He shook his head.
"Nay, there is nothing wrong?"
"Don"t alarm yourself, my dear."
Olive shrank from the touch of his hand, as he led her into the parlour.
"Your papa is at my house. But I think, Miss Rothesay, as your mother is not at home, you had better read the letter yourself."
She took it. Slowly, silently, she read it through, twice; for the words seemed to dazzle and blaze before her eyes. Then she looked up helplessly. "I--I cannot understand."
"I thought the doctor wrote plainly enough, and broke the matter cautiously, too," muttered Mr. Wyld; adding aloud, "Upon my honour, my dear, I a.s.sure you your father is alive."
"Alive! Oh, my poor father!" And then she sank down slowly where she stood, as if pressed by some heavy, invisible hand. Mr. Wyld thought she had fainted; but it was not so. In another moment she stood before him, nerved by this great woe to a firmness which was awful in its rigid composure.
"I can listen now. Tell me everything!"
He told her in a few words how Captain Rothesay had come to his house the night before; and, while waiting his return, had taken up the newspaper. "Suddenly, my clerk said, he let it fall with a cry, and was immediately seized with the fit from which he has not yet recovered.
There is hope, the doctor thinks; but, in case of the worst, you must come to him at once."
"Yes, yes, at once!" She rose and walked to the door, guiding herself by the wall.
"Nay, Miss Rothesay, what are you doing? You forget we cannot go without your mother."
"My mother! O, Heaven! it will kill my mother!"
And the thought brought tears, the first that had burst from her. It was well.
She recovered to consciousness and strength. In this great crisis there came to her the wisdom and forethought that lay dormant in her nature.
She became a woman--one of those of whom the world contains few--at once gentle and strong, meek and fearless, patient to endure, heroic to act.
She sat down for a moment and considered. "Fourteen miles it is to B----. If we start in an hour we shall reach there by sunset." Then she summoned the maid, and said, speaking steadily, that she might by no sign betray what might in turn be betrayed to her mother--
"You must go and meet mamma as she comes from church; or, if not, go into the church to her. Tell her there is a message come from papa, and ask her to hasten home. Make haste yourself. I will keep house the while."
The woman left the room, murmuring a little, but never thinking to disobey her young mistress, so sudden, so constraining, was the dignity which had come upon the girl. Even Mr. Wyld felt it, and his manner changed from condolence to respect.
"What can I do, Miss Rothesay? You turn from me. No wonder, when I have had the misfortune to be the bearer of such evil tidings."
"Hush!" she said. Mechanically she set wine before him. He drank talking between the draughts, of his deep sorrow, and earnest hope that no serious evil would befall his good friend, Captain Rothesay.
Olive could endure no more. She fled away, shut herself up in her own room, and fell on her knees! but no words came, save the bitter cry, "O G.o.d, have pity on us!" And there was no time, not even to pray, except within her heart.
She pressed her hands on her brow, and once more thought what she had to do. At that moment, through the quietness of the house, she heard the clock striking four. Never had time"s pa.s.sing seemed so awful. The day was fleeting on whose every moment perhaps hung a life.
Something she must do, or her senses would have failed. She thought of little things that might be needed when they reached her father; went into Mrs. Rothesay"s room, and put up some clothes and necessaries, in case they stayed more than one day at B----; a large, warm shawl, too, for her mother might have to sit up all night. In these trifling arrangements what a horrible reality there was? And yet she scarcely felt it--she was half-stunned still.
It was past four--and Mrs. Rothesay had not come. Every minute seemed an eternity. Olive walked to the window and looked out. There was the same cheerful sunshine--the bees humming, and the b.u.t.terflies flitting about, in the sweet stillness of the Sabbath afternoon, as she had watched them an hour ago. One little hour, to have brought into her world such utter misery!
