Never since her birth had Olive felt such a bewildering weight of pain, as when she awoke to the full sense of that terrible secret which she had learned from Harold Gwynne. This pain lasted, and would last, not alone for an hour or a day, but perpetually. It gathered round her like a mist. She seemed to walk blindfold, she knew not whither. Never to her, whose spiritual sense was ever so clear and strong, had come the possibility of such a mind as Harold's, a mind whose very eagerness for truth had led it into scepticism. His doubts must be wrestled with, not with the religion of precedent—not even with the religion of feeling—but by means of that clear demonstration of reason which forces conviction.
In the dead of night, when all was still—when the frosty moon cast an unearthly light over her chamber, Olive lay and thought of these things. Ever and anon she heard the striking of the clock, and remembered with horror that it heralded the Sabbath morning, when she must go to Har-bury Church—and hear, oh, with what feelings! the service read by one who did not believe a single word he uttered. Not until now had she so thoroughly realised the horrible sacrilege of Harold's daily life. For a minute she felt as though to keep his secret were associating herself with his sin.
But calmer thoughts enabled her to judge him more mercifully. She tried to view his case not as with her own eyes, but as it must appear to him. To one who disbelieved the Christian faith, the repetitions of its forms could seem but a mere idle mummery. He suffered, not for having outraged Heaven, but for having outraged his own conscience an agony of self-humiliation which must be to him a living death. Then again there awoke in Olive's heart a divine pity; and once more she dared to pray that this soul, in which was so much that was true and earnest, might not be cast out, but guided into the right way.
Yet, who should do it? He was, as he had said, drowning in a black abyss of despair, and there was no human hand to save him—none, save that feeble one of hers!
Feeble—but there was One who could make it strong. Suddenly she felt in her that consciousness which the weakest have at times felt, and which, however the rationalist may scoff, the Christian dare not disbelieve—that sense of not working, but being worked upon—by which truths come into one's heart, and words into one's mouth, involuntarily, as if some spirit, not our own, were at work within us. Such had been oftentimes the case with her; but never so strong as now. A voice seemed breathed into her soul—“Be not afraid.”
She arose—her determination taken. “No,” she thought, as standing at the window she watched the sun rise gloriously—“No, Lord!myLord andmyGod!—I am not afraid.”
Nevertheless, she suffered exceedingly. To bear the burden of this heavy secret; to keep it from her mother; to disguise it before Mrs. Gwynne; above all, to go to church, and have the ministry of such an one as Harold between her and heaven—this last was the most awful point of all; but she could not escape it without betraying him. And it seemed to her that the sin—if sin it were—would be forgiven; nay, her voluntary presence might even strike his conscience.
It was so. When Harold beheld her, his cheeks grew ashen pale. All through the service his reading at times faltered and his eyes were lowered. Once, too, during the epistle for the day, which chanced to be the sixth Sunday after Epiphany, the plain words of St. John seemed to attract his notice, and his voice took an accent of keen sorrow.
Yet, when Olive passed out of the church, she felt as though she had spent there years of torture—such torture as no earthly power should make her endure again. And it so chanced that she was not called upon to do so.
Within a week from that time Mrs. Rothesay sank into a state of great feebleness, not indicating positive danger, but still so nearly resembling illness that Olive could not quit her, even for an hour. This painful interest, engrossing all her thoughts, shut out from them even Harold Gwynne. She saw little of him, though she heard that he came almost daily to inquire at the door. But for a long time he rarely crossed the threshold.
“Harold is like all men—he does not understand sickness,” said that most kind and constant friend, Mrs. Gwynne. “You must forgive him, both of you. I tell him often it would be an example for him, or for any clergyman in England, to see Olive here—the best and most pious daughter that ever lived. He thinks so too; for once, when I hoped that his own daughter might be like her, you should have heard the earnestness of his 'Amen!'”
This circumstance touched Olive deeply, and strengthened her the more in that work to which she had determined to devote herself. And a secret hope told her that erring souls are oftentimes reclaimed less by a Christian's preaching than by a Christian's life.
And so, though they did not meet again alone, and no words on the one awful subject passed between them, Harold began to come often to the Dell. Mrs. Rothesay's lamp of life was paling so gradually, that not even her child knew how soon it would cease to shine among those to whom its every ray was so precious and so beautiful—more beautiful as it drew nearer its close.
Yet there was no sorrow at the Dell, but great peace—a peace so holy that it seemed to rest upon all who entered there. These were not a few; never was there any one who gained so many kindly attentions as Mrs. Rothesay. Even the wild young Fludyers inquired after her every day. Christal, who was almost domiciled at the Hall, and seemed by some invisible attraction most disinclined to leave it, was yet a daily visitor—her high spirit softened to gentleness whenever she came near the invalid.
