 CHAPTER 10 CHAPTER 10 Captain Rothsay, my dear, reader, did you ever notice the intense frigidity that can be expressed in a, my dear, the coldest, cruelest husband we ever knew once impressed this fact on our childish fancy by our always hearing him call his wife thus, poor, pale, broken-hearted creature, he my-deared her into her grave. Captain Rothsay also used the epithet with the formality which was chilling enough in its way. He said it without lifting his eyes from the book, Smith's Wealth of Nations, which had become his usual evening study now, whenever he was at home. That circumstance, rare enough to have been welcome, and yet it was not welcome, now subdued his wife and daughter into silence and quietness. Alas! that ever a presence which ought to be the sunshine of a household should enter only to cast a perpetual shade. The fire-light shone on the same trio which had formed the little after-dinner circle years ago at Sterling, but there was a change in all. The father and mother sat, not side-by-side, in that propinquity which is so sweet, when every breath, every touch of the beloved's garment gives pleasure. They sat one at each corner of the table, engrossed in their several occupations, reading with an uncommunicative eagerness, and sewing in unbroken silence. Each was entrenched within a chilling circle of thoughts and interests in which the other never entered, and now the only point of meeting between them was the once banished child. Little Olive was growing almost a woman now, but she was called Little Olive Still. She retained her diminutive stature, together with her girlish dress, but her face wore as ever its look of premature age. And as she sat between her father and mother, now helping the one in her delicate fancy work, now arranging the lamp for the other's reading, continually in request by both, or, when left quiet for a minute, watching both with anxious earnestness, there was quite enough in Olive's manner to show that she had entered on a woman's life of care, and had not learned a woman's wisdom one day too soon. The captain's last, my dear, found his wife in the intricacies of a Berlin wool pattern, so that she did not speak again for several minutes, when she again appealed to Captain Rothsay. She rarely called him anything else now. Alas, the time of Angus and Sibylla was gone. Well, my dear, what have you to say? I wish you would not be always reading. It makes the evening so dull. Does it? And he turned over another leaf of Adam Smith, and leisurely settled himself for its perusal. Papa is tired and may like to be quiet. Suppose we talk to one another, Mama, whispered Olive, as she put aside her own work, idle but graceful designings with pencil and paper, and, drawing near to her mother, began to converse in a low tone. She discussed all questions as to whether the rose should be red or white, and what colored wool would form the striped tulip, just as though they had been the most interesting topics in the world. Only once her eyes wandered wistfully to the deserted Sabrina, which, half-sketched, lay within the leaves of her comas. Mrs. Rothsay observed this, and said kindly, Let me look at what you are doing, love. Ah, very pretty. What is Sabrina? Tell me all about her. And she listened with a pleased maternal smile, while her gratified little daughter dilated on the beloved comas, and read a passage or two in illustration. Very pretty, my love. Again repeated Mrs. Rothsay, stroking Olive's hair. Ah, you are a clever child. But now come and tell me what sort of winter dresses you think we should have. If any observer could have seen a shade of disappointment on Olive's face, he would also have seen it instantly suppressed. The young girl closed comas with the drawing inside, and came to sit down again, looking up into the eyes of her beautiful Mama. And even the commonplace question of dress soon became interesting to her, for her artistic predilection followed her even there, and no lover ever gloried in his mistress's charms, no painter ever delighted to deck his model, more than Olive loved to adorn and to admire the still exquisite beauty of her mother. It stood to her in the place of all attractions in herself. In fact, she rarely thought about herself at all. The consciousness of her personal defect had worn off through habit, and her almost total seclusion from strangers prevented its being painfully forced on her mind. I wish we could leave off this morning, said Mrs. Rothsay. It is quite time, seeing Sir Andrew Rothsay has been dead six months. And living or dying, he did not show kindness enough to make one remember him longer. Yet he was kind to Papa when a child, and so was Auntie Flora, softly