 29 WEEKS glided into months, and within the three-mile circle of the hall, the parsonage, and the dell, was as pleasant a little society as could be found anywhere. Frequent meetings, usually confined to themselves alone, produced the necessary intimacy of a country neighbourhood. As it sometimes happens that persons or families taught to love each other unknown, when well known learn to hate, so, on the contrary, it is no unfrequent circumstance for those who have lived for years in enmity, when suddenly brought together, to become closer friends than if there had been no former antipathy between them. So it was with the Rothsays and the Gwins. Once, after Mrs. Gwin and her son had spent a long pleasant evening at the dell, Olive chanced to light upon the packet of Harold's letters, which, years before she had put by, with the sincere wish that she might never hear anything of him more. You would not wish so now, Olive, nor would I, said Mrs. Rothsay, when her daughter had smilingly referred to the fact. The society of the Gwins has really proved a great addition to our happiness. How kind and warm-hearted Mrs. Gwin is, so earnest in her friendship for us, too. Yes, indeed. Do you know, it struck me that it must have been from her report of us, that Aunt Flora Rothsay sent the kind message which the Gwins brought to-day. I own it made me happy, to think that my long-past romantic dream should be likely to come true, and that next year we should go to Scotland and see Papa's dear old aunt. You will go, my child. And you, too, darling, think how much you would like it when the summer comes. You will be quite strong, then, and how pleasant it will be to know that good Aunt Flora of whom the Gwins talk so much. She must be a very, very old lady now, though Mrs. Gwin says she is quite beautiful still. But she can't be so beautiful as my own mama. Oh, darling, there will never be seen such a wondrous old lady as you, when you are seventy or eighty. Then I shall be quite elderly myself. We shall seem just like two sisters, growing old together. Olive never spoke, never dreamed of any other possibility than this. Calmly cheerfully passed the winter, Miss Rothsay devoting herself, as here to four, to the two great interests of her life. But she had other minor interests gathering up around her, which in some respects were of much service. They prevented that engrossing study, which was often more than her health could bear. Once when reading letters from Rome from Mr. Van Bra and Meliora, Olive said, Mama, I think on the whole I am happier here than I was at Woodford Cottage. I feel less of an artist and more of a woman. And Olive I am happy too, happy to think that my child is safe with me and not carried off to Rome. For Olive had, of course, told her mother of that circumstance in her life, which might have changed its current so entirely. My daughter, I would not have you leave me to marry any man in the world. I never shall, darling," she answered. And she felt that this was true. Her heart was absorbed in her mother. Nevertheless the other interests before mentioned, though quite external, filled up many little crevices in that loving heart which had room for so many affections. Among these was one which, in Olive's whole lifetime, had been an impulse, strong but ever unfulfilled, love for a child. She took to her heart Harold's little daughter, less regarding it as his than as poor Sarah's. The more so because, though a good and careful, he was not a very loving father. But he seemed gratified by the kindness that Miss Rothsay showed to little Ily and frequently suffered the child to stay with her and be taught by her all things, save those in which it was his pleasure that his daughter should remain ignorant, the doctrines of the Church of England. Sometimes in her visiting of the poor, Olive saw the frightful profanities of that Kant knowledge which young or ignorant minds acquire and by which the greatest mysteries of Christianity are lowered to a burlesque. Then she inclined to think that Harold Gwynn was right and that in this temporary prohibition he acted as became a wise father and a discreet and learned minister of God's word. As such she ever considered him, though she sometimes thought he received and communicated that word less through his heart than through his intellect. His moral character and doctrines were irreproachable, but it seemed to her as if the dew of Christian love had never fallen on his soul. This feeling gave her, in spite of herself, a sort of awe for him which she would not willingly have felt towards her pastor and one whom she so much regarded and respected. Especially as on any other subject she ever held him with full and free communion, and he seemed gradually to unbend his somewhat hard nature, as a man will do who inclines in friendship towards a truly good woman. Perhaps here it would be as well to observe that, close and intimate friends as they were, the tie was such that none of their two households, no not even the most tattling gossips of farnwood and harbury, ever dreamed of saying that Harold Gwynn was in love with Miss Rothsay. The good folks did chatter now and then, as country gossips will about him in crystal manners, and perhaps they would have chattered more, if the young lady had not been almost constantly at the hall, with her Mr. Gwynn rarely went. But they left the bond between him and Oliver Rothsay untouched, untroubled by their idle jests. Perhaps those who remembered the beautiful Mrs. Harold Gwynn imagined the widower would never choose a second wife so different from his first, or perhaps there was cast about the daughter, so devotedly tending her blind mother, a sanctity which their unholy and foolish tongues dared not to violate. Thus Oliver went on her way, showing great tenderness to little Eiley, and as it seemed, being gradually drawn by the child to the father. Besides there was another sympathy between them, caused by the early associations of both and by their common Scottish blood. For Harold had inherited from his father nothing but his name, from his mother everything besides. Born in Scotland he was a Scotsman to the very core. His influence awakened once more every feeling that found Oliver Rothsay to the land of her birth, her father's land. All things connected therewith took in her eyes a new romance. She was happy, she knew not why, happy as she had been in her dreamy girlhood. It seemed as though in her life had dawned a second spring. Perhaps there was but one thing which really troubled her, and that was the prohibition in her teaching of little Eiley. She talked the matter over with her mother, that is, she uttered aloud her own thoughts, to which Mrs. Rothsay meekly assented, saying as usual that Oliver was quite right. And at last, after much hesitation, she made up her mind to speak openly on the subject with Mr. Gwynne. For this arduous undertaking, at which in spite of herself she trembled a little, she chose a time when he had met her in one of her forest walks, which she had undertaken, as she often did, to fulfill some charitable duty, usually that of the clergyman or the clergyman's family. How kind you are, Mrs. Rothsay, and to come all through the wintry