He carried to his brow her hand--the hand which had led him when a boy, which in his fantastic dream of youth he had many a time kissed; even now, when the pulses were grown leaden with age, it felt cool, calm, like the touch of some pitying and protecting angel.
Alison Gwynne said gently, "My friend, you say truly all is not well with you. Let us put aside all business, and walk in the garden. Come!"
Captain Rothesay lingered at Harbury yet one day more. But he could not stay longer, for this important business-venture made him restless.
Besides, Harold"s wedding was near at hand: in less than a week the mother would be sole regent of her son"s home no more. No wonder that this made her grave and anxious--so that even her old friend"s presence was a slight restraint Yet she bade him adieu with her own cordial sincerity. He began to pour out thanks for all kindness--especially the one kindness of all, adding--
"But I will say no more. You shall see or hear from me in a few days at farthest."
"Not until after the wedding--I can think of nothing till after the wedding," answered Mrs. Gwynne. "Now, farewell, friend! but not for another thirty years, I trust!"
"No, no!" cried Angus, warmly. He looked at her as she sat by the light of her own hearth--life"s trials conquered--life"s duties fulfilled--and she appeared not less divine a creature than the Alison Balfour who had trod the mountains full of joy, and hope, and energy. Holy and beautiful she had seemed to him in her youth; and though every relic of that pa.s.sionate idealisation he once called love, was gone, still holy and beautiful she seemed to him in her age.
Angus Rothesay rode away from Harbury parsonage, feeling that there he had gained a new interest to make life and life"s duties more sacred.
He thought with tenderness of his home--of his wife, and of his "little Olive;" and then, travelling by a rather circuitous route, his thoughts rested on Harold Gwynne.
"The kind-hearted, generous fellow! I will take care he is requited double. And to-morrow, before even I reach Oldchurch, I will go to my lawyer"s and make all safe on his account."
"To-morrow!" He remembered not the warning, "Boast not thyself of to-morrow."
CHAPTER XVII.
Olive sat mournfully contemplating Sara Derwent"s last letter--the last she knew it would be. It was written, not with the frank simplicity of their girlish confidence, but with the formal dignity of one who the next day would become a bride. It spoke of no regret, no remorse for her violated troth; it mentioned her former promise in a cold, business-like manner, without inferring any changed love, but merely stating her friends" opinion on the "evil of long engagements, and that she would be much better married at once to Mr. Gwynne, than waiting some ten years for Charles Geddes."
But to Olive this change seemed a positive sin. She shuddered to think of Sara"s wicked faithlessness; she wept with pity, remembering poor Charles. The sense of wrong, as well as of misery, had entered her world at once; her idols were crumbling into dust. Life grew painful, and a morbid bitterness was settling on her mind.
She read the account that Sara had somewhat boastfully written, of her prospects, her pretty home, and of her lover"s devotion to her. "This clever man--this n.o.ble man (as people call him, and most of all his mother)--I could wind him round my little finger. What think you, Olive?
Is not that something to be married for? You ask if I am happy. Yes, certainly, happier than you can imagine."
"That is true, indeed," murmured Olive; and there came upon her a bitter sense of the inequalities of life. It seemed that Heaven to some gave all things; to others, nothing! But she hushed the complainings, for they seemed impious. Upon her was the influence of the faith she had been taught by Elspie, which though in the old Scotswoman it became all the mystic horrors of Calvinism, yet in Olive"s gentler and higher nature, had worked out blessing instead of harm. For it was a faith that taught the peace of resting child-like beneath the shadow of that Omnipotent Will, which holds every tangled thread of fate within one mighty Hand, which rules all things, and rules them continually for good.
While thinking thus, Olive was sitting in her "bower." It was a garden-seat, placed under the thorn-tree, and shut out from sight of the house by an espalier of apple-trees. Not very romantic, certainly, but a most pleasant spot, with the sound of the "shallow river" gliding by, and of many a bird that "sang madrigals" in the meadows opposite.
And Olive herself, as she sat with her hands crossed on her knee, her bending head and pensive eyes out-gazing, added no little to the scene.
Many a beauty might have coveted the meek yet heavenly look which threw sweetness over the pale features of the deformed girl.
Olive, sitting with her eyes cast down, was some time before she became conscious that she was watched--long and earnestly, but by an innocent watcher--her "little knight" as he had dubbed himself, Lyle Derwent. His face looked out from the ivy-leaves at the top of the wall. Soon he had leaped down, and was kneeling at her feet, just like a young lover in a romance. Smiling, she told him so; for in truth she made a great pet of the child, whose delicate beauty pleased her artist-eye, while his gentleness won her affection.
"Well, and I will be your lover, Miss Olive," said he, stoutly; "for I love you very much indeed. I should so like to kiss you--may I?"
She stooped down; moved almost to tears.
"Why are you always so sad? why do you never laugh, like Sara or the other young ladies we know?"
"Because I am not like Sara, or like any other girl. Ah! Lyle, all is very different with me. But, my little knight, this can scarcely be understood by one so young as you."
"Though I am a little boy, I know thus much, that I love you, and think you more beautiful than anybody else in the world."
And speaking rather loudly and energetically, he was answered by a burst of derisive laughter from behind the wall.