As to Lyle Derwent, he positively haunted them. His affectations dropped off, he ceased his sentimentalities, and never quoted a single line of poetry. To Olive he appeared in a more pleasing light, and she treated him with her old regard; as for him, he adored the very ground she trod upon. A ministering angel could not have been more hallowed in his eyes. He often made Mrs. Rothesay and Olive smile with his raptures; and the latter said sometimes that he was certainly the same enthusiastic little boy who had been her knight in the garden by the river. She never thought of him otherwise; and though he often tried, in half-jesting indignation, to assure her that he was quite a man now, he seemed still a lad to her. There was the difference of a lifetime between his juvenile romance and her calm reality of six-and-twenty years.
She did not always feel so old though. When kneeling by her mother's side, amusing her, Olive still felt a very child; and there were times when near Harold Gwynne she grew once more a feeble, timid girl. But now that the secret bond between them was held in abeyance, their intercourse sank within its former boundary. Even his influence could not compete with that affection which had been the day-star of Olive's life. No other human tie could come between her and her mother.
Beautiful it was to see them, clinging together so closely that none of those who loved both had the courage to tell them how soon they must part. Sometimes Mrs. Gwynne would watch Olive with a look that seemed to ask, “Child, have you strength to bear?” But she herself had not the strength to tell her. Besides, it seemed as though these close cords of love were knitted so tightly around the mother, and every breath of her fading life so fondly cherished, that she could not perforce depart. Months might pass ere that frail tabernacle was quite dissolved.
As the winter glided away, Mrs. Rothesay seemed much better. One evening in March, when Harold Gwynne came laden with a whole basket of violets, he said—and truly—that she was looking as blooming as the spring itself. Olive coincided in this opinion—nay, declared, smiling, that any one would fancy her mother was only making pretence of illness, to win more kindness and consideration.
“As if you had not enough of that from every one, mamma! I never knew such a spoilt darling in all my life; and yet see, Mr. Gwynne, how meekly she bears it, and how beautiful and content she looks!”
It was true. Let us draw the picture which lived in Olive's memory evermore.
Mrs. Rothesay sat in a little low chair—her own chair, which no one else ever claimed. She did not wear an invalid's shawl, but a graceful wrapping-gown of pale colours—such as she had always loved, and which suited well her delicate, fragile beauty. Closely tied over her silvery hair—the only sign of age—was a little cap, whose soft pink gauze lay against her cheek—that cheek which even now was all unwrinkled, and tinted with a lovely faint rose colour, like a young girl's. Her eyes were cast down; she had a habit of doing this lest others might see there the painful expression of blindness; but her mouth smiled a serene, cheerful, holy smile, such as is rarely seen on human face, save when earth's dearest happiness is beginning to melt away, dimmed in the coming brightness of heaven. Her little thin hands lay crossed on her knee, one finger playing as she often did, with her wedding-ring, now worn to a mere thread of gold.
Her daughter looked at her with eyes of passionate yearning that threw into one minute's gaze the love of a whole lifetime. Harold Gwynne looked at her too, and then at Olive. He thought, “Can she, if she knows what I know—can she be resigned—nay, happy! Then, what a sublime faith hers must be!”
Olive seemed not to see him, but only her mother. She gazed and gazed, then she came and knelt before Mrs. Rothesay, and wound her arms round her.
“Darling, kiss me! or I shall fear you are growing quite an angel—an angel with wings.”
There lurked a troubled tone beneath the playfulness; she rose up quickly, and began to talk to Mr. Gwynne.
They had a pleasant evening, all three together; for Mrs. Rothesay, knowing that Harold was lonely—since his mother and Ailie had gone away on a week's visit—prevailed upon him to stay. He read to them—Mrs. Rothesay was fond of hearing him read; and to Olive the world's richest music was in his deep, pathetic voice, more especially when reading, as he did now, with great earnestness and emotion. The poem was not one of his own choosing, but of Mrs. Rothesay's. She listened eagerly while he read from Tennyson's “May Queen.”
Upon the chancel casement, and upon that grave of mine,In the early, early morning the summer sun will shine.I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear you when you pass,With your feet above my head on the long and pleasant grass.Good night, good night! When I have said, good night for evermore,And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door,Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave is growing green:She'll be a better child to you than I have ever been.
Here Harold paused; for, looking at Olive, he saw her tears falling fast; but Mrs. Rothesay, generally so easily touched, was now quite unmoved. On her face was a soft calm. She said to herself, musingly,
“How terrible for one's child to die first. But I shall never know that pang. Go on, Mr. Gwynne.”
He read—what words for him to read!—the concluding stanzas; and as he did so, the movement of Mrs. Rothesay's lips seemed silently to follow them.
O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done,The voice which now is speaking may be beyond the sun,For ever and for ever with those just souls and true,And what is life that we should moan? Why make we such ado?For ever and for ever all in a blessed home,And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come;To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast,Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.