forests too, it was scarcely fit for you. Then it certainly was not for Mrs. Gwynne. I was quite glad to relieve her, and it gives me real pleasure to read and talk with John Dent's sick mother. Much as she suffers, she is the happiest old woman I ever saw in my life. What makes her happy, thank you, said Harold, continuing the conversation as if he wished it to be continued, and so falling naturally into a quiet arm-in-arm walk. Oliver answered, responding to his evident intention, and passing it once, as in their conversations they always did, to a subject of interest. She is happy, because she has a meek and trusting faith in God, and though she knows little she loves much. In one love him whom one does not fully know. It was one of the sharp searching questions that Mr. Gwynne sometimes put, which never failed to startle Olive, and to which she could not always reply, but she made an effort to do so now. Yes, when what we do know of him commands love, does Eile, even Eile thoroughly know her father, and yet she loves him? That I cannot judge, but most true it is, we know as little of God as Eile knows of her father. I, and look up to heaven with as blindfold ignorance as Eile looks up to me. Alas, Eile's is indeed blindfold ignorance, said Olive, not quite understanding his half muttered words, but thinking they offered a good opportunity for fulfilling her purpose. Mr. Gwynne, may I speak to you about something which has long troubled me? Troubled you, Miss Rothsay? Surely that is not my fault. I would not for the world do author would give pain to one so good as you. He said this very kindly, pressing her arm with a brotherly gentleness which passed into her heart, imparting to her not only a quick sense of pleasure, but likewise courage. Thank you, Mr. Gwynne. This does really pain me. It is the subject on which we talked the first time that ever you and I met, and of which we have never since spoken. Your determination with respect to little Eile's religious instruction. Ah! A start and a dark look. Well, Miss Rothsay, what have you to say? That I think you are not quite right. Nay, quite wrong, said Olive, gathering resolution. You are taking from your child her only strength in life, her only comfort in death. You keep her from the true faith. She will soon make to herself a false one. Nay, what is more false than the idle traditions taught by ranting parents to their offspring? The Bible travestied into a nursery talc. Heaven transformed into a pretty pleasure-house, and hell and its horrors brought as bug-bears to frighten children in the dark. Do you think I would have my child turned into a baby saint to patter glibly over parrot prayers, exchange pet sweetmeats for missionary pennies, and so learn to keep up a debtor and creditor account with heaven? No, Miss Rothsay. I would rather see her grow up a heathen. With odd by his language, which was bitter even to fierceness, at first made him no answer. At length, however, she ventured, not without trembling, to touch another cord. But suppose that your child should be taken away? Would you have her die as she lives now, utterly ignorant of all holy things? Would I have her die an infant bigot, prattling blindly of subjects which in the common course of nature no child can comprehend? Would I have her chronicled in some penny-tracked as a remarkable instance of infant piety, a small vessel of mercy to whom the gospel was miraculously revealed at three years old? Do not! Oh, do not speak thus! cried Olive, shrinking from him, for she saw in his face a look she had never seen before—an expression answering to the bitter, daring sarcasm of his tone. You think me a strange specimen of a church of England clergyman. Well, perhaps you are right. I believe I am rather different to my brethren. He said this with sharp irony. Nevertheless, if you inquire concerning me in the neighbourhood, I think you will find that my moral conduct has never disgraced my cloth. Never! cried Olive warmly. Mr. Gwynne pardon me if I have overstepped the deference due to yourself and your opinions. In some things I cannot fathom them or you, but that you are a good, sincere, and pious man I most earnestly believe. Do you! Olive started. The two words were simple, but she thought they had an under-meaning, as though he were mocking either himself or her or both. But she thought this could be only fancy, when in a minute or two after, he said in his ordinary manner, Miss Roth say we have been talking earnestly, and you have unconsciously betrayed me into speaking more warmly than I ought to speak. Do not misjudge me. All men's faith is free, and in some minor points of Christianity I perhaps hold peculiar opinions. As regards little Eiley, I thank you for your kind interest in this matter, which we will discuss again another time. They had now reached John Dent's cottage. Olive asked if he would not enter with her. No, no, you are a far better apostle than your clergyman. Besides I have business at home and must return. Good morning, Miss Roth say. He lifted his hat with a courtly grace, but his eyes showed that reverence which no courts could command, the reverence of a sincere man for a noble-hearted woman, and so he walked back into the forest. CHAPTER XXXXXXX The dwelling which Miss Roth say entered was one of the keeper's cottages, built within the forest. The door stood open, for the place was too lowly even for robbers, and besides its inmates had nothing to lose. Still Olive thought it was wrong to leave a poor bed-ridden old woman in a state of such unprotected desolation. As her step was heard crossing the threshold, there was a shrill cry from the inner room. John! John, the lad! Has thee found the lad? It is not your son, tis I. Why, what has happened to my good marjorie? But the poor old creature fell back and wrung her hands, sobbing bitterly. The lad! Don't you know ought the lad? Poor Ruben! He won't come back no more! Alack! Alack! And with some difficulty Olive learnt that Marjorie's grandson, the keeper's only child, had gone into the forest some days before and had never returned. It was no rare thing for even practised woodsmen to be lost in this wild, wide forest, and at night in the winter time there was no hope. John Dent had gone out with his fellows, less to find the living than to bring back the dead. Filled with a deep pity, Olive sat down by the miserable grandmother, but the poor soul refused to be comforted. John'll go mad! Clean mad! There be at nowhere such a good lad as our Ruben, and to be clemmed to death and froze! O Lord, tack pity on us miserable sinners! For hours Olive sat by the old woman's bedside. The murky winter day soon closed in and the snow began to fall, but still there was nothing heard save the wind howling in the forest. Often Marjorie started up, crying out that there were footsteps at the door, and then sank back in dumb despair. At last there was a tramp of many feet on the frozen ground. The latch was lifted and John Dent burst in. He was a sturdy woodsman, of a race that are often seen in this forest region, almost giant like in height and bulk. The snow lay thick on his uncovered head and naked breast, for he had stripped off all his upper garments to wrap round