said Olive, to whose enthusiastic memory there ever clung Elsby's tales about the Perthshire relatives, bachelor brother and maiden sister, living together in their lonely gloomy home. But she rarely talked about them, and now, seeing her Mama looked troubled, as she always did at any reference to Scotland and the old times, the little maiden ceased at once. Mrs. Rothsay was soon again safely and contentedly plunged into the mysteries of winter costume. Your dresses must be handsomer and more womanly now, Olive, for I intend to take you out with me now and then. You are quite old enough, and I am tired of visiting alone. I intended to speak to your Papa about it tonight, but he seems not in a good humour. Only tired with his journey, put in the sweet little audiator, is it not so, Papa? Captain Rothsay started from a dull, anxious reverie into which his reading had merged, and lifted his face, knitted and darkened with some inward care, heavy enough to make his tone sharp and angry, as he said, Well, child, what do you want? Do not scold Olive, it was I who wished to speak to you. And then, without pausing to consider how evidently ill-timed the conversation was, Mrs. Rothsay began to talk eagerly about Olive's coming out, and whether it should be at home or abroad, finally arguing that a ball at Merivale would be best, and entering at large on the question of ball costume. There was nothing wrong in anything she said, but she said it at the wrong time. Her husband listened first with indifference, then fidgeted restlessly in his chair, and at last subsided into an angry silence. Why don't you speak, Captain Rothsay? He took up the poker and hammered the fire to small cinders. Of course you will be reasonable. Say, shall it be as I have arranged? No. The word came thundering out, as Captain Rothsay rarely thundered, for he was calm and dignified even in his wrath. Immediately afterwards he rose up and left the room. Sibylla grew pale, sorrowful, and then melted into tears. She tried not to let Olive see them. She was still too faithful a wife to seek in any way to turn the child against her father. But yet she wept, and drawing her young daughter closer to her arms, she felt the sweetness of having a child, and such a child, left to love her. In proportion as the wife's heart closed, the mothers opened. Air long Captain Rothsay sent for little Olive to read the evening newspaper to him in his study. Go, love, said Mrs. Rothsay, and she went, without fear, too, for her father never said a harsh word to her. And as, each year of her life, the sterling truth and stern uprightness of his character dawned upon her, she could not fail to respect him, even while she worshipped her sweet-tempered gentle mother. Captain Rothsay made no remark save upon the subject she was reading, and came in with Olive to tea just as usual. But when he had finished, and was fast sinking back into that painful reverie which seemed to oppress him, his weak ill-judging wife recommended her attack. She talked gently when speaking of Olive, even affectionately, poor soul. She persuaded herself all the time that she was doing right, and that he was a hard-hearted father not to listen to her. He did listen, apparently, and she took his silence for consent, for she ended with. Well, then, it is quite settled. The ball shall be at Maravale on the twentieth of next month. Angus turned round, his blue eyes glittering yet cold as steel. Mrs. Rothsay, if you will warm the truth out of me you shall. By next month you may not have a roof over your head. He rose up and again quitted the room. Mrs. Rothsay trembled, grew terrified, but tried to reassure herself. He only says this in anger, or else to frighten me. I will not believe it. Then conscience whispered that never in her whole life had she known Angus Rothsay to tell a falsehood, and she trembled more and more. Finally she passed into a violent fit of nervous weeping, a circumstance by no means rare. Her health was weakened by the exciting gayities of her outward life and the inward sorrow which prayed upon her heart. This night, and not for the first time either, the little maiden of fifteen might have been seen, acting with the energy and self-possession of a woman, soothing her mother's hysterical sufferings, smoothing her pillow, and finally watching by her until she fell asleep. Then Olive crept downstairs and knocked at her father's study-door. He said, come in, in a dull, subdued tone. She entered, and saw him sitting, his head on his hand, jaded and exhausted, leaning over the last embers of the fire which had gone out without his noticing it. If there had been any anger in the child's heart it must have vanished at once when she