There is not in the world a more exquisite sight than a beautiful old age. It is almost better than a beautiful youth. Early loveliness passes away with its generation, and becomes at best only a melancholy tradition recounted by younger lips with a half-incredulous smile. But if one must live to be the last relic of a past race, one would desire in departing to leave behind the memory of a graceful old age. And since there is only one kind of beauty which so endures, it ought to be a consolation to those whom fate has denied the personal loveliness which charms at eighteen, to know that we all have it in our power to be beautiful at eighty.
Miss, or rather Mrs. Flora Rothesay—for so she was always called—appeared to Olive the most beautiful old lady she had ever beheld. It was a little after dusk on a dull wet day, when she reached her journey's end. Entering, she saw around her the dazzle of a rich warm fire-light, her cloak was removed by light hands, and she felt on both cheeks the kiss of peace and salutation.
“Is that Olive Rothesay, Angus Rothesay's only child? Welcome to Scotland—welcome, my dear lassie!”
The voice lost none of its sweetness for bearing, strongly and unmistakably, the “.accents of the mountain tongue.” Though more in tone than phrase, for Mrs. Flora Rothesay spoke with all the purity of a Highland woman.
Surely the breezes that rocked Olive's cradle had sung in her memory for twenty years, for she felt like coming home the moment she set foot in her native land. She expressed this to Mrs. Flora, and then, quite overpowered, she knelt and hid her face in the old lady's lap, and her excitement melted away in a soft dew—too sweet to seem like tears.
“The poor lassie! she's just wearied out!” said Mrs. Flora, laying her hands on Olive's hair. “Jean, get her some tea. Now, my bairn, lift up your face. Ay, there it is—a Rothesay's, every line! and with the golden hair too. Ye have heard tell of the weird saying, about the Rothesays with yellow hair? No? We will not talk of it now.” And the old lady suddenly looked thoughtful—even somewhat grave. When Olive rose up, she made her bring a seat opposite to her own arm-chair, and there watched her very intently.
Olive herself noticed her aunt with curious eyes. Mrs. Flora's attire was quite a picture, with the ruffled elbow-sleeves and the long, square boddice, over which a close white kerchief hid the once lovely neck and throat of her whom old Elspie had chronicled—and truly—as “the Flower of Perth.” The face, Olive thought, was as she could have imagined Mary Queen of Scots grown old. But age could never obliterate the charm of the soft languishing eyes, the almost infantile sweetness of the mouth. Therein sat a spirit, ever lovely, because ever loving; smiling away all natural wrinkles—softening down all harsh lines. You regarded them no more than the faint shadows in a twilight landscape, over which the soul of peace is everywhere diffused. There was peace, too, in the very attitude—leaning back, the head a little raised, the hands crossed, each folded round the other's wrist. Olive particularly noticed these hands. On the right was a marriage-ring which had outlasted two lives, mother and daughter; on the left, at the wedding-finger, was another, a hoop of gold with a single diamond. Both seemed less ornaments than tokens—gazed on, perhaps, as the faint landmarks of a long past journey, which now, with its joys and pains alike, was all fading into shadow before the dawn of another world.
“So they called you 'Olive,' my dear,” said Mrs. Flora. “A strange name! the like of it is not in our family.”
“My mother gave it me from a dream she had.”
Olive.
“Now, my bairn, lift up your face.”
Page 314, Now, My Bairn, Lift up Your Face
“Ay, I mind it; Harold Gwynne told me, saying that Mrs. Rothesay had toldhim. Was she, then, so sweet and dainty a creature—your mother? Once Angus spoke to me of her—little Sybilla Hyde. She was his wife then, though we did not know it. Poor Angus, we loved him very much—better than he thought. Tears again, my dearie!”
“They do not harm me, Aunt Flora.”
“And so you know my dear Alison Balfour? She was younger than I, and yet you see we have both grown auld wives together. Little Olive, ye have come to me in a birthday gift, my dear. I am eighty years old to-day—just eighty years, thank the Lord!”
The old lady reverently raised her blue eyes—true Scottish eyes—limpid and clear as the dew on Scottish heather. Cheerful they were withal, for they soon began to flit hither and thither, following the motions of Jean's “eident hand” with most housewifely care. And Jean herself, a handmaid prim and ancient, but youthful compared to her mistress, seemed to watch the latter's faintest gesture with most affectionate observance. Of all the light traits which reveal character, none is more suggestive than the sight of a mistress whom her servants love.
After tea Mrs. Mora insisted on Olive's retiring for the night. “Your room has a grand view over the Braid Hills. They call them hills here; but oh! if ye had seen the blue mountains sweeping in waves from the old house at home. Night and day I was wearying for them, for years after I came to live at Morningside. But one must e'en dree one's weird!”
She always spoke in this rambling way, wandering from the subject, after the fashion of old age. Olive could have listened long to the pleasant stream of talk, which seemed murmuring round her, wrapping her in a soft dream of peace. She laid down her tired head on the pillow, with an unwonted feeling of calmness and rest. Even the one weary pain that ever pursued her sank into momentary repose. Her last waking thought was still of Harold; but it was more like the yearning of a spirit from beyond the grave.