something that was clasped tightly in his arms. He spoke to no one, looked at no one, but laid his burden before the hearth supported on his knees. It was the corpse of a boy blue and shriveled like that of one frozen to death. He tried to chafe and bend the fingers, but they were as stiff as iron. He wrung the melting snow out of the hair, and as the locks became soft and supple under his hand, seemed to think there was yet a little life remaining. Why, do not ye sturdy fools, get to blanket? Pult off the old woman? I tell ye the lad's alive? No one moved, and then the frantic father began to curse and swear. He rushed into old Marjorie's room. Get up with thee! How dares they lie hallow in there? Common help to lad! And then he ran back to where poor Ruben's body lay extended on the hearth, surrounded by the other woodsmen, most of whom were pale with awe, some even melting into tears. John Dent dashed them all aside, and took his son again in his arms. Olive, from her corner, watched the writhings of his rugged features, but she ventured not to approach. Tackheart! Tackheart! John! said one of the men. He did not suffer much, I reckon, said another. My old mother was now frozen to death into forest, and her said twas just like drop into sleep, and, lucky, the poor lad's face be as quiet as a child. John Dent, mon! whispered one old keeper. Say thy prayers. They does not often do it, and they'll want it now. And then John Dent broke into such a paroxysm of despair that one by one his comforters quitted the cottage. They, strong, bold men, who feared none of the evils of life, became feeble as children before the awful face of death. One only remained, the old huntsman who had given the last counsel to the wretched father, this man whom Olive knew, was beckoned by her to Marjorie's room to see what could be done. I'll fetch Mr. Gwynne to manage John Porfello, the devil's gotten sure enough, and it'll tack a parson to drive it away. But, orn be a queer gentleman, when I get to Harbury, what may I say? Say that I am here, that I entreat him to come at once, cried Olive, feeling her strength sinking before this painful scene, from which in common charity she could not turn aside. She came once more to look at John Dent, who had crouched down before the hearth, with the stiff form of the poor dead boy extended on his knees, gazing at it with a sort of vacant hopeless misery. Then she went back to the old woman, and tried to speak of comfort and of prayer. It was not far to Harbury, but in less time than Olive had expected, Harold Gwynne arrived. Miss Rothsay, you sent for me. I did! I did! O thank heaven that you are come! eagerly cried Olive, clasping his two hands. He regarded her with a surprised and troubled look, and took them away. What do you wish me to do? What a minister of God is able, nay, bound to do, to speak comfort in this house of misery? The poor old woman echoed the same in treaty. Oh, Mr. Gwynne, you that be a parson, a man of God, come and help us! Harold looked round, and saw he had to face the woe that no worldly comfort or counsel can lighten, that he had entered into the awful presence of the power, which, stripping man of all his earthly pomp, wisdom and strength, leaves him poor, weak, and naked before his God. The proud, the moral, the learned Harold Gwynne stood dumb before the mystery of death. It was too mighty for him. He looked on the dead boy and on the living father, then cast his eyes down to the ground and muttered within himself. What should I do here? Read to him. Pray with him, whispered Olive. Speak to him of God of heaven of immortality. God, heaven, immortality, echoed Harold vacantly, but he never stirred. They say that this man has been a great sinner and an unbeliever. Oh, tell him that he cannot deceive himself now. Death knells into his ear that there is a God, that there is a hereafter. Mr. Gwynne, oh, tell him that at a time like this there is no comfort, no hope, save in God and in his word. Olive had spoken thus in the excitement of the moment, then recovering herself, she asked pardon for a speech so bold as if she would feign teach the clergyman his duty. My duty, yes, I must do my duty, muttered Harold Gwynne, and with his hard-set face, the face he wore in the pulpit, he went up to the father of the dead child and said something about patience, submission to the decrees of providence, and all trials being sent for good and by the will of God. Gwynne talked to me of God. I know not about him, Parson. He never learned me. Harold's rigid mouth quivered visibly, but he made no direct answer, only saying in the same formal tone, You go to church, at least you used to go. You have heard there about God and his judgments remembering mercy. Mercy, you monies say that. Why did he let the poor lad die the snow, then? And Harold's lips hesitated over those holy words. The Lord gave and the Lord take it away. He should attack in the old mother, then. She's none wanted, but the dear lad, the only one left out of six. Oh, Ruben, Ruben, when did you never speak to your poor father again? He looked on the corpse fixedly for some minutes, and then a new thought seemed to strike him. That's not my lad. My merry little lad, I say, he cried, starting up and catching Mr. Gwynne's arm. I say, you Parson the dot to know, where's my lad gone to? Harold Gwynne's head sank upon his breast. He made no answer. Perhaps, I, in looking at him, the thought smote Olive with a great fear. Perhaps to that awful question there was no answer in his soul. Condent passed him by, and came to the side of Olive Rathsay. Mess? Folk say you're a good woman? Don't you know all of these things? Can I you tell me if I shall meet my poor lad again? And then Olive, casting one glance at Mr. Gwynne, who remained motionless, sat down beside the childless father, and talked to him of God, not the infinite unknown into whose mystery as the mightiest philosophers may pierce and find no end, but the God mercifully revealed, our father which is in heaven, he to whom the poor, the sorrowing, and the ignorant may look and not be afraid. Long she spoke, simply, meekly, and earnestly. Her words fell like balm, her looks lightened the gloomy house of woe. When at length she left it, John Dent's eyes followed her, as though she had been a visible angel of peace. It was quite night when she and Harold went out of the cottage. The snow had ceased falling, but it lay on every tree of the forest like a white shroud, and high above, through the opening of the branches, was seen the blue-black frosty sky with its innumerable stars. The keen, piercing cold, the utter stirlessness, the mysterious silence, through a sense of death, white death over all things. It was a night when one might faintly dream what the world would be, if the infidels boast were true and there were no God. They walked for some time in perfect silence. Troubled thoughts were careering like storm clouds over Olive's spirit. Wonder was there, and pity, and an indefined dread. As she leaned on Mr. Gwynne's arm, she had a presentiment that in the heart whose strong beating she could almost feel was prisoned some great secret of woe or wrong before which she herself would stand aghast. Yet such