looked upon her father thus. Oh, is that you, Olive? was all he said, beginning to turn over his papers as if to make a show of occupation. But he soon relapsed into that unknown thought which oppressed him so much. It was some minutes before he completely aroused himself, and saw the little elfin-like figure standing beside him, silent and immovable with the taper in her hand. Shall I bring your candle, dear papa? It is eleven o'clock and more. Where is your mother, Olive? She has gone to bed, and Olive paused, uncertain whether she should tell him that her mama was ill. Again there was a silence, during which, do what he would, when Rothsay could not keep his eyes from the earnest, wistful, intriguing gaze of his little Olive. At last he lifted her on his knee, and took her face between his two hands, saying in a smothered tone, You are not like your mother. You are like mine. I, and seem more so as you grow to be a woman. I wish I were a woman, that papa might talk to me and tell me anything which he has on his mind, whispered, Olive, scarcely daring to breathe that which she had nerfed herself to say, during many minutes of silent pondering at the study door. Captain Rothsay relapsed hastily into his cold manner. Child, how do you know? I know nothing, and want to know nothing that papa does not wish to tell me, answered Olive gently. The father turned round again and looked into his daughter's eyes. Perhaps he read there a spirit equal to and not unlike his own. A nature calm, resolute, clear-sighted, the strong will and decision of a man, united to the tenderness of a woman. From that hour father and daughter understood one another. Olive, how old are you? I forget. Fifteen, dear papa. Ah, and you are a thoughtful girl. I can talk to you as to a woman. Pa! I mean a sensible woman. Put out your candle. You can sit up a while longer. She obeyed, and sat with him for two whole hours in his study, while he explained to her how sudden reverses had so damaged his fortune that it was necessary to have a far smaller establishment than Meravale Hall. Not that we need fear poverty, my dear child, but the future must be considered and provided for. Your mother's jointure should I die. Nay, do not look sad, we will not talk of that. And then, too, your own portion when you marry. Olive blushed, as any girl of fifteen will do when talked to you on such a topic, even in the most business-like way. I shall not marry, papa, said she, expressing the thought which had come to her as it does to most young girls who love their parents very dearly, too dearly to imagine a parting. Captain Rothsay started, as if suddenly recollecting himself, then he regarded her earnestly, mournfully, and in the look was something which struck on Olive's memory as though she had seen it before. I had forgotten, muttered Captain Rothsay to himself. Of course she will never marry. Poor child, poor child. He kissed her very tenderly, then lighted his candle and went up stairs to bed, holding her hand all the way, until they parted at her room door when he kissed her a second time. As he did so she contrived to whisper, Mama is sure to wake, she always does when you come in. Kiss Mama, too. Happier than she could have believed possible had anyone told her in the morning that ere night she would hear the ill news of having to leave beautiful Mara Vale. But it was so sweet to feel herself a comfort to both parents, they who, alas, would receive no comfort from each other. Only, just when she was falling asleep, the thought floated across Olive's mind. I wonder why papa said that, of course I should never marry. END OF CHAPTER X Dear Mama, is not this a pretty house, even though it is in a town, so pretty one need hardly pine after Mara Vale? Thus said Olive when they had been established some time in their new abode, and sat together one winter evening, listening to the sweet bells of old church, one of the few English parishes where lingers the curfew's solemn sound. A pretty house if anyone came to see us in it, my dear, but nobody does. And then we miss the close carriage so much, to think that I have been obliged to refuse the Stanton's ball and the dinner party at Everingham. How dull these long winter evenings will be, Olive. Olive answered neither yes nor no, but tried quietly by her actions to disprove the fact she was but a child, scarcely would have been called a clever child, was neither talkative nor musical, and yet she had a thousand winning ways of killing time, so sweetly that each minute died, dolphin-like, shedding glorious hues. A very romantic simile this, one that would never have crossed Olive's innocent brain, she only knew that she loved her mother, and therefore tried