After he concluded, they were all three very silent. What thoughts were in each heart? Then Mrs. Rothesay said,
“Now, my child, it is growing late. Read to us yourself, out of the best Book of all.” And when Olive was gone to fetch it, she added, “Mr. Gwynne will pardon my not asking him to read the Bible, but a child's voice sounds so sweet in a mother's ears, especially when”—— She stopped, for Olive just then entered.
“Where shall I read, mamma?”
“Where I think we have come to—reading every night as we do—the last few chapters of the Revelations.”
Olive read them—the blessed words, the delight of her childhood—telling of the heavenly kingdom, and the afterlife of the just. Andheheard them: he who believed in neither. He sat in the shadow, covering his face with his hands, or lifting it at times with a blind, despairing look, like that of one who, staggering in darkness, sees afar a faint light, and yet cannot, dare not, believe in its reality.
When he bade Mrs. Rothesay good night, she held his hand, and said, “God bless you!” with more than her usual kindness. He drew back, as if the words stung him. Then he wrung Olive's hand, looked at her a moment, as if to say something, but said it not, and quitted the house.
The mother and daughter were alone. They clasped their arms round each other, and sat a little while listening to the wild March wind.
“It is just such a night as that on which we came to Farnwood, is it not, darling?”
“Yes, my child! And we have been very happy here; happier, I think, than I have ever been in my life. Remember that, love, always!”
She said these words with a beautiful, life-beaming smile. Then, leaning on Olive's shoulder, she lifted herself rather feebly, from her little chair, and prepared to walk upstairs.
“Tired, are you? I wish I could carry you, darling: I almost think I could.”
“You carry me in your heart, evermore, Olive! You bear all my feebleness, troubles, and pain. God ever bless you, my daughter!”
When Olive came down once more to the little parlour, she thought it looked rather lonely. However, she stayed a minute or two, put her mother's little chair in the corner, and her mother's knitting basket beside it.
“It will be ready for her when she comes down again.” Then she went upstairs to bed; and mother and daughter fell asleep, as ever, closely clasped in each other's arms.
The feeble call startled Olive out of a dream, wherein she was walking through one of those lovely visionary landscapes—more glorious than any ever seen by day—with her mother and with Harold Gwynne.
“Yes, darling,” she answered, in a sleepy, happy voice, thinking it a continuation of the dream.
“Olive, I feel ill—very ill! I have a dull pain here, near my heart. I cannot breathe. It is so strange—so strange!”
Quickly the daughter rose, and groped through the faint dawn for a light: she was long accustomed to all offices of tender care by night and by day. This sudden illness gave her little alarm; her mother had so many slight ailments. But, nevertheless, she roused the household, and applied all the simple remedies which she so well knew how to use.
But there must come a time when all physicians' arts fail: it was coming now. Mrs. Rothesay's illness increased, and the daylight broke upon a chamber where more than one anxious face bent over the poor blind sufferer who suffered so meekly. She did not speak much: she only held closely to Olive's dress, sorrowfully murmuring now and then, “My child—my child!” Once or twice she eagerly besought those around her to try all means for her restoration, and seemed anxiously to expect the coming of the physician. “For Olive's sake—for Olive's sake!” was all the reason she gave.
And suddenly it entered into Olive's mind that her mother felt herself about to die.
Her mother about to die! She paused a moment, and then flung the horror from her as a thing utterly impossible. So many illnesses as Mrs. Rothesay had passed through—-so many times as her daughter had clasped her close, and dared Death to come nigh one who was shielded by so much love! It could not be—there was no cause for dread. Yet Olive waited restlessly during the morning, which seemed of frightful length. She busied herself about the room, talking constantly to her mother; and by degrees, when the physician still delayed, her voice took a quick, sharp, anxious tone.
“Hush, love, hush!” was the soft reproof. “Be content, Olive; he will come in time. I shall recover, if it so please God.”
“Of course—of course you will. Don't talk in that way, mamma!”—she dared not trust herself to saydarling. She spoke even less caressingly than usual, lest her mother might think there was any dread upon her mind. But gradually, when she heard the strange patience of Mrs. Rothesay's voice, and saw the changes in the beloved face, she began to tremble. Once her wild glance darted upward in almost threatening despair. “God! Thou wilt not—Thou canst not—do this!” And when, at last, she heard the ringing of hoofs, and saw the physician's horse at the gate, she could not stay to speak with him, but fled out of the room.
She composed herself in time to meet him when he came downstairs. She was glad that he was a stranger, so that she had to be restrained, and to ask him in a calm, everyday voice, “What he thought of her mother?”
“You are Miss Rothesay, I believe,” he answered, indirectly.
“I am.”
“Is there no one to help you in nursing your mother—are you here quite alone?”
“Quite alone.”
Dr. Witherington took her hand—kindly, too. “My dear Miss Rothesay, I would not deceive; I never do. If your mother has any relatives to send for, any business to arrange”——
“Ah—I see, I know! Do not say any more!” She closed her eyes faintly, and leaned against the wall. Had she loved her mother with a love less intense, less self-devoted, less utterly absorbing in its passion, at that moment she would have gone mad, or died.