She thought of it all, dwelling vividly on every accompaniment of woe--even as she remembered to have done when she first learned that Elspie would die. She pictured her mother"s coming home; and almost fancied she could see her now, walking across the fields. But no; it was some one in a white dress, strolling by the hedgerow"s side; and Mrs.
Rothesay that day wore blue--her favourite pale blue muslin in which she looked so lovely. She had gone out, laughing at her daughter for saying this. What if Olive should never see her in that pretty dress again!
All these fancies, and more, clung to the girl"s mind with a horrible pertinacity. And then, through the silence, she heard the Oldchurch bells awaking again, in the dull minute-peal which told that service-time was ended, and the afternoon funerals were taking place.
Olive, shuddering, closed her ears against the sound, and then, gazing out once more, she saw her mother stand at the gate. Mrs. Rothesay looked up at the window and smiled.
Olive had never thought of that worst pang of all--how she should break the news to her mother--her timid, delicate mother, whose feeble frame quivered beneath the lightest breath of suffering. Scarcely knowing what she did, she flew down stairs.
"Not there, mamma, not there!" she cried, as Mrs. Rothesay was about to enter the parlour. Olive drew her into another room, and made her sit down.
"What is all this, my dear!--why do you look so strange! Is not your papa come home? Let us go to him."
"We will, we will! But mamma!"--One moment she looked speechlessly in Mrs. Rothesay"s face, and then fell on her neck, crying, "I can"t, I can"t keep it from you any longer. Oh, mother, mother! there is great trouble come upon us; we must be patient; we must bear it together. G.o.d will help us."
"Olive!" The shrill terror of Mrs. Rothesay"s voice rung through the room.
"Hush! we must be quiet, very quiet. Papa is dangerously ill at B----, and we must start at once. I have arranged all. Come, mamma, dearest!"
But her mother had fainted.
There was no time to lose. Olive s.n.a.t.c.hed some restoratives, and then made ready to depart. Mrs. Rothesay, still insensible, was lifted into the carriage. She lay there, for some time, quite motionless, supported in her daughter"s arms--to which never had she owed support before. As Olive looked down upon her, strange, new feelings came into the girl"s heart. Filial tenderness seemed trans.m.u.ted into a devotion pa.s.sing the love of child to mother, and mingled therewith was a sense of protection, of watchful guardianship.
She thought, "What if my father should die, and we two should be left alone in the world! Then she will have none to look to save me, and I will be to her in the stead of all. Once, I think, she loved me very little; but, oh! mother, dearly we love one another now."
When Mrs. Rothesay"s senses returned, she lifted her head, with a bewildered air. "Where are we going? What has happened? I can"t think clearly of anything."
"Dearest mamma, do not try--I will think for us both. Be content; you are quite safe with your own daughter."
"My daughter--ah! I remember, I fainted, as I did long years ago, when they told me something about my daughter. Are you she--that little child whom I cast from my arms? and now I am lying in yours!" she cried, her mind seeming to wander, as if distraught by this sudden shock.
"Hush, mamma! don"t talk; rest quiet here."
Mrs. Rothesay looked wistfully in her daughter"s face, and there seemed to cross her mind some remembered sense of what had befallen. She clung helplessly to those sustaining arms--"Take care of me, Olive!--I do not deserve it, but take care of me!"
"I will, until death!" was Olive"s inward vow.
And so, travelling fast, but in solemn silence, they came to B----.
Alas! it was already too late! By Angus Rothesay"s bed they stood--the widow and the fatherless!
CHAPTER XVIII.
The tomb had scarcely closed over Captain Rothesay, when it was discovered that his affairs were in a state of irretrievable confusion.
For months he must have lived with ruin staring him in the face.
His sudden death was then no mystery. The newspaper had startled him with tidings--partly false, as afterwards appeared--of a heavy disaster by sea, and the failure of his latest speculation at home. There seemed lifted against him at once the hand of Heaven and of man. His proud nature could not withstand the shock; shame smote him, and he died.