Just between waking and sleeping Olive was roused by music. Her door had been left ajar, and the sound she heard was the voices of the household, engaged in their evening devotion. The tune was that sweetest of all Presbyterian psalmody, “plaintive Martyrs.” Olive caught some words of the hymn—it was one with which she had often, often been lulled to sleep in poor old Elspie's arms. Distinct and clear its quaint rhymes came back upon her memory now:
The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want,He makes me down to lieIn pastures green, He leadeth meThe quiet waters by.Yea, though I walk in death's dark vale,Yet will I fear none ill;For Thou art with me, and Thy rodAnd staff me comfort still.
Poor lonely Olive lay and listened. Then rest, deep and placid, came over her, as over one who, escaped from a stormy wrack and tempest, falls asleep amid the murmur of “quiet waters,” in a pleasant land.
She awoke in the morning, as if waking in another world. The clear cold air, thrilled with sunshine, filled her room. It was the “best room,” furnished with a curious mingling of the ancient and the modern. The pretty chintz couch laughed at the oaken, high-backed chair, stiff with a century of worm-eaten state. On either side the fireplace hung two ancient engravings, of Mary Stuart and “bonnie Prince Charlie,” both garnished with verses, at once remarkable for devoted loyalty and eccentric rhythm. Between the two was Sir William Ross's sweet, maidenly portrait of our own Victoria. Opposite, on a shadowed wall, with one sunbeam kissing the face, was a large well-painted likeness, which Olive at once recognised. It was Mrs. Flora Rothesay, at eighteen. No wonder, Olive thought, that she was called “the Flower of Perth.” But strange it was, that the fair flower had been planted in no good man's bosom; that this lovely and winning creature had lived, bloomed, withered—“an old maid.” Olive, looking into the sweet eyes that followed her everywhere—as those of some portraits do—tried to read therein the foreshadowing of a life-history of eighty years. It made her dreamy and sad, so she arose and looked out upon the sunny slopes of the Braid Hills until her cheerfulness returned. Then she descended to the breakfast-table.
It was too early for the old lady to appear, but there were waiting three or four young damsels—invited, they said, to welcome Miss Rothesay, and show her the beauties of Edinburgh. They talked continually of “dear Auntie Mora,” and were most anxious to “call cousins” with Olive herself, who, though she could not at all make out the relationship, was quite ready to take it upon faith. She tried very hard properly to distinguish between the three Miss M'Gillivrays, daughters of Sir Andrew Rothesay's half-sister's son, and Miss Flora Anstruther, the old lady's third cousin and name-child, and especially little twelve-years-old Maggie Oliphant, whose grandfather was Mrs. Flora's nephew on the mother's side, and first cousin ta Alison Balfour.
All these conflicting relationships wrapped Olive in an inexplicable net; but it was woven of such friendly arms that she had no wish to get free. Her heart opened to the loving welcome; and when she took her first walk on Scottish ground, it was with a sensation more akin to happiness than she had felt for many a long month.
“And so you have never before seen your aunt,” said one of the M'Gillivrays;—for her life, Olive could not tell whether it was Miss Jane, Miss Janet, or Miss Marion, though she had tried for half-an-hour to learn the difference. “You like her of course—our dear old Auntie Flora?”
“Aunt to which of you?” said Olive, smiling.
“Oh, she is everybody's Auntie Flora; no one ever calls her anything else,” observed little Maggie Oliphant, who, during all their walk clung tenaciously to Miss Rothesay's hand, as most children were prone to do.
“I think,” said the quiet Miss Anstruther, lifting up her brown eyes, “that in allourlives put together, we will never do half the good that Aunt Flora has done in hers. Papa says, every one of her friends ought to be thankful that she has lived an old maid!”
“Yes, indeed, for who else would have had patience with her cross old brother Sir Andrew, until he died?” said Janet M'Gillivray.
“And who,” added her sister, “would have come and been a mother to us when we lost our own, living with us, and taking care of us for seven long years?”
“I am sure,” cried blithe Maggie, “my brothers and I used often to say, that if Auntie Flora had been young, and any disagreeable husband had come to steal her from us, we would have hooted him away down the street, and pelted him with stones.”
Olive laughed; and afterwards said, thoughtfully, “She has then lived a happy life—has this good Aunt Flora!”
“Not always happy,” answered the eldest and gravest of the M'Gillivrays. “My mother once heard that she had some great trouble in her youth. But she has outlived it, and conquered it in time. People say such things are possible: I cannot tell,” added the girl, with a faint sigh.
There was no more said of Mrs. Flora, but oftentimes during the day, when some passing memory stung poor Olive, causing her to turn wearily from the mirth of her young companions, there came before her in gentle reproof the likeness of the aged woman who had lived down her one great woe—lived, not only to feel but to impart cheerfulness.
A few hours after, Olive saw her aunt sitting smiling amidst a little party which she had gathered together, playing with the children, sympathising with those of elder growth, and looked up to by old and young with an affection passing that of mere kindred. And then there came a balm of hope to the wounded spirit that had felt life's burden too heavy to be borne.
