. “My owd mother was nigh froze to death in t' forest, and her said 'twas just like dropping to sleep. An' luck ye, the poor lad's face be as quiet as a child.”
“John Dent, mon!” whispered one old keeper; “say thy prayers; thee doesna often do't, and thee'll want it now.”
And then John Dent broke into such a paroxysm of despair, that one by one his comforters quitted the cottage. They, strong bold men, who feared none of the evils of life, became feeble as children before the awful face of Death.
One only remained—the old huntsman who had given the last counsel to the wretched father. This man, whom Olive knew, was beckoned by her to Margery's room to see what could be done.
“I'll fetch Mr. Gwynne to manage John, poor fellow! The devil's got un, sure enough; and it'll tak' a parson to drive't away. But ourn be a queer gentleman. When I get to Harbury, what mun I say!”
“Say that I am here—that I entreat him to come at once,” cried Olive, feeling her strength sinking before this painful scene, from which in common charity she could not turn aside. She came once more to look at John Dent, who had crouched down before the hearth, with the stiff form of the poor dead boy extended on his knees, gazing at it with a sort of vacant, hopeless misery. Then she went back to the old woman, and tried to speak of comfort and of prayer.
It was not far to Harbury, but, in less time than Olive had expected, Harold Gwynne appeared.
“Miss Rothesay, you sent for me!”
“I did—I did. Oh, thank Heaven that you are come,” eagerly cried Olive, clasping his two hands. He regarded her with a surprised and troubled look, and took them away.
“What do you wish me to do!”
“What a minister of God is able—nay, bound to do—to speak comfort in this house of misery.”
The poor old woman echoed the same entreaty—
“Oh, Mr. Gwynne, you that be a parson, a man of God, come and help us.”
Harold looked round, and saw he had to face the woe that no worldly comfort or counsel can lighten;—that he had entered into the awful presence of the Power, which, stripping man of all his earthly pomp, wisdom, and strength, leaves him poor, weak, and naked before his God.
The proud, the moral, the learned Harold Gwynne, stood dumb before the mystery of Death. It was too mighty for him. He looked on the dead boy, and on the living father; then cast his eyes down to the ground, and muttered within himself, “What should I do here?”
“Read to him—pray with him,” whispered Olive. “Speak to him of God—of heaven—of immortality.”
“God—heaven—immortality,” echoed Harold, vacantly, but he never stirred.
“They say that this man has been a great sinner, and an unbeliever. Oh, tell him that he cannot deceive himself now. Death knells into his ear that there is a God—there is a hereafter. Mr. Gwynne, oh tell him that, at a time like this, there is no comfort, no hope, save in God and in His Word.”
Olive had spoken thus in the excitement of the moment; then recovering herself, she asked pardon for a speech so bold, as if she would fain teach the clergyman his duty.
“My duty—yes, I must do my duty,” muttered Harold Gwynne. And with his hard-set face—the face he wore in the pulpit—he went up to the father of the dead child, and said something about “patience,” “submission to the decrees of Providence,” and “all trials being sent for good, and by the will of God.”
“Dun ye talk to me of God? I know nought about him, parson—ye never learned me.”
Harold's rigid mouth quivered visibly, but he made no direct answer, only saying, in the same formal tone, “You go to church—at least, you used to go—you have heard there about 'God in his judgments remembering mercy.'”
“Mercy! ye mun easy say that; why did He let the poor lad die i' the snow, then?”
And Harold's lips hesitated over those holy words “The Lord gave and the Lord taketh away.”
“He should ha' takken th' owd mother, then. She's none wanted; but the dear lad—the only one left out o' six—oh, Reuben, Reuben, wunna ye never speak to your poor father again?”
He looked on the corpse fixedly for some minutes, and then a new thought seemed to strike him.
“That's not my lad—my merry little lad!—I say,” he cried, starting up and catching Mr. Gwynne's arm; “I say, you parson that ought to know, where's my lad gone to?”
Harold Gwynne's head sank upon his breast: he made no answer. Perhaps—ay, and looking at him, the thought smote Olive with a great fear—perhaps to that awful question there was no answer in his soul.
John Dent passed him by, and came to the side of Olive Rothesay.