was the nameless attraction which drew her to this man, that the more she dreaded, the more she longed to discover his mystery, whatsoever it might be. She determined to break the silence. Mr. Gwynne, I trust you will not think it presumption in me to have spoken as I did instead of you, but I saw how shocked and overpowered you were, nor wondered at your silence. He answered in the low tone of one struggling under great excitement. You noticed my silence, then, that I summoned as a clergyman to give religious consolation had none to offer. Nay, you did attempt some. Aye, I tried to preach faith with my lips and could not, because there was none in my heart, no, nor ever will be. Olive looked at him uncomprehending, but he seemed to shrink from her observation. I am indeed truly grieved, she began to say, but he stopped her. Do not speak to me yet, I pray you. She obeyed, though yearning with pity over him. Hitherto, in all their intercourse, whatever had been his kindness towards her, towards him she had continually felt a sense of restraint, even of fear. That controlling influence, which Mr. Gwynne seemed to exercise over all with whom he deigned to associate, was heavy upon Olive Rothsay. Before him she felt more subdued than she had ever done before anyone. In his presence she unconsciously measured her words and guarded her looks, as if meeting the eye of a master. And he was a master, a man born to rule over the wills of his brethren, swaying them at his lightest breath as the wind bends the grass of the field. But now the scepter seemed torn from his hand, he was a king no more. He walked along, his head drooped, his eyes fixed on the ground. And beholding him thus there came to Olive, in the place of fear, a strong compassion, tender as strong and pure as tender. Angel-like it arose in her heart, ready to pierce his darkness with its shining eyes, to fold around him and all his misery its sheltering wings. He was a great and learned man, and she a lowly woman, in her knowledge far beneath him, in her faith, oh, how immeasurably above. She began very carefully, You are not well, I fear. This painful scene has been too much, even for you. Death seems more horrible to men than to feeble women. Death? Do you think that I fear death? And he clenched his hand as though he would battle with the great destroyer. No, I have met him, stood and looked at him until my eyes were blinded and my brain reeled. But what am I saying? Don't heed me, Miss Rothsay. Don't. And he began to walk on hurriedly. You are ill, I am sure, and there is something that rests on your mind, said Olive, in a quiet, soft tone. What, have I betrayed anything? I mean, have you anything to charge me with? Have I left any duty unfulfilled? Said any words unbecoming a clergyman? Asked he with a freezing haughtiness. Not that I am aware. Forgive me, Mr. Gwyn, if I have trespassed beyond the bounds of our friendship. For we are friends. Have you not often said so? Yes, and with truth. I respect you, Miss Rothsay. You are no thoughtless girl, but a woman who has, I am sure, both felt and suffered. I have suffered, too. Therefore it is no marvel we are friends. I am glad of it. He seldom spoke so frankly, and had never done what he now did, of his own accord to take and class per hand with a friendly air of confidence. Long after the pressure passed from Olive's fingers, its remembrance lingered in her heart. They walked on a little farther, and then he said, not without some slight agitation. Miss Rothsay, if you are indeed my friend, listen to one request I make, that you will not say anything, think anything of whatever part of my conduct this day may have seemed strange to you. I know not what fate it is that has thus placed you, a year ago a perfect stranger, in a position which forces me to speak to you thus. Still less can I tell what there is in you which draws from me much that no human being has ever drawn before, except this acknowledgement, and pardon me. Nay, what have I to pardon? Oh, Mr. Gwyn, if I might indeed be your friend. If I could but do you any good? You do good to me, he muttered bitterly, why we are as far apart as earth from heaven, nay as heaven from hell. That is, if there be madman that I am. Miss Rothsay, do not listen to me. Why do you lead me on to speak thus? Indeed, I do not comprehend you. Believe me, Mr. Gwyn, I know very well the difference between us. I am an unlearned woman and you. I tell me what I am. That is what you think I am. A wise and good man, but yet one in whom great intellect may at times overpower that simple faith which is above all knowledge, that love which, as said the great apostle of our church, silence. His deep voice rose and fell like the sound of a breaking wave. Then he stopped, turned full upon her, and said in a fierce keen whisper, Would you learn the truth? You shall. Know then that I believe in none of these things I teach. I am an infidel. Olive's arm fell from him. Do you shrink from me then? Good and pious woman, do you think I am Satan standing by your side? Oh no! No! She made an effort to restrain herself. It failed and she burst into tears. Harold looked at her. Meek and gentle soul. It would perhaps have been good for me had Olive Rothsay been born my sister. I would I had. I would I had. But oh this is awful to hear. You an unbeliever. You who all these years have been a minister at the altar. What a fearful thing. You say right. It is fearful. Think now what my life is and has been. One long lie. A lie to man and to God. For I do believe so far, he added solemnly, I believe in the one ruling spirit of the universe, unknown, unapproachable. None but a madman would deny the existence of a God. He ceased and looked upwards with his piercing eyes, piercing yet full of restless sorrow. Then he approached his companion. Shall we walk on? Or do you utterly renounce me? Said he, with a touching sad humility. Renounce you? Ah, you would not. Could you know all I have endured? To me earth has been a hell. Not the place of flames and torments of which your divines prayt, but the true hell, that of the conscience and the soul. I too, a man whose whole nature was a thirst for truth, I sought at first among its professors. There I found that they who, too idle or too weak to demonstrate their creed, took it upon trust, did what their fathers did, believed what their fathers believed, were accounted orthodox and pious men, while those who in their earnest eager youth dared, not as yet to doubt but meekly to ask a reason for their faith, they were at once condemned as impious. But I pay new. Shall I go on or cease? Go on. Truth, still truth I yearned for in another form. In domestic peace in the love of woman. My soul was famishing for any food. I snatched this. In my mouth it became ashes. His voice seemed choking, but with an effort he continued. After this time I gave up earth and turned to interests beyond it. With straining eyes I gazed into the infinite, and I was dazzled, blinded, world from darkness to light, and from light to darkness. No rest, no rest. This state lasted long, but its end came. Now I walk like a man in his sleep, feeling nothing, fearing nothing. No, thou mighty unknown, I do not fear. But then I hope