to amuse and make her happy, so that she might not feel the change of circumstances, a change so unimportant to Olive, so vital to Mrs. Rothsay. Olive, this night, was peculiarly successful in her little ruse of love. Her mother listened while she explained a whole sketchbook of designs illustrative of half a dozen modern poets. Mrs. Rothsay even asked her to read some of the said poets aloud, and, though not of an imaginative temperament, was feigned to shed a few womanly tears over Tennyson's Queen of the May and the Miller's daughter. Finally, she was coaxed into sitting to her daughter for her portrait, which Olive thought would make a design exactly suited to the heroine of the latter poem, and chiefly at the verse, look through mine eyes with thine, true wife, round my true heart thine arms entwine, my other dearer life in life, look through my very soul with thine. And reading the verses over and over again, to bring the proper expression to her mother's face, the young girl marveled that they brought likewise a look so sad that she would feign have made some excuse and terminated the sitting. No, no, my dear, it amuses me and I can talk with you the while. But Mrs. Rothsay did not talk much. She was continually falling into a reverie. Once she broke it with the words, Olive, my child, I think now we lead a quieter life, your papa will stay at home more. He seems to like this house, too. He never liked Maravale. Dear old Maravale, said Olive with a sigh. It seemed ages since she had left the familiar place. Do not call it dear. It was a dreary home. I did not think so at first, but I did afterwards. Why, mama, asked Olive. She was glad to lure her mother on to talk a little, if only to dispel the shadow which so ill became Mrs. Rothsay's still fair face. You were too young to know anything, then. Indeed, you are now almost, but somehow I have learned to talk with you as if you were quite a little woman, Olive, my dear. Thank you, mama. And what made you dislike sweet Maravale? It was when your papa first began to take his long journeys, on business, you know. He was obliged to do it, I suppose, but nevertheless it was very dull for me. I never had such a dreary summer as that one. You could not remember it, though. You were only ten years old. Olive did remember it faintly nevertheless, a time when her father's face was sterner and her mother's more fretful than now, when the shadow of many domestic storms passed over the child. But she never spoke of these things, and, lest her mother should ponder painfully on them now, she began to talk of lighter matters. Yet, though the sweet companionship of her only daughter was balm to Mrs. Rothsay's heart, still there was a pain there which even Olive could not remove. Was it that the mother's love had sprung from the ruins of the wife's happiness, and that when smiling gaily with her child, Sibyla Rothsay's thoughts were with the husband who, year by year, was growing more estranged, and whom, as she found out too late, by a little more wisdom, patience, and womanly sympathy, she might perhaps have kept forever at her side. But none of these mysteries came to the knowledge of little Olive. She lived the dream life of early girlhood, dwelling in an atmosphere still and pure as a gray spring morning ere the sun has risen. All she learnt was from books, for though she had occasional teachers, she had never been sent to school. Sometimes she regretted this, thinking how pleasant it would be to have companions, or at least one friend of her own age, to whom she might talk on the various subjects of which she had of late begun to dream. These never passed the still sanctuary of her own thoughts, for some instinct told her that her mother would not sympathize with her fancies. So she thought of them always by herself, when she was strolling about the small but pleasant garden that sloped down from the back of the house to the river, or when extending her peregrinations, she went to sit in the summer house of the garden adjoining, which belonged to a large mansion close by, long uninhabited. It was quite a punishment to Olive when a family came to live there, and she lost the use of the beautiful deserted garden. Still it was something new to have neighbors. She felt quite a curiosity respecting them, which was not diminished when, looking out one day from the staircase window, a favorite seat from which every night she watched the sunset, Olive caught sight of the new occupants of her former haunts. They were two little boys of about nine or ten, playing noisily enough, as boys will. Olive did not notice them much, except the youngest, who appeared much the quieter and gentler of the two, but her gaze rested a