“Miss, folk say you're a good woman. Dun ye know aught o' these things—canna ye tell me if I shall meet my poor lad again?”
And then Olive, casting one glance at Mr. Gwynne, who remained motionless, sat down beside the childless father, and talked to him of God—not the Infinite Unknown, into whose mysteries the mightiest philosophers may pierce and find no end—but the God mercifully revealed, “Our Father which is in heaven”—He to whom the poor, the sorrowing, and the ignorant may look, and not be afraid.
Long she spoke; simply, meekly, and earnestly. Her words fell like balm; her looks lightened the gloomy house of woe. When, at length, she left it, John Dent's eyes followed her, as though she had been a visible angel of peace.
It was quite night when she and Harold wont out of the cottage. The snow had ceased falling, but it lay on every tree of the forest like a white shroud. And high above, through the opening of the branches, was seen the blue-black frosty sky, with its innumerable stars. The keen, piercing cold, the utter stirlessness, the mysterious silence, threw a sense of death—white death—over all things. It was a night when one might faintly dream what the world would be, if the infidel's boast were true, andthere were no God.
They walked for some time in perfect silence. Troubled thoughts were careering like storm-clouds over Olive's spirit. Wonder was there, and pity, and an indefined dread. As she leaned on Mr. Gwynne's arm, she had a presentiment that in the heart whose strong beating she could almost feel, was prisoned some great secret of woe or wrong, before which she herself would stand aghast. Yet such was the nameless attraction which drew her to this man, that the more she dreaded, the more she longed to discover his mystery, whatsoever it might be. She determined to break the silence.
“Mr. Gwynne, I trust you will not think it presumption in me to have spoken as I did, instead of you; but I saw how shocked and overpowered you were, nor wondered at your silence.”
He answered in the low tone of one struggling under great excitement. “You noticed my silence, then?—that I, summoned as a clergyman to give religious consolation, had none to offer.”
“Nay, you did attempt some.”
“Ay, I tried to preach faith with my lips, and could not, because there was none in my heart. No, nor ever will be!”
Olive looked at him uncomprehending, but he seemed to shrink from her observation. “I am indeed truly grieved,” she began to say, but he stopped her.
“Do not speak to me yet, I pray you.”
She obeyed; though yearning with pity over him. Hitherto, in all their intercourse, whatever had been his kindness towards her, towards him she had continually felt a sense of restraint—even of fear. That controlling influence, which Mr. Gwynne seemed to exercise over all with whom he deigned to associate, was heavy upon Olive Rothesay. Before him she felt more subdued than she had ever done before any one; in his presence she unconsciously measured her words and guarded her looks, as if meeting the eye of a master. And he was a master—a man born to rule over the wills of his brethren, swaying them at his lightest breath, as the wind bends the grass of the field.
But now the sceptre seemed torn from his hand—he was a king no more. He walked along—his head drooped, his eyes fixed on the ground. And beholding him thus, there came to Olive, in the place of fear, a strong compassion, tender as strong, and pure as tender. Angel-like, it arose in her heart, ready to pierce his darkness with its shining eyes—to fold around him and all his misery its sheltering wings. He was a great and learned man, and she a lowly woman; in her knowledge far beneath him, in her faith—oh! how immeasurably above!
She began very carefully. “You are not well, I fear. This painful scene has been too much, even for you. Death seems more horrible to men than to feeble women.”
“Death!—do you think that I fear Death?” and he clenched his hand as though he would battle with the great Destroyer. “No!—I have met him—stood and looked at him—until my eyes were blinded, and my brain reeled. But what am I saying? Don't heed me, Miss Rothesay; don't.” And he began to walk on hurriedly.
“You are ill, I am sure; and there is something that rests on your mind,” said Olive, in a quiet, soft tone.
“What!—have I betrayed anything? I mean, have you anything to charge me with! Have I left any duty unfulfilled; said any words unbecoming a clergyman?” asked he with a freezing haughtiness.
“Not that I am aware. Forgive me, Mr. Gwynne, if I have trespassed beyond the bounds of our friendship. For we are friends—have you not often said so?”
“Yes, and with truth. I respect you, Miss Rothesay. You are no thoughtless girl, but a woman who has, I am sure, both felt and suffered! I have suffered too; therefore it is no marvel we are friends. I am glad of it.”