nothing, I believe nothing. Those pleasant dreams of yours, God, Heaven, immortality, are to me meaningless words. At times I utter them, and they seem to shine down like pitiless stars upon the black boiling sea in which I am drowning. Oh, God, have mercy! moaned Alibrath say. Give me strength that my own faith fail not, and that I may bring thy light unto this perishing soul. And turning to Harold she said aloud as calmly as she could. Tell me, since you have told me thus far, how you came to take upon yourself the service of the church. You who— I, well may you pause and shudder. Here, then, how the devil, if there be one, can mock men's souls in the form of an angel of light. But it is a long history. It may drive me to utter things that you will shrink from. I will hear it. There was in that soft, firm voice an influence which Harold Perforce obeyed. She was stronger than he, even as light is stronger than darkness. Mr. Gwyn began, speaking quietly, even humbly. When I was a youth studying for the church, doubts came upon my mind, as they will upon most young minds, whose strivings after truth are hedged in by a thorny rampart of old worn-out forms. Then there came a sudden crisis in my life. I must either enter on a ministry in whose creed I only half believed, or let my mother, my noble, self-denying mother, starve. You know her, Miss Rothsay, though you know not half that she is and ever was, to me. But you do know what it is to have a beloved mother. Yes. Infidel as he was, she could have clung to Harold Gwyn and called him brother. Well, after a time of great inward conflict I decided, for her sake, though little more than a boy in years, falling in a chaos of mingled doubt and faith, I bound myself to believe whatever the church taught, and to lead souls to heaven in the church's own road. These very bonds, this vow so blindly to be fulfilled, made me, in after years, an infidel. He paused to look at her. I am listening. Speak on, said Olive Rothsay. As you say truly, I am one whose natural bent of mind is less to faith than to knowledge. Above all I am one who hates all falsehood, all hypocritical show. Perchance in the desert I might have learned to serve God. Face to face with him I might have worshipped his revelings. But when between me and the one great truth came a thousand petty veils of cunning forms and blindly taught precedents, when among my brethren I saw wicked men preaching virtue, men without brains enough to acquire a mere worldly profession such as law or physics, set to expound the mighty mysteries of religion, then I said to myself, the whole system is a lie, so I cast it from me, and my soul stood forth in its naked strength before the creator of all. But why did you still keep up this awful mockery? Because, and his voice sounded hoarse and hollow, just then there was upon me of madness which all men have in youth, love. For that I became a liar in the face of heaven of men and of my own soul. It was a great sin. I know it, and being such it fell down upon my head in a curse. Since then I have been what you now see me, a very honest painstaking clergyman, doing good, preaching, certainly not doctrine but blameless moralities, carrying a civil face to the world and a heart. Oh God, whosoever and whatsoever thou art, thou knowest what blackest darkness there is there. She made no answer. After a few minutes Mr. Gwynne said, you must forgive me, Miss Ropsey. I do, and so will he whom you do not know, but whom you will know yet. I will pray for you. I will comfort you. I wish I were indeed your sister, that I might never leave you until I brought you to faith and peace. He smiled very faintly. Thank you. It is something to feel there is goodness in the world. I did not believe in any except my mother's. Perhaps if she had known all this, if I could have told her, I had not been the wretched man I am. Hush! do not talk any more. And then she stood beside him for some minutes quite silent until he grew calm. They were on the verge of the forest, close to Olive's home. It was about seven in the evening, but all things lay as in the stillness of midnight. They too might have been the only beings in the living world, all else dead and buried under the white snow. And then, lifting itself out of the horizon's black nothingness, arose the great red moon, like an immortal soul. Look! said Olive. He looked once and no more. Then with a sigh he placed her arm in his and walked with her to her own door. Arrived there, he bade her adieu, adding, I would bid God bless you, but in such words from me you would not believe. How could you? He said this with a mournful emphasis to which she could not reply. But he continued in a tone of eager anxiety. Remember that I have trusted you. My secret is in your hands. You will be silent, I know, silent as death or eternity, that is, as both are to me. Olive promised, and he left her. She stood listening, until the echo of his footfall ceased along the frosty road. Then, clasping her hands, she lifted once more the petition, for those who have aired and are deceived, the prayer which she had once uttered, unconscious how much and by whom it was needed. Now she said it with a yearning cry, a cry that would feign pierce heaven, and ringing above the loud choir of saints and angels, call down mercy on one perishing human soul. End of Chapter 30 Chapter 31 of Olive. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Olive by Dinah Maria Craig, Chapter 31 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 wither. 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 skepticism. 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 inon she heard the striking of the clock, and remembered with horror that it heralded the Sabbath morning, when she must go to Harbury 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 realized 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, my Lord and my God, 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 and one as herald 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 their 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. Rothsay 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 in grossing 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 airing souls are often times 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. Rothsay's lamp of life was pailing 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 anyone who gained so many kindly attentions as Mrs. Rothsay. Even the wild young flood-years inquired after her every day. Crystal, who was almost domicile 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. Rothsay and Olive smile with his raptures, and the latter said sometimes that he was certainly the same enthusiastic little boy who had been her night in the garden by the river. She never thought of him otherwise, and though he often tried, in half-justing 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 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 to part. Months might pass ere that frail tabernacle was quite dissolved. As the winter glided away Mrs. Rothsay 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. Ney declared smiling that anyone 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, Mama! 