There was one little low sigh; and then upon her great height of woe she rose—rose to a superhuman calm.
“You would tell me, then, that there is no hope?”
He looked on the ground, and said nothing.
“And how long—how long?”
“It may be six hours—it may be twelve; I fear it cannot be more than twelve.” And then he began to give consolation in the only way that lay in his poor power, explaining that in a frame so shattered the spirit could not have lingered long, and might have lingered in much suffering. “It was best as it was,” he said.
And Olive, knowing all, bowed her head, and answered, “Yes.” She thought not of herself—she thought only of the enfeebled body about to be released from earthly pain, of the soul before whom heaven was even now opened.
“Doessheknow? Did you tell her?”
“I did. She asked me, and I thought it right.”
Thus, both knew, mother and child, that a few brief hours were all that lay between their love and eternity. And knowing this, they again met.
With a step so soft that it could have reached no ear but that of a dying woman, Olive re-entered the room.
“Is that my child!”
“My mother—my own mother!” Close, and wild, and strong—wild as love and strong as death—was the clasp that followed. No words passed between them, not one, until Mrs. Rothesay said, faintly,
“My child, are you content—quite content?”
Olive answered, “I am content!” And in her uplifted eyes was a silent voice that seemed to say, “Take, O God, this treasure, which I give out of my arms unto Thine! Take and keep it for me, safe until the eternal meeting!”
Slowly the day sank, and the night came down. Very still and solemn was that chamber; but there was no sorrow there—no weeping, no struggle of life with death. After a few hours all suffering ceased, and Mrs. Rothesay lay quiet; sometimes in her daughter's arms, sometimes with Olive sitting by her side. Now and then they talked together, holding peaceful communion, like friends about to part for a long journey, in which neither wished to leave unsaid any words of love or counsel; but all was spoken calmly, hopefully, and without grief or fear.
As midnight approached, Olive's eyes grew heavy, and a strange drowsiness oppressed her. Many a watcher has doubtless felt this—the dull stupor which comes over heart and brain, sometimes even compelling sleep, though some beloved one lies dying. Hannah, who sat up with Olive, tried to persuade her to go down and take some coffee which she had prepared. Mrs. Rothesay, overhearing, entreated the same. “It will do you good. You must keep strong, my child.”
“Yes, darling.”
Olive went down in the little parlour, and forced herself to take food and drink. As she sat there by herself, in the still night, with the wind howling round the cottage, she tried to realise the truth that her mother was then dying—that ere another day, in this world she would be alone, quite alone, for evermore. Yet there she sat, wrapped in that awful calm.
When Olive came back, Mrs. Rothesay roused herself and asked for some wine. Her daughter gave it.
“It is very good—all things are very good—very sweet to me from Olive's hand. My only daughter—my life's comfort—I bless God for thee!”
After a while she said—passing her hand over her daughter's cheek—“Olive, little Olive, I wish I could see your face—just once, once more. It feels almost as small and soft as when you were a little babe at Stirling.”
And saying this, there came a cloud over Mrs. Rothesay's face; but soon it went away, as she continued, “Child! listen to something I never told you—never could have told you, until now. Just after you were born, I dreamt a strange dream—that I lost you, and there came to me in your stead an angel, who comforted me and guided me through a long weary way, until, in parting, I knew that it was indeed my Olive. All this has come true, save that I did notloseyou: I wickedly cast you from me. Ay, God forgive me! there was a time when I, a mother, had no love for the child I bore.”
She wept a little, and held Olive with a closer strain as she proceeded. “I was punished, for in forsaking my child I lost my husband's love—at least not all, but for a time. But God pardoned me, and sent my child back to me as I saw her in my dream—an angel—to guard me through many troubled ways; to lead me safe to the eternal shore. And now, when I am going away, I say with my whole soul, God bless my Olive! the most loving and duteous daughter that ever mother had; and God will bless her evermore!”
One moment, with a passionate burst of anguish, Olive cried, “O mother, mother, stay! Do not go and leave me in this bitter world alone.” It was the only moan she made. When she saw the anguish it caused to her so peacefully dying, she stilled it at once. And then God's comfort came down upon her; and that night of death was full of a peace so deep that it was most like happiness. In after years Olive thought of it as if it had been spent at the doors of heaven.
Toward morning Mrs. Rothesay said, “My child, you are tired. Lie down here beside me.”
And so, with her head on the same pillow, and her arm thrown round her mother's neck, Olive lay as she had lain every night for so many years. Once or twice Mrs. Rothesay spoke again, as passing thoughts seemed to arise; but her mind was perfectly composed and clear. She mentioned several that she regarded—among the rest, Mrs. Gwynne, to whom she left “her love.”
“And to Christal too, Olive. She has many faults; but, remember, she was good to me, and I was fond of her. Always take care of Christal.”