He seldom spoke so frankly, and never had done what he now did—of his own accord, to take and clasp her hand with a friendly air of confidence. Long after the pressure passed from Olive's fingers, its remembrance lingered in her heart. They walked on a little farther; and then he said, not without some slight agitation,
“Miss Rothesay, if you are indeed my friend, listen to one request I make;—that you will not say anything, think anything, of whatever part of my conduct this day may have seemed strange to you. I know not what fate it is that has thus placed you, a year ago a perfect stranger, in a position which forces me to speak to you thus. Still less can I tell what there is in you which draws from me much that no human being has ever drawn before. Accept this acknowledgment, and pardon me.”
“Nay, what have I to pardon? Oh, Mr. Gwynne, if I might be indeed your friend—if I could but do you any good!”
“You do good tome?” he muttered bitterly. “Why, we are as far apart as earth from heaven, nay, as heaven from hell; that is if there be——. Madman that I am! Miss Rothesay, do not listen to me. Why do you lead me on to speak thus?”
“Indeed, I do not comprehend you. Believe me, Mr. Gwynne, I know very well the difference between us. I am an unlearned woman, and you”——
“Ay, tell me what I am—that is, what you think I am.
“A wise and good man; but yet one in whom great intellect may at times overpower that simple Faith, which is above all knowledge; that Love, which, as said the great apostle of our Church”——
“Silence!” His deep voice rose and fell, like the sound of a breaking wave. Then he stopped, turned full upon her, and said, in a fierce, keen, whisper, “Would you learn the truth? You shall! Know, then, that I believe in none of these things I teach—I am an infidel!”
Olive's arm fell from him.
“Do you shrink from me, then? Good and pious woman, do you think I am Satan standing by your side?”
“Oh, no, no!” She made an effort to restrain herself; it failed, and she burst into tears.
Harold looked at her.
“Meek and gentle soul! It would, perhaps, have been good for me had Olive Rothesay been born my sister.”
“I would I had—I would I had! But, oh! this is awful to hear. You, an unbeliever—you, who all these years have been a minister at the altar—what a fearful thing!”
“You say right—it is fearful. Think now what my life is, and has been. One long lie—a lie to man and to God. For I do believe so far,” he added, solemnly; “I believe in the one ruling Spirit of the universe—unknown, unapproachable. None but a madman would deny the existence of a God.”
He ceased, and looked upwards with his piercing eyes—piercing, yet full of restless sorrow. Then he approached his companion.
“Shall we walk on, or do you utterly renounce me?” said he, with a touching, sad humility.
“Renounce you!”
“Ah! you would not, could you know all I have endured. To me, earth has been a hell—not the place of flames and torments of which your divines prate, but the true hell—that of the conscience and the soul. I, too, a man whose whole nature was athirst for truth. I sought it first among its professors; there I found that they who, too idle or too weak to demonstrate their creed, took it upon trust, did what their fathers did, believed what their fathers believed—were accounted orthodox and pious men; while those who, in their earnest eager youth, dared—not as yet to doubt, but meekly to ask a reason for their faith—they were at once condemned as impious. But I pain you: shall I go on, or cease?”
“Go on.”
“Truth, still truth, I yearned for in another form—in domestic peace—in the love of woman.—My soul was famishing for any food; I snatched this—in my mouth it became ashes!” His voice seemed choking, but with an effort he continued. “After this time I gave up earth, and turned to interests beyond it. With straining eyes I gazed into the Infinite—and I was dazzled, blinded, whirled from darkness to light, and from light to darkness—no rest, no rest! This state lasted long, but its end came. Now I walk like a man in his sleep, feeling nothing, fearing nothing,—no, thou mighty Unknown, I donotfear! But then I hope nothing: I believe nothing. Those pleasant dreams of yours—God, Heaven, Immortality—are to me meaningless words. At times I utter them, and they seem to shine down like pitiless stars upon the black boiling sea in which I am drowning.”
“Oh, God, have mercy!” moaned Olive Rothesay. “Give me strength that my own faith fail not, and that I may bring Thy light unto this perishing soul!” And turning to Harold, she said aloud, as calmly as she could, “Tell me—since you have told me thus far—how you came to take upon yourself the service of the Church; you who”——
“Ay, well may you pause and shudder! Hear, then, how the devil—if there be one—can mock men's souls in the form of an angel of light. But it is a long history—it may drive me to utter things that you will shrink from.”