“How happy you are, and how much everyone loves you!” said Olive, when Mrs. Flora and herself were left alone, and their hearts inclined each to each with a vague sympathy.
“Yours must have been a noble woman's life.”
“I have tried to make it so, as far as I could, my dear bairn; and the little good I have done has come back upon me fourfold. It is always so.”
“And you have been content—nay happy!”
“Ay, I have! God quenched the fire on my own hearth, that I might learn to make that of others bright My dear, one's life never need be empty of love, even though, after seeing all near kindred drop away, one lingers to be an old maid of eighty years.”
“No letters to-day from Harbury!” observed Mrs. Mora, as, some weeks after Olive's arrival, they were taking their usual morning airing along the Queen's Drive. “My dear, are you not wearying for news from home?”
“Aunt Flora's house has grown quite home-like to me,” said Olive, affectionately. It was true. She had sunk down, nestling into its peace like a tired broken-winged dove. As she sat beside the old lady, and drank in the delicious breezes that swept across from the Lothians, she was quite another creature from the pale drooping Olive Rothesay who had crept wearily up Harbury Hill. Still, the mention of the place even now took a little of the faint roses from her cheek.
“I am glad you are happy, my dear niece,” answered Mrs. Flora; “yet others should not forget you.”
“They do not. Christal writes now and then from Brighton, and Lyle Derwent indulges me with a long letter every week,” said Olive, trying to smile. She did not mention Harold. She had hardly expected him to write; yet his silence grieved her. It felt like a mist of cold estrangement rising up between them. Yet—as sometimes she tried to think—perhaps it was best so!
“Alison Gwynne was aye the worst of all correspondents,” pursued the old lady, “but Harold might write to you: I think he did so once or twice when he was living with me here, this summer.”
“Yes;” said Olive, “we have always been good friends.”
“I know that. It was not little that we talked about you. He told me all that happened long ago between yourfatherand himself. Ah, that was a strange, strange thing!”
“We have never once spoken of it—neither I nor Mr. Gwynne.”
“Harold could not. He was sair grieved, and bitterly he repented having 'robbed' you. But he was no the same man then that he is now. Ah, that gay young wife of his—fair and fause, fair and fause! It's ill for a man that loves such a woman. I would like well to see my dear Harold wed to some leal-hearted lassie. But I fear me it will never be.”
Thus the old lady's talk gently wandered on. Olive listened in silence, her eyes vacantly turned towards the wide open country that sweeps down from Duddingston Loch. The yellow harvest-clad valley smiled; but beneath the same bright sky the loch lay quiet, dark, and still. The sunshine passed over it, and entered it not. Olive wistfully regarded the scene, which seemed a symbol of her own fate. She did not murmur at it, for day by day her peace was returning. She tried to respond with cheerfulness to the new affections that greeted her on every side; to fill each day with those duties, that by the alchemy of a pious nature are so often transmuted into pleasures. She was already beginning to learn the blessed and heaven-sent truth, that no life ought to be wrecked for the love of one human being, and that no sinless sorrow is altogether incurable.
The rest of the drive was rather dull, for Mrs. Flora, usually the most talkative, cheerful old lady in the world, seemed disposed to be silent and thoughtful. Not sad—sadness rarely comes to old age. All strong feelings, whether of joy or pain, belong to youth alone.
“Ye will ride with Marion M'Gillivray the day?” said Mrs. Flora, after a somewhat protracted silence. “You bairns will not want an auld wifie like me.”
Olive disclaimed this, affirming, and with her whole heart, that she was never so happy as when with her good Aunt Flora.
“'Tis pleasant to hear ye say the like of that. But it must be even so—for this night I would fain bide alone at home.”
The carriage stopped in Abercromby Place.
“I will see ye again the morn,” the old lady observed, as her niece descended. And then, after looking up pleasantly to the window, that was filled with a whole host of juvenile M'Gillivrays vehemently nodding and smiling, Aunt Flora pulled down her veil and drove away.
“I thought you would be given up to us for to-day,” said Marion, as she and Olive, now grown almost into friends, strolled out arm-in-arm along the shady walks of Morning-side.
“Indeed! Did Aunt Flora say”——
“She said nothing—she never does. But for years I have noticed this 20th of September; because, when she lived with us, on this day, after teaching us in the morning, she used to go to her own room, or take a long, lonely walk,—come back very pale and quiet, and we never saw her again that night. It was the only day in the year that she seemed wishful to keep away from us. Afterwards, when I grew a woman, I found out why this was.”
“Did she tell you?”
“No; Aunt Flora never talks about herself. But from her maid and foster-sister, an old woman who died a while ago, I heard a little of the story, and guessed the rest—one easily can,” added quiet Marion.
“I think I guess, too. But let me hear, that is, if Imayhear?”