long time on a girl who seemed to be their elder sister. She was walking by herself up and down an alley, with a shawl thrown over her head, and her thick black hair blown about by the March winds. Olive thought she looked very picturesque, in fact just like some of her own fantastic designs of Nourna on the fitful head, Midora watching for Conrad, etc., etc., and when the young stranger drew nearer, her admiration was still further excited, by perceiving under the shawl a face that needed but a little romantic imagination to make it positively beautiful. Olive thought so, and accordingly sat the whole evening drawing it from memory, and putting it into various characters, from Scott, Byron, Moore, and Coleridge. For several days after, she took a deep interest in watching the family party, and chiefly this young girl, partly because she was so pretty, and partly because she seemed nearly about her own age, or perhaps a year or two older. Olive often contrived to walk in her garden when her neighbors were in theirs, so that she could hear the boy's cheerful voices over the high hedge. By this means she learnt their Christian names, Robert and Lyle, the latter of which she admired very much, and thought it exactly suited the pretty, delicate younger brother. She wished much to find out the name of their sister, but could not, for the elder girl took little notice of them, or they of her. So Olive, after thinking and talking of her for some time as, my beauty next door, to Mrs. Rothsay's great amusement, at last christened her by the imaginary name of Madalena. After a few weeks it seemed as though the interest between the young neighbors became mutual. For Olive in her walks, sometimes fancied, she saw faces watching her, too, from the staircase window, and once peering over the wall, she perceived the mischievous eyes and pointed finger of the elder boy, and heard the younger one say reproachfully, Don't, pray, you are very cruel, Bob, and Olive deeply blushing, though at what she scarcely knew, fled into the house, and did not take her usual garden walks for some days. At last, when, one lovely spring evening, she stood leaning over the low wall at the garden's end, idly watching the river flow by beneath, she turned round, and saw fixed on her, with a curiosity not unmingled with interest, the dark eyes of Madalena. Somehow or other the two girls smiled, and then the elder spoke. The evening was very fine, she said, and it was rather dull walking in the garden all alone. Olive had never found it so, but she was used to it. Her young neighbor was not. She had always lived in a large town, etc., etc. A few more simple nothings spun out the conversation for ten minutes. The next day it was resumed and extended to twenty, during which Olive learnt that her young beauty's name, so far from being anything so fine as Madalena, was plain Sarah, or Sarah, S-A-R-A, as its owner took care to explain. Olive was rather disappointed, but she thought of Coleridge's lady-love, consoled herself, and tried to console the young lady with repeating, My pensive, Sarah, thy soft cheek reclined, etc. At which Miss Sarah Derwent laughed and asked who wrote that very pretty poetry. Olive was a little confounded. She fancied everybody read Coleridge, and her companion sank just one degree in her estimation. But as soon as she looked again on the charming face, with its large, languishing, asiatic eyes and delicate mouth, just like that of the lotus-leaved Clytey which she loved so much, Olive felt all her interest revive. Never was there any girl over whom every form of beauty exercised more fascination. By the week's end she was positively enchanted with her neighbor, and before a month had passed the two young girls had struck up that romantic friendship peculiar to sixteen. There is a deep beauty, more so than the world will acknowledge, in this impassioned first friendship, most resembling first love, the foreshadowing of which it truly is. Who does not, even while smiling at its apparent folly, remember the sweetness of such dream? Many a mother with her children at her knee may now and then call to mind some old playmate, for whom, when they were girls together, she felt such an intense love. How they used to pine for the daily greeting, the long walk fraught with all sorts of innocent secrets. Or in absence, the almost interminable letters, positive love letters full of dearest and beloveds and sealing wax kisses. Then the delicious meetings, sad partings, also quite lover-like in the multiplicity of tears and embraces, embraces sweeter than those of all the world beside, and tears, but our own are gathering while we write, ah, we also have been in Arcadia. Gracious