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 ever more. Mrs. Rothsay 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 colors, 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-color 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, set through in 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. Rothsay and wound her arms round her. Darling, kiss me, or I shall fear you are growing quite an angel, an angel with wings. Their lurk to 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. Rothsay, knowing that Harold was lonely, since his mother and Ily had gone away on a week's visit, prevailed upon him to stay. He read to them, Mrs. Rothsay 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. Rothsay'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. Rothsay, 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. Rothsay's lips seemed silently to follow them. Oh, 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 a dew, 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. Rothsay 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, Mama? 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, and he heard 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. Rothsay 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 ever more, Olive. You bear all my feebleness, troubles, and pain. God ever bless you, my daughter. When Olive came down once more to the little parlor, 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. My child! 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 at 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 physician's arts fail. It was coming now. Mrs. Rothsay'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. Rothsay 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, mama. She dared not trust herself to say darling. 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. Rothsay'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 Mrs. Rothsay, 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 Mrs. Rothsay, 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 Rothsay, 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. Does she know? 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. Rothsay 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. Rothsay 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. Rothsay, overhearing, and treated the same. It will do you good! You must keep strong, my child! Yes, darling! Olive went down in the little parlor, 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 realize 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. Rothsay 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 are little babe at Stirling. And saying this there came a cloud over Mrs. Rothsay'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 came true save that I did not lose you, I wickedly cast you from me. I, 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 dubious daughter that ever mother had, and God will bless her ever more. One moment, with a passionate burst of anguish, Olive cried, Oh 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. Rothsay 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. Rothsay 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 Crystal too, Olive, she has many faults, but remember she was good to me, and I was fond of her. Always take care of Crystal. I will. And is there no one else to whom I shall give your love, Mama? 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 she 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 Harold's, far into the eternal land. Thither her daughters 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 parlor, 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 Roth say, 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 what reason you 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, said Olive 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. Can you speak 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 fulfillment? 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 extent. 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 bookmarker which Mrs. Rothsay 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 upstairs. 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 is my 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. His she 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 of my mother only this? She turned from the bed, and met Harold's eye, intense, a thirst, 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. I felt her 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 Gwynn fell on his knees at the bedside, crying out, Oh God, that I could believe! CHAPTER 33 It was again the season of late summer, and times soothing shadow had risen up between the daughter and her grief. The grave in the beautiful churchyard of Harbury 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 Rothsay would have forgotten her mother so easily? But she 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 Rothsay 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 mother could not forget her child. Olive looked very calm now, as she sat with Mrs. Gwyn in the bay window of the little drawing-room at the parsonage, engaged in some light work, with Ily 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. Gwyn, when the lesson was over and the child had run away. I knew he would allow Ily 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 Gwyn was not singular in this. Scarcely ever was there an unbeliever who desired to see his own skepticism reflected in his child. Mrs. Gwyn continued, I don't think I can ever sufficiently thank you, my dear Miss Rothsay. Say Olive, as you generally do, for her Christian name sounded so sweet and home-like from Harold's mother, especially now. Olive, then, my dear, how good you are to take Ily 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 sons 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. Gwyn'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 favorite 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 as Mr. Gwyn than as Harold. I wonder what makes your blithe crystal so late, observed Mrs. Gwyn 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 peculiarity, 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 crystal'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. Gwyn. If I must expose all my weaknesses, there was a time when I watched Miss Manners more closely than anyone 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. Gwyn. 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 his friend, never dreamed of her being anything more? Olive knew not whence came the pain, yet she still felt it was there. Certainly he would, she answered, speaking in a slow, quiet tone. Nevertheless, I should scarcely think crystal a girl whom Mr. Gwyn 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 crystal 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 the cloud. Nor, at present, pursued Mrs. Gwyn. 