“I will. And is there no one else to whom I shall give your love, mamma?”
She thought a minute, and answered, “Yes—to Mr. Gwynne.” And, as if in that dying hour there came to the mother's heart both clear-sightedness and prophecy, she said, earnestly, “I am very glad I have known Harold Gwynne. I wish he had been here now, that I might have blessed him, and begged him all his life long to show kindness and tenderness to my child.”
After this she spoke of earthly things no more, but her thoughts went, like heralds, far into the eternal land. Thither her daughter's followed likewise, until, like the martyr Stephen, Olive almost seemed to see the heavens opened, and the angels of God standing around the throne. Her heart was filled, not with anguish, but with an awful joy, which passed not even, when lifting her head from the pillow, she saw that over her mother's face was coming a change—the change that comes but once.
“My child, are you still there?”.
“Yes, darling.”
“That is well. All is well now. Little Olive, kiss me.”
Olive bent down and kissed her. With that last kiss she received her mother's soul.
Then she suffered the old servant to lead her from the room. She never wept; it would have appeared sacrilege to weep. She went to the open door, and stood, looking to the east, where the sun was rising. Through the golden clouds she almost seemed to behold, ascending, the freed spirit upon whom had just dawned the everlasting morning.
An hour after, when she was all alone in the little parlour, lying on the sofa with her eyes closed, she heard entering a well-known step. It was Harold Gwynne's. He looked much agitated; at first he drew back, as though fearing to approach; then he came up, and took her hand very tenderly.
“Alas, Miss Rothesay, what can I say to you?”
She shed a few tears, less for her own sorrow than because she was touched by his kindness.
“I would have been here yesterday,” continued he, “but I was away from Harbury. Yet, what help, what comfort, could you have received from me?”
Olive turned to him her face, in whose pale serenity yet lingered the light which had guided her through the valley of the shadow of death.
“God,” she whispered, “has helped me. He has taken from me the desire of my eyes, and yet I have peace—perfect peace!”
Harold looked at her with astonishment.
“Tell me,” he muttered, involuntarily, “whence comes this peace!”
“From God, as I feel him in my soul—as I read of Him in the revelation of his Word.”
Harold was silent. His aspect of hopeless misery went to Olive's heart.
“Oh that I could give to you this peace—this faith!”
“Alas! if I knew whatreasonyou have for yours.”
Olive paused. An awful thing it was, with the dead lying in the chamber above, to wrestle with the unbelief of the living. But it seemed as if the spirit of her mother had passed into her spirit, giving her strength to speak with words not her own. What if, in the inscrutable purposes of Heaven, this hour of death was to be to him an hour of new birth?
So, repressing all grief and weakness, Olive said, “Let us talk a little of the things which in times like this come home to us as the only realities.”
“To you, not to me! You forget the gulf between us!”
“Nay,” Olive said, earnestly; “you believe, as I do, in one God—the Creator and Ruler of this world?”
Harold made solemn assent.
“Of this world,” she continued, “wherein is so much of beauty, happiness, and love. And can that exist in the created which is not in the Creator! Must not, therefore, the great Spirit of the Universe be a Spirit of Love?”
“Your argument contradicts itself,” was the desponding answer. “Canyouspeak thus—you, whose heart yet bleeds with recent suffering?”
“Suffering which my faith has changed into joy. Never until this hour did I look so clearly from this world into the world of souls—never did I so strongly feel within me the presence of God's spirit, a pledge for the immortality of mine.”
“Immortality! Alas, that dream! And yet,” he added, looking at her reverently, even with tenderness, “I could half believe that a life like yours—so full of purity and goodness—can never be destined to perish.”
“And can you believe in human goodness, yet doubt Him who alone can be its origin? Can you think that He would give the yearning for the hereafter, and yet deny its fulfilment? That he would implant in us love, when there was nothing to love; and faith, when there was nothing to believe?”
Harold seemed struck. “You speak plain, reasonable words—not like the vain babblers of contradictory creeds. Yet you do profess a creed—you join in the Church's service?”
“Because, though differing from many of its doctrines, I think its forms of worship are pure—perhaps the purest extant. But I do not set up the Church between myself and God. I follow no ritual, and trust no creed, except so far as it is conformable to the instinct of faith—the inward revelation of Himself which he has implanted in my soul—and to that outward revelation, the nearest and clearest that He has ever given of Himself to men, the Divine revelation of love which I find here, in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, my Lord.”
As she spoke, her hand rested on the Bible out of which she had last read to her mother. It opened at the very place, and from it there dropped the little book-marker which Mrs. Rothesay always used, one worked by Olive in her childish days. The sight drew her down to the helplessness of human woe.
“Oh, my mother!—my mother!” She bowed her head upon her knees, and for some minutes wept bitterly. Then she rose somewhat calmer.
“I am going upstairs”—— Her voice failed.
“I know—I know,” said Harold.