“Oh yes. 'Tis many, many years ago. Aunt Flora was quite a girl then, and lived with Sir Andrew, her elder brother. She had 'braw wooers' in plenty, according to Isbel Græme (you should have seen old Isbel, cousin Olive). However, she cared for nobody; and some said it was for the sake of a far-away cousin of her own, one of the 'gay Gordons.' But he was anything but 'gay'—delicate in health, plain to look at, and poor besides. While he lived he never said to her a word of love; but after he died,—and that was not until both were past their youth,—there came to Aunt Flora a letter and a ring. She wears it on her wedding finger to this day.”
“And this 20th of September must have been the dayhedied,” said Olive.
“I believe so. But she never says a word, and never did.”
The two walked on silently. Olive was thinking of the long woe-wasted youth—the knowledge of love requited came too late—and then of her who after this great blow could gird up her strength and endure for nearly fifty years. Ay, so as to find in life not merely peace, but sweetness. Olive's own path looked less gloomy to the view. From the depths of her forlorn heart uprose a feeble-winged hope; it came and fluttered about her pale lips, bringing to them
The smile of one, God-satisfied; and earth-undone.
Marion turned round and saw it. “Cousin Olive, how very mild, and calm, and beautiful you look! Before you came, Aunt Flora told us she had heard you were 'like a dove.' I can understand that now. I think, if I were a man, I should fall in love with you.”
“With me; surely you forget! Oh no, Marion, not with me; that would be impossible!”
Marion coloured a little, but then earnestly continued, “I don't mean any one who was young and thoughtless, but some grave, wise man, who saw your soul in your face, and learned, slowly and quietly, to love you for your goodness. Ay, in spite of—of”——(here the frank, plain-speaking Marion again hesitated a little, but continued boldly) “any little imperfection which may make you fancy yourself different to other people. If that is your sole reason for saying, as you did the other day, that”——
“Nay, Marion, you have talked quite enough of me.”
“But you will forgive me! I could hate myself if I have pained you, seeing how much I love you, how much every one learns to love you.”
“Is it so? Then I am very happy!” And the smile sat long upon her face.
“Can you guess whither I am taking you?” said Marion, as they paused before a large and handsome gateway. “Here is the Roman Catholic convent—beautiful St. Margaret's, the sweetest spot at Morningside. Shall we enter?”
Olive assented. Of late she had often thought of those old tales of forlorn women, who, sick of life, had hidden themselves from the world in solitudes like this. Sometimes she had almost wished she could do the same. A feeling deeper than curiosity attracted her to the convent of St. Margaret's.
It was indeed a sweet place; one that a weary heart might well long after. The whole atmosphere was filled with a soft calm—a silence like death, and yet a freshness as of new-born life. When the heavy door closed, it seemed to shut out the world; and without any sense of regret or loss, you passed, like a passing soul, into another existence.
They entered the little convent-parlour. There, on the plain, ungamished walls, hung the two favourite pictures of Catholic worship; one, thorn-crowned, ensanguined, but still Divine; the other, the Mother lifted above all mothers in blessedness and suffering. Olive gazed long upon both. They seemed meet for the place. Looking at them, one felt as if all trivial earthly sorrows must crumble into dust before these two grand images of sublime woe.
“I think,” said Miss Rothesay, “if I were a nun, and had known ever so great misery, I should grow calm by looking at these pictures.”
“The nuns don't pass their time in that way I assure you,” answered Marion M'Gillivray. “They spend it in making such things as these.” And she pointed to a case of babyish ornaments, pin-cushions, and artificial flowers.
“How very strange,” said Olive, “to think that the interests and duties of a woman's life should sink down into such trifles as these. I wonder if the nuns are happy?”
“Stay and judge, for here comes one, my chief friend here, Sister Ignatia.” And Sister Ignatia—who was, despite her quaint dress, the most bright-eyed, cheerful-looking little Scotchwoman imaginable—stole in, kissed Marion on both cheeks, smiled a pleasant welcome on the stranger, and began talking in a manner so simple and hearty, that Olive's previous notions of a “nun” were cast to the winds. But, after a while, there seemed to her something painfully solemn in looking upon the sister's, where not one outward line marked the inward current which had run on for forty years—how, who could tell? All was silence now.
They went all over the convent. There was a still pureness pervading every room. Now and then a black-stoled figure crossed their way, and vanished like a ghost. Sister Ignatia chattered merrily about their work, their beautiful flowers, and their pupils of the convent school. Happy, very happy, she said they all were at St. Margaret's; but it seemed to Olive like the aimless, thoughtless happiness of a child. Still, when there came across her mind the remembrance of herself—a woman, all alone, struggling with the world, and with her own heart; looking forward to a life's toil for bread and for fame, with which she must try to quench one undying thirst—when she thus thought, she almost longed for such an existence as this quiet monotony, without pleasure and without pain.
“You must come and see our chapel, our beautiful chapel,” said Sister Ignatia. “We have got pictures of our St. Margaret and all her children.” And when they reached the spot—a gilded, decorated, flower-garden temple, she pointed out with great interest the various memorials of the sainted Scottish Queen.