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. Gwyn 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 herald, 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 Fledgers 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. Gwyn's voice in the hall, his anxious, tender inquiry for his mother, even the quick flying step of little Ily 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 a while, 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 Crystal and Lyle, were assembled in the twilight, the two latter keeping up a sort of benedict 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 Roth say sat a little apart, a single lamp lighting her at 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 idealized heads, of which the originals had place in her own warm affections. Crystal 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. Gwynn 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 limbed by Ms. Roth say. If I were my brother-in-law, I should take it as quite 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 Gwynn. 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 Crystal's journey. It was undertaken by invitation of Mrs. Fludger, to whom the young damsel had made herself quite indispensable. Her liveliness charmed away the idle ladies 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. Gwynn often said, no daughter of a long illustrious line was ever prouder than Crystal Manners. She indulged the party with a brilliant account of Mrs. Fludger's anticipation 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. Gwynn. 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 she 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 Durwent brightened up amazingly. Miss Rothsay, I—I don't intend going away, believe me. Crystal turned quickly round. What are you saying, Mr. Durwent? 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 Crystal burst into a fit of laughter much louder than seemed warranted by the occasion. Lyle seemed much annoyed, whereupon his friend Miss Rothsay considerably interposed and passed to some other subject which lasted until the hour of departure. The three walked to the dell together, Crystal jesting incessantly either with or at Lyle Durwent. Olive walked beside them rather silent than otherwise. She had been so used to walk home with Harold Gwyn 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 ghost-like 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 Crystal. 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 fervor by the influence of a balmy night and a glorious harvest moon. Which said luminary, shining on Crystal'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 Manor's, 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 Crystal alone. That young lady, as soon as she heard Miss Rothsay'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 caroling pathetically down the road, the diddy, Yo Tivolio Benassai, Matunon Pensiamé. "'Tis my song, mine, I taught him,' said Crystal, laughing to herself. He thought to stay behind and escape me and my cruelty, but we shall see, we shall see.' Though in her air was a triumphant, girlish coquetry, yet something there was of a woman's passion, too. But she heard a descending step, and had only just time to regain her invalid attitude and her doleful countenance when Olive entered. "'This accident is most unfortunate,' said Miss Rothsay. "'How will you manage your journey to-morrow?' "'I shall not be able to go,' said Crystal in a piteous voice, though over her averted face broke a comical smile. "'Are you really so much hurt, my dear?' "'Do you doubt it?' was the sharp reply. "'I am sorry to trouble you, but I really am unable to leave the dell.' "'Very often did she try Olive's patience, thus. But the faithful daughter always remembered those last words. "'Take care of Crystal.' "'So, excusing all, she tended the young sufferer carefully until midnight, and then went downstairs secretly to perform a little act of self-denial by giving up an engagement she had made for the morrow. While writing to renounce it, she felt, with a renewed sense of vague apprehension, how keen a pleasure it was she thus resigned, a whole long day in the forest with her pet Ily, Ily's grand-mama, and Harold Gwynne. Midnight was long past, and yet Olive sat at her desk. She had finished her note to Mrs. Gwynne, and was pouring over a small packet of letters, carefully separated from the remainder of her correspondence. If she had been asked the reason of this, perhaps she would have made answer that they were unlike the rest, solemn in character and secret with all. She never looked at them but her expression changed. When she touched them she did it softly and tremulously, as one would touch a living, sacred thing. They were letters which at intervals during his various absences she had received from Harold Gwynne. Often had she read them over, so often, that many a time waking in the night, whole sentences came distinctly on her memory, vivid almost as a spoken voice, and yet scarcely a day past that she did not read them over again. Perhaps this was from their tenor, for they were letters such as a man rarely writes to a woman, or even a friend to a friend. Let us judge, extracting portions from them at will. The first, dated months back, began thus. You will perhaps marvel, my dear Miss Rothsay, that I should write to you, when for some time we have met so rarely, and then apparently like ordinary acquaintance. Yet who should have a better right than we to call each other friends? And like a friend you acted, when you consented that there should be between us for a time this total silence on the subject which first bound us together by a tie which we can neither of us break if we would. Alas, sometimes I could almost curse the weakness which had given you, a woman, to hold my secret in your hands. And yet so gently, so nobly have you held it that I could kneel and bless you, you see I can write earnestly, though I speak so coldly. I told you after that day when we two were alone with death, the words are harsh I know, but I have no smooth tongue. I told you that I desired entire silence for weeks, perhaps months. I must commune with my own heart and be still. I must wrestle with this darkness alone. You assented, you forced on me no long argumentative homilies. You preached to me solely with your life, the pure, beautiful life of a Christian woman. Sometimes I tried to read carefully the morality of Jesus, which I, and skeptics worse than I, must allow to be perfect of its kind, and it struck me how nearly you approached to that divine life which I had thought impossible to be realized. I have advanced thus far into my solemn seeking. I have learned to see the revelation, imputedly divine, clear and distinct from the mass of modern creeds with which it has been overladen. I have begun to read the book on which, as you truly say, every form of religion is founded. I try to read with my own eyes, putting aside all received interpretations, earnestly desiring to cast from my soul all long-gathered prejudices, and to bring it, naked and clear, to meet the souls of those who are said to have written by divine inspiration. The book is a marvelous book. The history of all ages can scarcely show its parallel, what diversity, yet what unity. The stream seems to flow through all ages, catching the lights and shadows of different periods and of various human minds. Yet it is one