“Iwillhear it.” There was, in that soft, firm voice an influence which Harold perforce obeyed. She was stronger than he, even as light is stronger than darkness.
Mr. Gwynne began, speaking quietly, even humbly. “When I was a youth studying for the Church, doubts came upon my mind, as they will upon most young minds whose strivings after truth are hedged in by a thorny rampart of old worn-out forms. Then there came a sudden crisis in my life; I must either enter on a ministry in whose creed I only half believed, or let my mother—my noble, self-denying mother—starve. You know her, Miss Rothesay, though you know not half that she is, and ever was to me. But you do know what it is to have a beloved mother.”
“Yes.”
Infidel as he was, she could have clung to Harold Gwynne, and called him brother.
“Well, after a time of great inward conflict, I decided—for her sake. Though little more than a boy in years, struggling in a chaos of mingled doubt and faith, I bound myself to believe whatever the Church taught, and to lead souls to heaven in the Church's own road. These very bonds, this vow so blindly to be fulfilled, made me, in after years, an infidel.”
He paused to look at her.
“I am listening, speak on,” said Olive Rothesay.
“As you say truly, I am one whose natural bent of mind is less to faith than to knowledge. Above all, I am one who hates all falsehood, all hypocritical show. Perchance in the desert I might have learned to serve God. Face to face with Him I might have worshiped His revealings. But when between me and the one great Truth came a thousand petty veils of cunning forms and blindly taught precedents; when among my brethren I saw wicked men preaching virtue—men without brains enough to acquire a mere worldly profession, such as law or physic, set to expound the mighty mysteries of religion—then I said to myself, 'The whole system is a lie!' So I cast it from me, and my soul stood forth in its naked strength before the Creator of all.”
“But why did you still keep up this awful mockery?”
“Because,” and his voice sounded hoarse and hollow, “just then there was upon me a madness which all men have in youth—love. For that I became a liar in the face of Heaven, of men, and of my own soul.”
“It was a great sin.”
“I know it; and, being such, it fell down upon my head in a curse. Since then I have been what you now see me—a very honest, painstaking clergyman; doing good, preaching, certainly not doctrine, but blameless moralities, carrying a civil face to the world, and a heart—Oh God! whosoever and whatsoever Thou art, Thou knowest what blackest darkness there isthere!”
She made no answer.
After a few minutes, Mr. Gwynne said, “You must forgive me, Miss Rothesay.”
“I do. And so will He whom you do not know, but whom you will know yet! I will pray for you—I will comfort you. I wish I were indeed your sister, that I might never leave you until I brought you to faith and peace.”
He smiled very faintly. “Thank you; it is something to feel there is goodness in the world. I did not believe in any except my mother's. Perhaps if she had known all this—if I could have told her—I had not been the wretched man I am.”
“Hush; do not talk any more.” And then she stood beside him for some minutes quite silent, until he grew calm.
They were on the verge of the forest, close to Olive's home. It was about seven in the evening, but all things lay as in the stillness of midnight. They two might have been the only beings in the living world—all else dead and buried under the white snow. And then, lifting itself out of the horizon's black nothingness, arose the great red moon, like an immortal soul.
“Look!” said Olive. He looked once, and no more. Then, with a sigh, he placed her arm in his, and walked with her to her own door.
Arrived there, he bade her adieu, adding, “I would bid God bless you; but in such words from me, you would not believe. How could you?”
He said this with a mournful emphasis, to which she could not reply.
“But,” he continued in a tone of eager anxiety, “remember that I have trusted you. My secret is in your hands. You will be silent, I know; silent as death, or eternity.—That is, as both are to me!”
Olive promised; and he left her. She stood listening, until the echo of his footfall ceased along the frosty road; then, clasping her hands, she lifted once more the petition “for those who have erred and are deceived,” the prayer which she had once uttered—unconscious how much and by whom it was needed. Now she said it with a yearning cry—a cry that would fain pierce heaven, and ringing above the loud choir of saints and angels, call down mercy on one perishing human soul.