Olive thought, though she did not then say, that noble Margaret, the mother of her people, the softener of her half-savage lord, the teacher and guide of her children, was more near the ideal of womanhood than the simple, kind-hearted, but childish worshippers, who spent their lives in the harmless baby-play of decking her shrine with flowers.
“Yet these are excellent women,” said Marion M'Gillivray, when, on their departure, Olive expressed her thoughts aloud. “You cannot imagine the good they do in their restricted way. But still, if one must lead a solitary life I would rather be Aunt Flora!”
“Yes, a thousand, thousand times! There is something far higher in a woman who goes about the world, keeping her heart consecrated to Heaven, and to some human memories; not shrinking from her appointed work, but doing it meekly and diligently, hour by hour through, life's long day; waiting until at eve God lifts the burden off, saying, 'Faithful handmaid, sleep!'”
Olive spoke softly, but earnestly. Marion did not quite understand her. But she thought everything Miss Rothesay said must be true and good, and was always pleased to watch her the while, declaring that whenever she talked thus her face became “like an angels.”
Miss Rothesay spent the evening very happily, though in the noisy household of the M'Gillivrays. She listened to the elder girls' music, and let the younger tribe of “wee toddling bairnies” climb on her knee and pull her curls. Finally, she began to think that some of these days there would be great pleasure in becoming an universal “Aunt Olive” to the rising generation.
She walked home, escorted valiantly by three stout boys, who guided her by a most circuitous route across Bruntsfield Links, that she might gain a moonlight view of the couchant lion of Arthur's Seat. They amused her the whole way home with tales of High-school warfare. On reaching the garden-gate she was half surprised to hear the unwonted cheerfulness of her own laugh. The sunshine she daily strove to cast around her was falling faintly back upon her own heart.
“Good-night, good-night, Allan, and Charlie, and James. We must have another merry walk soon,” was her gay adieu as the boys departed, leaving her in the garden-walk, where Mrs. Flora's tall hollyhocks cast a heavy shadow up to the hall-door.
“You seem very happy, Miss Rothesay.” The voice came from some one standing close by. The next instant her hand was taken in that of Harold Gwynne.
But the pressure was very cold. Olive's heart, which had leaped up within her, sank down heavily, so heavily, that her greeting was only the chilling words,
“I did not expect to see you here!”
“Possibly not; but I—I had business in Edinburgh. However, it will not, I think, detain me long.” He said this sharply even bitterly.
Olive, startled by the suddenness of this meeting, could make no answer, but as they stood beneath the lamp she glanced at the face, whose every change she knew so well. She saw that something troubled him. Forgetful of all besides, her heart turned to him in sympathy and tenderness.
“There is nothing wrong, surely! Tell me, are you quite well, quite happy? You do not know how glad I am to see you, my dear friend.”
And her hand alighted softly on his arm like a bird of peace. Harold pressed it and kept it there, as he often did; they were used to that kind of friendly familiarity.
“You are very good, Miss Rothesay. Yes, all is well at Harbury. Pray, be quite easy on that account But I thought, hearing how merry you were at the garden-gate, that amidst your pleasures here you scarcely remembered us at all.”
His somewhat vexed tone went to Olive's heart. But she only answered,
“You were not quite right there. I never forget my friends.”
“No, no! I ought to have known that. Forgive me; I speak rudely, unkindly; but I have so many things to embitter me just now. Let us go in, and you shall talk my ill-humour away, as you have done many a time.”
There was a repentant accent in his voice as he drew Olive's arm in his. And she—she looked, and spoke, and smiled, as she had long learned to do. In the little quiet face, the soft, subdued manner, was no trace of any passion or emotion.
“Have you seen Aunt Flora?” said Olive, as they stood together in the parlour.
“No. When I came she had already retired. I have only been here an hour. I passed that time in walking about the garden. Jean told me you would come in soon.”
“I would have come sooner had I known. How weary you must be after your journey! Come, take Aunt Flora's chair here, and rest.”
He did indeed seem to need rest. As he leaned back with closed eyes on the cushions she had placed, Olive stood and looked at him a moment. She thought, “Oh, that I were dead, and become an invisible spirit, that I might comfort and help him. But I shall never do it. Never in this world!”
She pressed back two burning tears, and then began to move about the room, arranging little household matters for his comfort. She had never done so before, and now the duties seemed sweet and homelike, like those of a sister, or—a wife. Once she thought thus—but she dared not think again. And Harold was watching her, too; following her—as she deemed—with the listless gaze of weariness. But soon he turned his face from her, and whatever was written thereon Olive read no more.
He was to stay that night, for Mrs. Flora's house was always his home in Edinburgh. But he seemed disinclined to talk. One or two questions Olive put about himself and his plans, but they seemed to increase his restlessness.
“I cannot tell; perhaps I shall go; perhaps not at all. We will talk the matter over to-morrow—that is, if you are still kind enough to listen.”
She smiled. “Little doubt of that, I think.”
“Thank you! And now I will say good-night,” observed Harold, rising.
Ere he went, however, he looked down curiously into Olive's face.
“You seem quite strong and well now, Miss Rothesay. You have been happy here?”