the same stream, pure and shining as truth. Is it truth? Is it divine? I will confess candidly that if the scheme of a world's history with reference to its creator, as set forth in the Bible, were true, it would be a scheme in many things worthy of a divine benevolence, such as that in which you believe. But can I imagine infinity setting itself to work out such trivialities? What is even a world? A mere grain of dust in endless space? It cannot be. A God who could take interest in man, in such an atom as I, would be no God at all. What avails me to have risen unto more knowledge, more clearness in the sense of the divine, if it is to plunge me into such an abyss as this? Would I had never been awakened from my sleep, the dull stupor of materialism into which I was fast sinking? Then I might, in the end, have conquered even the last fear, that of something after death, and have perished like a soulless clod, satisfied that there was no hereafter. Now, if there should be, I whirl and whirl, I can find no rest. I would know for certain that I was mad. But it is not so. You answer my kind friend like a woman, like the sort of woman I believed in in my boyhood, when I longed for a sister, such a sister as you. It is very strange, even to myself, that I should write to anyone as freely as I do to you. I know that I could never speak thus. Therefore, when I return home, you must not marvel to find me just the same reserved being as ever, less to you perhaps than to most people, but still reserved. Yet never believe but that I thank you for all your goodness most deeply. You say that, like most women, you have little power of keen philosophical argument. Perhaps not, but there is in you a spiritual sense that may even transcend knowledge. I once heard, was it not you who said so, that the poet who reads God's secrets in the stars soars nearer him than the astronomer who calculates by figures and by line? As, even in the material universe, there are planets and systems which mock all human ken, so in the immaterial world there must be a boundary where all human reasoning fails, and we can trust to nothing but that inward inexplicable sense which we call faith. This seems to me the great argument which inclines us to receive that supernatural manifestation of the all-pervading spirit which is termed revelation. And there we go back again to the relation between the finite, humanity, and the infinite, deity. One of my speculations you answer by an allegory does not the sun make instinct with life not only man, but the meanest insect, the lowest form of vegetable existence. He shines. His light at once revivifies a blade of grass and illumines a world. If thus it is with the created, may it not be also with the creator. There is something within me that answers to this reasoning. If I have power to conceive the existence of God, to look up from my nothingness unto his great height, to desire nearer insight into his being, there must be in my soul something not unworthy of him, something that, partaking his divinity, instinctively turns to the source when it was derived. Shall I, suffering myself to be guided by this power, seek less to doubt than to believe? I remember my first mathematical tutor once said to me, if you would know anything, begin by doubting everything. I did begin, but I have never yet found an end. I will take your advice, my dear friend. Advice given so humbly, so womanly. Yet I think you deal with me wisely. I am a man who never could be preached or argued into belief. I must find out the truth for myself. And so, according to your counsel, I will again carefully study the Bible, and especially the life of Jesus of Nazareth, which you believe the clearest revelation which God has allowed of himself to earth. Finding any contradictions or obscurities, I will remember, as you say, that Scripture was not, and does not pretend to be, written visibly and actually by the finger of God, but by his inspiration conveyed through many human minds, and of course always bearing to a certain extent the impress of the mind through which it passes. Therefore, while the letter is sometimes apparently contradictory, this spirit is invariably one and the same. I am to look to that first. Above all, I am to look to the only earthly manifestation of divine perfection. Jesus Christ, the Savior of all men, I will. You see how my mind echoes your words, my friend. I am becoming, I think, more like you. All human affections are growing closer and dearer unto me. I can look at my good and pious mother without feeling, as I did at times, that she is either a self-deceiver or deceived. I do not now shrink from my little daughter, nor think with horror that she owes to me that being, which may lead her one day to curse God and die. Still I cannot rest at Harbury. All things there torture me. As for resuming my duties as a minister, that seems all but impossible. What an accursed hypocrite I have been. If this search after truth should end in a belief anything like that of the Church of England, I shall marvel that Heaven's lightning has not struck me dead. You speak hopefully of the time when we shall hold one faith, and both give thanks unto the merciful God who has lightened my darkness. I cannot say this yet, but the time may come. And if it does, what shall I owe to you, who by your outward life first revived my faith in humanity, by your inward life, my faith in God? You have solved to me many of those enigmas of providence, which in my blindness I thought impugned eternal justice. Now I see that love, human and divine, is sufficient to itself, and that he who loves God is one with God. There may be a hundred varying forms of doctrine, but this one truth is above all and the root of all. I hold to it, and I believe it will save my soul. If ever I lift up a prayer worthy to reach the ear of God, it is that he may bless you, my friend and comforter. And here, reader, for a moment we pause. Following wither our object led, we have gone far beyond the bounds usually prescribed to a book like this. After perusing the present chapter, you may turn to the title page and reading thereon, Olive, a novel, may exclaim, most incongruous, most strange. Nay, some may even accuse us of a reverence in thus bringing into a fictitious story those subjects which are acknowledged as most vital to every human soul, but yet which most people are content, save it set times and places, tacitly to ignore. There are those who sincerely believe that in such works as this it is profanity even to name the holy name. Yet what is a novel, or rather what is it that a novel ought to be? The attempt of one earnest mind to show unto many what humanity is, I and more what humanity might become, to depict what is true in essence through imaginary forms, to teach, counsel and warn by means of the silent transcript of human life, human life without God, who will dare to tell us we should paint that. Authors who feel the solemnity of their calling cannot suppress the truth that is within them. Having put their hands to the plough, they may not turn aside nor look either to the right or the left. They must go straight on as the inward voice impels, and he who seeth their hearts will guide them aright.