reader, grave-stayed mother of a family, you are not quite right if you jest at the days of old and at such feelings as these. They were real at the time, and most pure, true, and beautiful. What matter if years sweeping on have swept them all away, or merged them into higher duties and closer ties? Perhaps, if you met your beautiful idol of fifteen, you would see a starched old maid of fifty, or a grandam presiding over the third generation. Or perchance, in seeking thus, you would find only a green hillock, or a stone inscribed with the well-known name. But what of that? To you the girlish image is still the same. It never can grow old or change or die. Think of it thus, and then you will think not mockingly, but with an interest almost mournful, on the rapturous dream of first friendship which now came to visit Olive Rathsay. Sarah Derwent was the sort of girl of whom we meet some hundreds in a lifetime. The class from whence are taken the lauded mothers, wives, and daughters of England. She was sincere, good-tempered, and affectionate, not over clever, being more gifted with heart than brains. Rather vain, which fault her extreme prettiness hath excused. Always anxious to do right, yet from a want of decision of character, often contriving to do wrong. But she completely charmed the simple Olive with her beauty, her sparkling, winning cheerfulness, and her ready sympathy. So they became the most devoted friends. Not a day passed without their spending some portion of it together. Olive teaching the young Londoner the pleasures of the country, and Sarah, in her turn, inducting the wondering Olive into all the delightful mysteries of life, as learnt in a large home circle, and a still larger circle of society. Olive, not taking ought from the passionate love with which she looked up to her mother, yet opened her warm heart to the sweetness of this affection. So fresh, so sudden, so full of sympathetic contact. It was like a new revelation in her girlhood, the satisfying of a thirst just beginning to be felt. She thought of Sarah continually, delighted in being with her, in admiring her beauty and making interests out of every interest of hers. And to think that her friend loved her in return brought a sensation of deep happiness, not unmixed with gratitude. Sarah's own feelings may be explained by one sentence of a letter which she wrote to an old school fellow. Therein she told how she had found, such a dear, loving, gentle thing. A girl, not pretty, even slightly deformed, but who was an amusing companion and to whom she could confide everything. Such a blessing in that dull place, old church. Poor little Olive. As the summer advanced, Olive Rothsay and her new friend, sanctioned by the elders of both families, took long walks together, read and practiced. Not that Olive practiced, for she had no voice and little knowledge of music, but she listened to Sarah's performances for hours, with patience if not with delight. And when they talked, oh what talks those were. Now, reader, be not alarmed lest we should indulge you with the same. Go back into your own repertoire of early friendships, and that will suit us quite as well. Still, we may just say that these young friends flitted like bees over every subject under heaven, and at last alighted on the subject most interesting at their age. Love. It is curious to note how the heart first puts out its tendrils, and stretches them forth toward the yet unknown good which is to be in afterlife its happiness and its strength. What folly of parents, to repress these blind ceakings after such knowledge, this yearning which nature teaches, and which in itself involves nothing wrong. Girls will think of love whether or no. How much better then, that they should be taught to think of it rightly, as the one deep feeling of life. Not, on the one hand, to be repressed by ridicule, nor on the other to be forced by romance into a precocious growth, but to be entered upon when fate brings the time rationally, earnestly, and sacredly. Olive Rothsay found, with considerable pain, that Mr. Wendt and she did not at all agree in their notions of love. Olive had always felt half-frightened at the subject, and never approached it save with great awe and timidity, but Sarah did not seem to mind it in the least. She talked of a score of flirtations at quadrille parties, showed her friend half a dozen complimentary billet-due which she had received, and all with the greatest unconcern. By degrees this indifference vanished under the influence of Olive's more earnest nature, and at last, when they were sitting together one night, listening to the fierce howling of the wind, a little secret came out. I don't like that equinocdeal, Gale, said