Olive crimsoned; it was one more of those pa.s.sing wounds which her sensitive nature now continually received. Was even a child"s love for her deemed so unnatural, and that it should be mocked at thus cruelly?
Lyle, with a quickness beyond his years, seemed to have divined her thoughts, and his gentle temper was roused into pa.s.sion.
"I will kill Bob, I will! Never mind him, sweet, dear, beautiful Miss Rothesay; I love you, and I hate him."
"Hush! Lyle, hush! that is wrong." And then she was silent. The little boy stood by her side, his face still burning with indignation.
Soon Olive"s trouble subsided. She whispered to herself, "It must be always thus--I will try to bear it," and then she became composed. She bade her little friend adieu, telling him she was going back into the house.
"But you will forgive all, you will not think of anything that would grieve you?" said Lyle, hesitatingly.
Olive promised, with a patient smile.
"And to prove this, will you kiss your little knight once again?"
Her soft drooping hair swept his cheek; her lips touched his. Lyle Derwent never forgot this kiss of Olive Rothesay"s.
The young girl entered the house. Within it was the quiet of a Sunday afternoon. Her mother had gone to a distant church, and there was none left "to keep house," save one of the maids and the old grey cat, that dosed on the window-sill in the sunshine. The cat was a great pet of Olive"s; and the moment it saw its young mistress, it was purring round her feet, following her from room to room, never resting until she took it up in her arms. The love even of a dumb animal touched her then. She sat down on her own little low chair, spread on her lap the smooth white ap.r.o.n which Miss p.u.s.s.y loved--and so she leaned back, soothed by the monotonous song of her purring favourite, and thinking that there was at least one living creature who loved her, and whom she could make perfectly happy.
She sat at the open window, seeing only the high, green privet hedge that enclosed the front garden, the little wicket-gate, and the blue sky beyond. How still everything was! By degrees the footsteps of a few late church-goers vanished along the road; the bells ceased--first the quick, sharp clang of the new church, and then the musical peal that rang out from the grey Norman tower. There never were such bells as those of Oldchurch! But they melted away in silence; and then the dreamy quietness of the hour stole over Olive"s sense.
She thought of many things--things which might have been sad, but for the slumberous peace that took away all pain. It was just the hour when she once used to sit on the floor, leaning against Elspie"s knees, generally reading aloud in the Book which alone the nurse permitted on Sundays. Now and then--once in particular she remembered--old Elspie fell asleep; and then Olive turned to her favourite study, the Book of Revelations. Childlike she terrified herself over the mysterious prophecies of the latter days, until at last she forgot the gloom and horror, in reading of the "beautiful city, New Jerusalem."
She seemed to see it--its twelve gates, angel-guarded, its crystal river, its many-fruited tree--the Tree of Life. Her young but glowing fancy created out of these marvels a visible material paradise. She knew not that Heaven is only the continual presence of the Eternal. Yet she was happy, and in her dreams she never pictured the land beyond the grave but there came back to her, as though the nearest foreshadowing of it, the visions of that Sunday afternoon.
She sat a long time thinking of them, and of herself--how much older she felt since then, and how many troubles she had pa.s.sed through. Troubles!
Poor child!--how little knew she those of the world! But even her own small burthen seemed lightened now. She leaned her head against the window, listening to the bees humming in the garden--bees, daring Sunday workers, and even they seemed to toil with a kind of Sabbatic solemnity.
And then, turning her face upwards, Olive watched many a fair white b.u.t.terfly, that, having flitted awhile among the flowers, spread its wings and rose far into the air, like a pure soul weary of earth, and floating heavenward. How she wished that she could do likewise; and leaving earth behind--its flowers as well as weeds, its sunshine as its storm--soar into another and a higher existence!
Not yet, Olive--not yet! None receive the guerdon, save those who have won the goal!
A pause in the girl"s reverie--caused by a light sound that broke the perfect quietness around. She listened; it was the rumbling of carriage wheels along the road--a rare circ.u.mstance; for the people of Oldchurch, if not individually devout, lived in a devout atmosphere, which made pleasure-drives on the day of rest not "respectable."
A momentary hope struck Olive that it might be her father returning home. But he was a strict man; he never travelled on Sundays.
Nevertheless, Olive listened mechanically to the wheels: they dashed rapidly on--came near--stopped. Yes, it must be her father.
She flew to the hall door to welcome him. There stood, not her father, but a little hard-featured old man, Mr. Wyld, the family lawyer. Olive drew back, sorely disappointed; for if in her gentle heart lingered one positive aversion, it was felt towards this man--partly on his own account, partly because his appearance seemed always the forewarning of evil in the little household. He never came but at his departure Captain Rothesay wore a frowning brow, and indulged in a hasty temper for days and days. No marvel was there in Olive"s dislike; yet she regretted having shown it.
"Mr. Wyld, I thought it was my father. I am sorry that he is not at home to receive you."
"Nay,--I did not come to see Captain Rothesay," answered the lawyer, betraying some confusion and hesitation beneath his usual smooth manner.
"The fact is, my dear young lady, I bring a letter for your mother."
"From papa?" cried Olive, eagerly.
"No, not exactly; that is--. But can I see Mrs. Rothesay?"
"She is at church. She will be at home in half-an-hour, probably. Will you wait?"