“Happy—oh, yes! quite happy.”
“I thought it would be so—I was right! Though still—But I am glad, very glad to hear it. Good-night.”
He shook her hand—an easy, careless shake; not the close, lingering clasp—how different they were! Then he went quickly up-stairs to his chamber.
But hour after hour sped; the darkness changed to dawn, the dawn to light, and still Olive lay sleepless. Her heart, stirred from its serenity, again swayed miserably to and fro. Vainly she argued with herself on her folly in giving way to these emotions; counting over, even in pitiful scorn, the years that she had past her youth.
“Three more, and I shall be a woman of thirty. Yet here I lie, drowning my pillow with tears, like a love-sick girl. Oh that this trouble had visited me long ago, that I might have risen up from it like the young grass after rain! But now it falls on me like an autumn storm—it tears me, it crushes me; I shall never, never rise.”
When it was broad daylight, she roused herself, bathed her brow in water, shut out the sunbeams from her hot, aching eyes, and then lay down again and slept.
Sleeping, she dreamed that she was walking with Harold Gwynne, hand-in-hand, as if they were little children. Suddenly he took her in his arms, clasping her close as a lover his betrothed; and in so doing pressed a bright steel into her heart. Yet it was such sweet death, that, waking, she would fain have wished it true.
But she lifted her head, saw the sunlight dancing on the floor, and knew that the morning was come—that she must rise once more to renew her life's bitter strife.
Olive dressed herself carefully in her delicate-coloured morning-gown. She was one of those women who take pains to appear freshest and fairest in the early hours of the day; to greet the sun as the flowers greet him—rich “in the dew of youth.” Despite her weary vigil, the balmy morning brought colour to her cheek and a faint sweetness to her heart. It was a new and pleasant thing to wake beneath the same roof as Harold Gwynne; to know that his face would meet her when she descended—that she would walk and talk with him the whole day long.
Never did any woman think less of herself than Olive Rothesay. Yet as she stood twisting up her beautiful hair, she felt glad that itwasbeautiful. Once she thought of what Marion had told her about some one saying she was “like a dove.” Who said it? Not Harold—that was impossible. Arranging her dress, she looked a moment, with half-mournful curiosity, at the pale, small face reflected in the mirror.
“Ah, no! There is no beauty in me. Even did he care for me, I could give him nothing but my poor heart. I can give him that still. It can do him no harm to love him—the very act of loving is blessedness to me.”
So thinking, she left her chamber.
It was long before the old lady's time for rising. There was no one in the breakfast-room, but she saw Harold walking on the garden terrace. Very soon he came in with some heliotrope in his hand. He did not give it to Olive, but laid it by her plate, observing, half-carelessly,
“You were always fond of heliotropes, Miss Rothesay.”
“Thank you for remembering my likings;” and Olive put the flowers in her bosom. She fancied he looked pleased; and suddenly she remembered the meaning given to the flower, “I love you!” At the thought, she began to tremble all over, though contemning her own folly the while. Even had the words been true, she and Harold were both too old for such sentimentalities.
They breakfasted alone. Harold still looked pale and weary, nor did he deny the fact that he had scarcely slept. He told her all the Harbury news, but spoke little of himself or of his plans. “They were yet uncertain,” he said, “but a few more days would decide all.” And then he remained silent until, a little time after, they were standing together at the window. From thence it was a pleasant view. Close beneath, a little fountain rose in slender diamond threads, and fell again with a soft trickling, like a Naiad's sigh. Bees were humming over the richest of autumn flower-gardens, which sloped down, terrace after terrace, until its boundary was hid in the little valley below. Beyond—looking in the clear September air so close that you could almost see the purple of the heather—lay the Braid Hills, a horizon-line soft as that which enclosed the Happy Valley of Prince Rasselas.
Harold stood and gazed.
“How beautiful and calm this is! It looks like a quiet nest—ahomefor a man's tired heart and brain. Tell me, friend, do you think one could ever find such in this world?”
“A home!” she repeated, somewhat confusedly, for his voice had startled her.—“You have often said that man needed none; that his life was in himself—the life of intellect and of power. It is only we women who have a longing after rest and home.”
Harold made no immediate reply; but after a while he said,
“I want to have a quiet talk with you, Miss Rothesay. And I long to see once more my favourite haunt, the Hermitage of Braid. 'Tis a sweet place, and we can walk and converse there at our leisure. You will come?”
She rarely said him nay in anything, and he somehow unconsciously used a tone of command, like an elder brother;—but there was such sweetness in being ruled by him! Olive obeyed at once; and soon, for the thousandth time, she and Harold were walking out together arm-in-arm.
If ever there was a “lover's walk,” it is that which winds along the burn-side in the Hermitage of Braid. On either side
The braes ascend like lofty wa's,
shutting out all but the small blue rift of sky above. Even the sun seems slow to peep in, as if his brightness were not needed by those who walk in the light of their own hearts. And the little birds warble and the little burnie runs, as if neither knew there was a weary world outside, where many a heart, pure as either, grows dumb amidst its singing, and freezes slowly as it flows.