“She spoke of you: they were almost her last words. You will come with me, friend?”
Harold was a man who never wept—never could weep—but his face grew pale, and there came over him a great awe. His step faltered, even more than her own, as he followed Olive up-stairs.
Her hand trembled a moment on the latch of the door. “No,” she said, as if to herself,—“no, it is not my mother; my mother is not here!”
Then she went in composedly, and uncovered the face of the dead; Harold standing beside her.
Olive was the first to speak. “See,” she whispered, “how very placid and beautiful it looks!—like her and yet unlike. I never for a moment feel that it ismy mother.”
Harold regarded with amazement the daughter newly orphaned, who stood serenely beholding her dead. He took Olive's hand, softly and with reverence, as if there were something sacred in her touch.Hisshe scarcely seemed to feel, but continued, speaking in the same tranquil voice:
“Two hours ago we were so happy, she and I, talking together of holy things, and of the love we had borne each other. And can such love end with death? Can I believe that one moment—the fleeting of a breath—has left ofmy motheronly this?”
She turned from the bed, and met Harold's eye—intense, athirst—as if his soul's life were in her words.
“You are calm—very calm,” he murmured. “You stand here, and have no fear of death.”
“No; for I have seen my mother die. Her last breath was on my mouth. Ifelther spirit pass, and I knew that it was passing unto God.”
“And you can rejoice?”
“Yes; since for all I lose on earth, heaven—the place of souls, which we call heaven, whatever or wherever that may be—grows nearer to me. It will seem the more my home, now I have a mother there.”
Harold Gwynne fell on his knees at the bedside, crying out:
“Oh, God! that I could believe!”
It was again the season of late summer; and Time's soothing shadow had risen up between the daughter and her grief. The grave in the beautiful churchyard of Har-bury was bright with many months' growth of grass and flowers. It never looked dreary—nay, often seemed almost to smile. It was watered by no tears—it never had been. Those which Olive shed were only for her own loneliness, and at times she felt that even these were wrong. Many people, seeing how calm she was, and how, after a season, she fell into her old pursuits and her kindly duties to all around, used to say, “Who would have thought that Miss Rothesay would have forgotten her mother so easily?”
Butshe did not forget. Selfish, worldly mourners are they, who think that the memory of the beloved lost can only be kept green by tears. Olive Rothesay was not of these. To her, her mother's departure appeared no more like death, than did one Divine parting—with reverence be it spoken!—appear to those who stood and looked upward from the hill of Bethany. And thus should we think upon all happy and holy deaths—if we fully and truly believed the faith we own.
Olive did not forget her mother—she could as soon have forgotten her own soul. In all her actions, words, and thoughts, this most sacred memory abided—a continual presence, silent as sweet, and sweet as holy. When her many and most affectionate friends had beguiled her into cheerfulness, so that they fancied she had put aside her sorrow, she used to say in her heart, “See, mother, I can think of you and not grieve. I would not that it should pain you to know I suffer still!”
Yet human feelings could not utterly be suppressed; and there were many times, when at night-time she buried her face on the now lonely pillow, and stretched out her arms into the empty darkness, crying, “My mother, oh my mother!” But then strong love came between Olive and her agony, whispering, that wherever her spirit abided, the mothercould notforget her child.
Olive looked very calm now, as she sat with Mrs. Gwynne in the bay-window of the little drawing-room at the Parsonage, engaged in some light work, with Ailie reading a lesson at her knee. It was a lesson too, taken from that lore—at once the most simple and most divine—the Gospels of the New Testament.
“I thought my son would prove himself right in all his opinions,” observed Mrs. Gwynne, when the lesson was over and the child had run away. “I knew he would allow Ailie to learn everything at the right time.”
Olive made no answer. Her thoughts turned to the day—now some months back—when, stung by the disobedience and falsehood that lay hid in a young mind which knew no higher law than a human parent's command, Harold had come to her for counsel She remembered his almost despairing words, “Teach the child as you will—true or false—I care not; so that she becomes like yourself, and is saved from those doubts which rack her father's soul.”
Harold Gwynne was not singular in this. Scarcely ever was there an unbeliever who desired to see his own scepticism reflected in his child.
Mrs. Gwynne continued—“I don't think I can ever sufficiently thank you, my dear Miss Rothesay.”
“SayOlive, as you generally do.”
For her Christian name sounded so sweet and homelike from Harold's mother; especially now.
“Olive, then! My dear, how good you are to take Ailie so entirely under your care and teaching. But for that, we must have sent her to some school from home, and, I will not conceal from you, that would have been a great sacrifice, even in a worldly point of view, since our income is much diminished by my son's having been obliged to resign his duties altogether, and take a curate. But tell me, do you think Harold looks any better! What an anxious summer this has been!”
