"I am so glad; because then, dear papa, you know you need not be so much away from home, or weary yourself with the speculations you told me of; but come and live quietly with us."
Her father laughed loudly. "Foolish little girl! your notion of quietness would not suit a man like me. Take my word for it, Olive, home serves as a fantastic dream till five-and-twenty, and then means nothing at all. A man"s home is the world."
"Is it?"
"Ay, as I intend to show to you. By-the-by, I shall give up this stupid place, and enter into society. Your mother will like it, of course; and you, as my only child--eh, what did I say?" here he stopped hastily with a blank, frightened look--then repeated, "Yes, you, my only child, will be properly introduced to the world. Why, you will be quite an heiress, my girl," continued he, with an excited jocularity that frightened Olive. "And the world always courts such; who knows but that you may marry in spite of"----
"Oh, no--never!" interrupted Olive, turning away with bitter pain.
"Come, don"t mind it," continued her father, with a reckless indifference to her feelings, quite unusual to him. "Why--my little sensible girl--you are better than any beauty in England; beauties are all fools, or worse."
And he laughed so loud, so long, that Olive was seized with a great horror, that absorbed even her own individual suffering. Was her father mad? Alas! there is a madness worse than disease, a voluntary madness, by which a man--longing at any price for excitement, or oblivion--"puts an enemy into his mouth to steal away his brains." This was the foe--the stealthy-footed demon, that had at last come to overmaster the brave and n.o.ble Angus Rothesay. As yet it ruled him not--he was no sot; but his daughter saw enough to know that the fiend was nigh upon him--that this night he was even in its grasp.
It is only the n.o.blest kind of affection that can separate the sinner from the sin, and even while condemning, pity. Fallen as he was, Olive Rothesay looked on her father mournfully--intreatingly. She could not speak.
He seemed annoyed, and slightly confounded. "Come, simpleton, why do you stare at me?--there is nothing the matter. Go away to bed."
Olive did not move.
"Make haste--what are you waiting for? Nay, stay; "tis a cold night--just leave out the keys of the sideboard, will you, there"s a good little housekeeper," he said, coaxingly.
Olive turned away in disgust, but only for a moment. "In case you should want anything, let me stay a little longer, papa; I am not tired, and I have some work to do--suppose I go and fetch it."
She went into the inner room, slowly, quietly; and when safe out of sight, burst into tears of such shame and terror as she had never before known. Then she sat down to think. Her father thus; her mother feeble in mind or body; no one in the wide world to trust to but herself; no one to go to for comfort and counsel--none, save Heaven! She sank on her knees and prayed. As she rose, the angel in the daughter"s soul was stronger than the demon in her father"s.
Olive waited a little, and then walked softly into the other room. Some brandy, left on the sideboard, had attracted Captain Rothesay"s sight.
He had reached it stealthily, as if the act still conveyed to his dulled brain a consciousness of degradation. Once he looked round suspiciously; alas, the father dreaded his daughter"s eye! Then stealthily standing with his face to the fire, he began to drink the tempting poison.
It was taken out of his hand! So noiseless was Olive"s step, so gentle her movement, that he stood dumb, astonished, as though in the presence of some apparition. And, in truth, the girl looked like a spirit; for her face was very white, and her parted lips seemed as though they never had uttered, and never could utter, one living sound.
Father and daughter stood for some moments thus gazing at each other; and then Captain Rothesay threw himself into his chair, with a forced laugh.
"What"s the matter, little fool? Cannot your father take care of himself? Give me the brandy again."
But she held it fast, and made no answer.
"Olive, I say--do you insult me thus?" and his voice rose in anger. "Go to bed, I command you! Will you not?"
"No!" The refusal was spoken softly--very softly--but it expressed indomitable firmness; and there was something in the girl"s resolute spirit, before which that of the man quailed. With a sudden transition, which showed that the drink had already somewhat overpowered his brain, he melted into complaints.
"You are very rude to your poor father; you--almost the only comfort he has left!"
This touch even of maudlin sentiment went direct to Olive"s heart. She clung to him, kissed him, begged his forgiveness, nay, even wept over him. He ceased to rage, and sat in a sullen silence for many minutes.
Meanwhile Olive took away every temptation from his sight. Then she roused him gently.
"Now, papa, it is time to go to bed. Pray, come upstairs."
He--the calm, gentlemanlike, Captain Rothesay--burst into a storm of pa.s.sion that would have disgraced a boor. "How dare you order me about in this manner! Cannot I do as I like, without being controlled by you--a mere chit of a girl--a very child?"
"I know I am only a child," answered Olive, meekly. "Do not be angry with me, papa; do not speak unkindly to your poor little daughter."
"My daughter! how dare you call yourself so, you white-faced, mean-looking hunchback!"----
At the word, Olive recoiled--a strong shudder ran through her frame; one long, sobbing sigh, and no more.
Her father, shocked, and a little sobered, paused in his cruel speech.
For minutes they remained--he leaning back with a stupefied air--she standing before him; her face drooped, and covered with her hands.
"Olive!" he muttered, in a repentant, humbled tone.
"Yes, papa."
"I am quite ready. If you like, I"ll go to bed now."
Without speaking, she lighted him up-stairs--nay, led him, for, to his bitter shame, the guidance was not un-needed. When she left him, he had the grace to whisper--
"Child, you are not vexed about anything I said?"
She looked sorrowfully into his hot fevered face, and stroked his arm.
"No--no--not vexed at all! You could not help it, poor father!"
She heard her mother"s feeble voice speaking to him as he entered, and saw his door close. Long she watched there, until beneath it she perceived not one glimmer of light. Then she crept away, only murmuring to herself--
"O G.o.d! teach me to endure!"
CHAPTER XIV.
"What is the matter with the child to-day?" said Captain Rothesay to his wife, with whom, oh rare circ.u.mstance! he was sitting _tete-a-tete_.
But this, and a few other alterations for the better had taken place in consequence of his longer stay at home than usual, during which an unseen influence had been busily at work. Poor Olive! Was it not well for her, that, to temper the first shock of her bitter destiny, there should arise, in the dreary blank of the future, duties so holy, that they stood almost in the place of joys?
"How dull the girl seems!" again observed Captain Rothesay, looking after his daughter, with a tenderness of which he afterwards appeared rather ashamed.
"Dull, is she?" said the mother; "oh, very likely poor child! She is grieving to lose her chief friend and companion, Miss Derwent. News came to her this morning that Sara is about to be married."
"Oh, indeed!" and Captain Rothesay made an attempt at departure. He hated gossiping, even of the most harmless kind. But his wife, pleased that he condescended to talk to her at all, tried to amuse him in her own easy way.
"Poor Sara! I am glad that she is going to have a home of her own--though she is young enough to marry. But I believe it was a very sudden affair; and the gentleman fell so desperately in love with her."
"More fool he!" muttered Captain Rothesay.
"Nay, he is not a fool at all; he is a very sensible, clever man, and a clergyman too; Miss Derwent said so in her brief note to Olive. But she did not mention where he lived; little indeed she told, but that his name was Gwynne"----
Captain Rothesay turned round quickly.
--"And Sara speaks of his mother being a stiff old Scotswoman. Ah, you are listening now, my dear. Let me see, I think Miss Derwent mentions her maiden name. The silly girl makes quite a boast of her lover"s ancient family, on the maternal side."