Olive walked along by Harold's side in a happy dream. He looked so cheerful, so “good”—a word she had often used, and he had smiled at—meaning those times when, beneath her influence, the bitterness melted from him. Such times there were—else she could never have learned to love him as she did. Then, as now, his eyes were wont to lighten, and his lips to smile, and there came an almost angelic beauty over his face.
“I think,” he said, “that my spirit is changing within me. I feel as if I had never known life until now. In vain I say unto myself that this must be a mere fantasy of mine; I, who am marked with the 'frost of eild,' who will soon be—let me see—seven-and-thirty years old. What think you of that age?”
His eyes, bent on her, spoke more than mere curiosity; but Olive, unaware, looked up and smiled.
“Why, I am getting elderly myself; but I heed it not. One need mind nothing if one's heart does not grow old.”
“Does yours?”
“I hope not. I would like to lead a life like Aunt Flora's—a quiet stream that goes on singing to the end.”
“Look me in the face, Olive Rothesay,” said Harold, abruptly. “Nay—pardon me, but I speak like one athirst, who would fain know if any other human thirst is ever satisfied. Tell me, do you look back on your life with content, and forward with hope? Are you happy?”
Olive's eyes sank on the ground.
“Do not question me so.” she said trembling. “In life there is nothing perfect; but I have peace, great peace. And for you there might be not only peace, but happiness.”
Again there fell between them one of those pauses which rarely come save between two friends or lovers, who know thoroughly—in words or in silence—each other's hearts. Then Harold, guiding the conversation as he always did, changed it suddenly.
“I am thinking of the last time I walked here—when I came to Edinburgh this summer. There was with me one whom I regarded highly, and we talked—as gravely as you and I do now, though on a far different theme.”
“What was it?”
“One suited to the season and the place, and my friend's ardent youth. He was in love, poor fellow, and he asked me about his wooing. Perhaps you may think he chose an adviser ill fitted to the task?”
Harold spoke carelessly—and waiting Olive's reply, he pulled a handful of red-brown leaves from a tree that overhung the path, and began playing with them.
“You do not answer, Miss Rothesay. Come, there is scarcely a subject that we have not discussed at some time or other, save this. Let us, just for amusement, take my friend's melancholy case as a text, and argue concerning what young people call 'love.'”
“As you will.”
“A cold acquiescence. You think, perhaps, the matter is either above or beneathme—that I can have no interest therein?” And his eyes, bright, piercing, commanding, seemed to force an answer.
It came, very quietly and coldly.
“I have heard you say that love was the brief madness of a man's life; if fulfilled, a burden—if unfulfilled or deceived, a curse.”
“I said so, did I? Well, you give my opinions—what think youof me? Answer truly—like a friend.”
She did so. She never could look in Harold's eyes and tell him what was not true.
“I think you are one of those men in whom strong intellect prevents the need of love. Youthful passion you may have felt; but true, deep, earnest love you never did know, and, as I believe, never will! Nay, forgive me if I err; I only take you on your own showing.”
“Thank you, thank you! You speak honestly and frankly—that is something for a woman,” muttered Harold; and then there was a long, awkward pause. How one poor heart ached the while!
At last, fearing that her silence annoyed him, Olive took courage to say, “You were going to talk to me about your plans. Do so now; that is, if you are not angry with me,” she added, with a little deprecatory soothing.
It seemed to touch him. “Angry! How could you think so? I am never angry with you. But what do you desire to hear about? Whither I am going, and when? Do you, then, wish—I mean, advise me to go?”
“Yes, if it is for your good. If leaving Harbury would give you rest on that one subject of which we never speak.”
“But of which I, at least, think night and day, and never without a prayer—(I can pray now)—for the good angel who brought light into my darkness,” said Harold, solemnly. “That comfort is with me, whatever else may—But you wanted to hear about my going abroad?”
“Yes, tell me all. You know I like to hear.”
“Well, then, I have only to decide, and I might depart immediately; to America, I think. I should engage in science and literature. Mine would be a safe, sure course; but, at the beginning, I might have a hard struggle. I do not like to take any one to share it.”
“Not your mother, who loves you so?”
“No, because her love would be sorely tried. We should be strangers in a strange land; perhaps poverty would be added to our endurance; I should have to labour unceasingly, and my temper might fail. These are hard things for a woman to bear.”
“You do not know what a woman's affection is!” said Olive earnestly. “How could she be desolate when she had you with her! Little would she care for being poor! And if, when sorely tried, you were bitter at times, the more need for her to soothe you. We can bear all things for those we love.”
“Is it so?” Harold said, thoughtfully, his countenance changing, and his voice becoming soft as he looked upon her. “Do you think that any woman—I mean my mother, of course—would lovemewith this love?”
And once more Olive taught herself to answer calmly, “I do think so.”
Again there was a silence. Harold broke it by saying, “You would smile to know how childishly my last walk here haunts me; I really must go and see that love-stricken friend of mine. But you, I suppose, take no interest in his wooing?”
“O yes! I like to hear of young people's happiness.”