And Olive, hearing the heavy sigh of the mother, whose whole existence was bound up in her son, felt that there was something holy even in that deceit, or rather concealment, wherein she herself was now a sorely-tried sharer. “You must not be too anxious,” she said; “you know that there is nothing dangerous in Mr. Gwynne's state of health, only his brain has been overworked.”
“I suppose so; and perhaps it was the best plan for him to give up all clerical duties for a time. I think, too, that these frequent absences do him good.”
“I hope so too.”
“Besides, seeing that he is not positively disabled by illness, his parishioners might think it peculiar that he should continually remain among them, and yet abstain from preaching. But my Harold is a strange being; he always was. Sometimes I think his heart is not in his calling—that he would have been more happy as a man of science than as a clergyman. Yet of late he has ceased even that favourite pursuit; and though he spends whole days in his study, I sometimes find that he has not displaced one book, except the large Bible which I gave him when he went to college. God bless him—my dear Harold!”
Olive's inmost heart echoed the blessing, and in the same words. For of late—perhaps with more frequently hearing him called by the familiar home appellation, she had thought of him less asMr. Gwynnethan asHarold.
“I wonder what makes your blithe Christal so late,” observed Mrs. Gwynne, abruptly, as if disliking to betray further emotion. “Lyle Derwent promised to bring her himself—much against his will, though,” she added, smiling. “He seems quite afraid of Miss Manners; he says she teases him so!”
“But she suffers no one else to do it. If I say a word against Lyle's little peculiarities, she is quite indignant. I rather think she likes him—that is, as much as she likes any of her friends.”
“There is little depth of affection in Christal's nature. She is too proud. She feels no need of love, and therefore cares not to win it. Do you know, Olive,” continued Mrs. Gwynne, “if I must expose all my weaknesses, there was a time when I watched Miss Manners more closely than any one guesses. It was from a mother's jealousy over her son's happiness, for I often heard her name coupled with Harold's.”
“So have I, more than once,” said Olive. “But I thought at the time how idle was the rumour.”
“It was idle, my dear; but I did not quite think so then.”
“Indeed!” There was a little quick gesture of surprise; and Olive, ceasing her work, looked inquiringly at Mrs. Gwynne.
“Men cannot do without love, and having once been married, Harold's necessity for a good wife's sympathy and affection is the greater. I always expected that my son would marry again, and therefore I have eagerly watched every young woman whom he might meet in society, and be disposed to choose. All men, especially clergymen, are better married—at least in my opinion. Even you, yourself, as Harold's friend, his most valued friend, must acknowledge that he would be much happier with a second wife.”
What was there in this frank speech that smote Olive with a secret pain? Was it the unconscious distinction drawn between her and all other women on whom Harold might look with admiring eyes, so that his mother, while calling her hisfriend, never dreamed of her being anything more?
Olive knew not whence came the pain, yet still she felt it was there. “Certainly he would,” she answered, speaking in a slow, quiet tone. “Nevertheless, I should scarcely think Christal a girl whom Mr. Gwynne would be likely to select.”
“Nor I. At first, deeming her something like the first Mrs. Harold, I had my doubts; but they quickly vanished. My son will never marry Christal Manners.”
Olive, sitting at the window, looked up. It seemed to her as if over the room had come a lightness like the passing away of a cloud.
“Nor, at present,” pursued Mrs. Gwynne, “does it appear to me likely that he will marry at all. I fear that domestic love—the strong, yet quiet tenderness of a husband to a wife, is not in his nature. Passion is, or was, in his youth; but he is not young now. In his first hasty marriage I knew that the fire would soon burn itself out—it has left nothing but ashes. Once he deceived himself, and sorely he has reaped the fruits of his folly. The result is, that he will live to old age without ever having known the blessing of true love.”
“Is that so mournful, then?” said Olive, more as if thinking aloud than speaking.
Mrs. Gwynne did not hear the words, for she had started up at the sound of a horse's hoofs at the gate. “If that should be Harold! He said he would be at home this week or next. It is—it is he! How glad I am—that is, I am glad that he should be in time to see the Fludyers and Miss Manners before their journey to-morrow.”
Thus, from long habit, trying to make excuses for her overflowing tenderness, she hurried out. Olive heard Mr. Gwynne's voice in the Hall, his anxious tender inquiry for his mother; even the quick, flying step of little Ailie bounding to meet “papa.”
She paused: her work fell, and a mist came over her eyes. She felt then, as she had sometimes done before, though never so strongly, that it was hard to be in the world alone.
This thought haunted her awhile; until at last it was banished by the influence of one of those pleasant social evenings, such as were often spent at the Parsonage. The whole party, including Christal and Lyle, were assembled in the twilight, the two latter keeping up a sort of Benedick and Beatrice warfare. Harold and his mother seemed both very quiet—they sat close together, her hand sometimes resting caressingly on his shoulder or his knee. It was a new thing, this outward show of affection; but of late since his health had declined (and, in truth, he had often looked and been very ill), there had come a touching softness between the mother and son.