“But he was not quite happy. He did not know whether the woman he loved loved him. He had never asked her the question.”
“Why not?”
“There were several reasons. First, because he was a proud man, and, like many others, had been deceivedonce. He would not again let a girl mock his peace. And he was right. Do you not think so?”
“Yes, if she were one who would act so cruelly. But no true woman ever mocked at true love. Rarely,knowingly, would she give cause for it to be cast before her in vain. If your friend be worthy, how knows he but that she may love him all the while?”
“Well, well, let that pass. He has other reasons.” He paused and looked towards her, but Olive's face was drooped out of sight. He continued,—“Reasons such as men only feel. You know not what an awful thing it is to cast one's pride, one's hope—perhaps the weal or woe of one's whole life—upon a woman's light 'Yes' or 'No.' I speak,” he added, abruptly, “as my friend, the youth in love, would speak.”
“Yes, I know—I understand. Tell me more. That is, if I may hear.”
“Oh, certainly. His other reasons were,—that he was poor; that, if betrothed, it might be years before they could marry; or, perhaps, as his health was feeble, he might die, and never call her wife at all. Therefore, though he loved her as dearly as ever man loved woman, he held it right, and good, and just, to keep silence.”
“Did he imagine, even in his lightest thought, that she loved him?”
“He could not tell. Sometimes it almost seemed so.”
“Then he was wrong—cruelly wrong! He thought of his own pride, not ofher. Little he knew the long, silent agony she must bear—the doubt of being loved causing shame for loving. Little he saw of the daily struggle: the poor heart frozen sometimes into dull endurance, and then wakened into miserable throbbing life by the shining of some hope, which passes and leaves it darker and colder than before. Poor thing! Poor thing!”
And utterly forgetting herself, forgetting all but the compassion learnt from sorrow, Olive spoke with strong agitation.
Harold watched her intently. “Your words are sympathising and kind. Say on! What should he, this lover, do?”
“Let him tell her that he loves her—let him save her from the misery that wears away youth, and strength, and hope.”
“What! and bind her by a promise which it may take years to fulfil?”
“If he has won her heart, she is already bound. It is mockery to talk as the world talks, of the sense of honour that leaves a woman 'free.' She is not free. She is as much bound as if she were married to him. Tell him so! Bid him take her to his heart, that, come what will, she may feel she has a place there. Let him not insult her by the doubt that she dreads poverty or long delay. If she loves him truly, she will wait years, a whole lifetime, until he claim her. If he labour, she will strengthen him; if he suffer, she will comfort him; in the world's fierce battle, her faithfulness will be to him rest, and help, and balm.”
“But,” said Harold, his voice hoarse and trembling, “what if they should live on thus for years, and never marry? What if he should die?”
“Die!”
“Yes. If so, far better that he should never have spoken—that his secret should go down with him to the grave.”
“What, you mean that he should die, and she never know that he loved her! O Heaven! what misery could equal that!”
As Olive spoke, the tears sprang into her eyes, and, utterly subdued, she stood still and let them flow.
Harold, too, seemed strangely moved, but only for a moment. Then he said, very softly and quietly, “Miss Rothesay, you speak like one who feels every word. These are things we learn in but one school. Tell me—as a friend, who night and day prays for your happiness—are you not speaking from your own heart? You love, or you have loved?”
For a moment Olive's senses seemed to reel. But his eyes were upon her—those truthful, truth-searching eyes.
“Must I look in his face and tell him a lie?” was her half-frenzied thought. “I cannot, I cannot! And the whole truth he will never, never know.”
Dropping her head, she answered, in one word—“Yes!”
“And, with a woman like you, to love once is to love for evermore?”
Again Olive bent her head, and that was all. There was a sound as of crushed leaves, and those with which Harold had been playing fell scattered on the ground. He gave no other sign of emotion or sympathy.
For many minutes they walked on slowly, the little laughing brook beside them seeming to rise like a thunder-voice upon the dead silence. Olive listened to every ripple, that fell as it were like the boom of an engulphing wave. Nothing else she heard, or felt, or thought, until Harold spoke.
His tone was soft and very kind, and he took her hand the while. “I thank you for this confidence. You must forgive me if I did wrong in asking it. Henceforth I shall ask no more. If your life be happy, as I pray God it may, you will have no need of me. If not, hold me ever to your service as a true friend and brother.”
She stooped, she leaned her brow upon the two clasped hands—her own and his—and wept as if her heart were breaking.
But very soon all this ceased, and she felt a calmness like death. Upon it broke Harold's cold, clear voice—as cold and clear as ever.
“Once more, let me tell you all I owe you—friendship, counsel, patience,—for I have tried your patience much. I pray you pardon me! From you I have learned to have faith in Heaven, peace towards man, reverence for women. Your friendship has blessed me—may God bless you.”
His words ceased, somewhat tremulously; and she felt, for the first time, Harold's lips touch her hand.
Quietly and mutely they walked home; quietly and mutely, nay, even coldly, they parted. The time had come and passed; and between their two hearts now rose the silence of an existence.