Olive Rothesay sat a little apart, a single lamp lighting her at her work; for she was not idle. Following her old master's example, she was continually making studies from life for the picture on which she was engaged. She took a pleasure in filling it with idealised heads, of which the originals had place in her own warm affections. Christal was there, with her gracefully-turned throat, and the singular charm of her black eyes and fair hair. Lyle, too, with his delicate, womanish, but yet handsome face. Nor was Mrs. Gwynne forgotten—Olive made great use of her well-outlined form, and her majestic sweep of drapery. There was one only of the group who had not been limned by Miss Rothesay.
“If I were my brother-in-law I should take it quite as an ill compliment that you had never asked him to sit,” observed Lyle. “But,” he added in a whisper, “I don't suppose any artist would care to paint such a hard, rugged-looking fellow as Gwynne.”
Olive looked on the pretty red and white of the boyish dabbler in Art—for Lyle had lately taken a fancy that way too—and then at the countenance he maligned. She did not say a word; but Lyle hovering round, found his interference somewhat sharply put aside during the whole evening.
When assembled round the supper-table they talked of Christal's journey. It was undertaken by invitation of Mrs. Fludyer, to whom the young damsel had made herself quite indispensable. Her liveliness charmed away the idle lady's ennui, while her pride and love of aristocratic exclusiveness equally gratified the same feelings for her patroness. And from the mist that enwrapped her origin, the ingenious and perhaps self-deceived young creature had contrived to evolve such a grand fable of “ancient descent” and “noble but reduced family,” that everybody regarded her in the same light as she regarded herself. And surely, as the quick-sighted Mrs. Gwynne often said, no daughter of a long illustrious line was ever prouder than Christal Manners.
She indulged the party with a brilliant account of Mrs. Fludyer's anticipations of pleasure at Brighton, whither the whole family at the Hall were bound.
“Really, we shall be quite desolate without a single soul left at Farnwood, shall we not, Olive?” observed Mrs. Gwynne.
Olive answered, “Yes,—very,” without much considering of the matter. Her thoughts were with Harold, who was leaning back in his chair, absorbed in one of those fits of musing, which with him were not unfrequent, and which no one ever regarded, save herself. How deeply solemn it was to her at such times to feel that she alone held the key of his soul—that it lay open, with all its secrets, to her, and to her alone. What marvel was it if this knowledge sometimes moved her with strange sensations; most of all, while, beholding the reserved exterior which he bore in society, she remembered the times when she had seen him goaded into terrible emotion, or softened to the weakness of a child.
At Olive's mechanical affirmative, Lyle Derwent brightened up amazingly. “Miss Rothesay, I—I don't intend going away, believe me!”
Christal turned quickly round. “What are you saying, Mr. Derwent?”
He hung his head and looked foolish. “I mean that Brighton is too gay, and thoughtless, and noisy a place for me—I would rather stay at Harbury.”
“You fickle, changeable, sentimental creature! I wouldn't be a man like you for the world!” And reckless Christal burst into a fit of laughter much louder than seemed warranted by the occasion. Lyle seemed much annoyed; whereupon his friend Miss Rothesay considerately interposed, and passed to some other subject which lasted until the hour of departure.. The three walked to the Dell together, Christal jesting incessantly, either with or at Lyle Derwent. Olive walked beside them rather silent than otherwise. She had been so used to walk home with Harold Gwynne, that any other companionship along the old familiar road seemed unnatural. As she passed along, from every bush, every tree, every winding of the lane, seemed to start some ghostlike memory; until there came over her a feeling almost of fear, to find how full her thoughts were of this one friend, how to pass from his presence was like passing into gloom, and the sense of his absence seemed a heavy void.
“It was not so while my mother lived,” Olive murmured sorrowfully. “I never needed any friend but her. What am I doing! What is coming over me?”
She trembled, and dared not answer the question.
At the Dell they parted from Lyle. “I shall see you once again before you leave, I hope,” he said to Christal.
“Oh, yes; you will not get rid of your tormentor so easily.”
“Get rid of you, fair Cruelty! Would a man wish to put out the sun because it scorches him sometimes?” cried Lyle, lifted to the seventh heaven of poetic fervour by the influence of a balmy night and a glorious harvest moon. Which said luminary, shining on Christal's face, saw there,—she only, pale Lady Moon,—an expression fine and rare; quivering lips, eyes not merely bright, but flaming, as such dark eyes only can.
As Olive was entering the hall door, Miss Manners, a little in the rear, fell, crying out as with pain. She was quickly assisted into the house, where, recovering, she complained of having sprained her ankle. Olive, full of compassion, laid her on the sofa, and hurried away for some simple medicaments, leaving Christal alone.
That young lady, as soon as she heard Miss Rothesay's steps overhead, bounded to the half-open window, moving quite as easily on the injured foot as on the other. Eagerly she listened; and soon was rewarded by hearing Lyle's voice carolling pathetically down the road, the ditty,