Sarah shyly. I used to hear so much of its horrors from a friend I have, at sea. Indeed, who was that? Only Charles Getty's. Did I never speak of him? Very likely not, because I was so vexed at his leaving college and running off to sea. It was a foolish thing, but don't mention him to Papa or the boys. And Sarah blushed, a real good honest blush. Olive did the same, perhaps from sympathy. She continued very thoughtful for a long time, longer even than Sarah. They were not many days in making out between them the charming secret for which in their hearts they had been longing. Both were thirsting to taste, or at least to see each other taste, of that enchanting love-stream, the stream of life or of death at whose verge they had now arrived. And so, it somehow chanced that, however the conversation began, it usually glided into the subject of Charles Getty's. Sarah acknowledged that he and she had always liked one another very much, though she allowed that he was fonder of her than she was of him. That, when they parted, he had seemed much agitated, and she had cried. But they were mere boy and girl then. It was nothing, nothing at all. Olive did not think so. And, contrasting all this with similar circumstances in her pet poems and novels, she wove a very nice romance round Charles Getty's and her beloved Sarah, whom she now began to look upon with greater interest and reverence than ever. This did not prevent her reading Sarah a great many lectures on constancy, and giving her own opinions on what true love ought to be, opinions which were a little too ethereal for Mr. One's comprehension, but which she liked very much nevertheless. Olive took quite an affectionate interest in her friend's lover, for lovers she had decided that he must be. Not a day passed that she did not eagerly consult the time's shipping intelligence, and when at last she saw the name of Charles Getty's vessel as arrived, her heartbeat and tears sprang to her eyes. When she showed it to Sarah, Olive could hardly speak for joy. Little Simpleton, she counted her friend's happiness as if it were her own. She kept the secret even from her mother, that is, in the only manner Olive would conceal ought from anyone so beloved, by saying, Please, Mama, do not ask me anything. And Mrs. Rothsay, who always guided by someone, was now in a fair way to be entirely guided by her daughter, made no inquiries, but depended entirely upon Olive's wisdom and tenderness. Charles Getty's came to Old Church. It was quite a new life for Olive, a changed life too, for now the daily rambles with her friend were less frequent, instead of which she used to sit at her window, and watch Sarah and Charles taking long strolls in the garden, arm in arm, looking so happy that it was beautiful to see them. Who can describe the strange, half-defined thoughts which often brought tears to the young girl's eyes as she watched them thus? It was no jealousy of Sarah's deserting her for Charles, still less was it envy, but it was a vague longing, a desiring of love for love's own sake, not as regarded any individual object, for Olive had never seen anyone in whom she felt or fancied the slightest interest. Yet, as she looked on these two young creatures, apparently so bound up in each other, she thought how sweet such a time must be, and how dearly she herself could love someone, and her yearning was always to love rather than to be loved. One morning, when Olive had not seen Sarah for a day or two, she was hastily summoned to their usual tristing place, a spot by the riverside, where the two gardens met, and where an overarching thorn-tree made a complete bower. Therein Sarah stood, looking so pale and serious that Olive remarked it. Has anything happened? Nothing, that is, nothing amiss. But, oh, Olive, what do you think? Charles put this letter into my hand last night. I have scarcely slept. I feel so agitated, so frightened. And in truth she looked so. Was there ever a very young girl who did not on receiving her first love letter? It was an era in Olive's life, too. She even trembled, as by her friend's earnest desire she read the missive. It was boyish indeed, and full of the ultra-romantic devotion of boyish love. But it was sincere, and it touched Olive deeply. She finished it, and leaned against the thorn-tree, pale and agitated as Sarah herself. Well, Olive, said the latter, Olive threw her arms round her friend's neck and kissed her, feeling almost ready to cry. And now, dear, tell me what I must do, said Sarah, earnestly. For, of late, she had really begun to look up to Olive, so great was the influence of the more thoughtful and higher nature. Do! Why, if you love him, you must tell him so, and give him your whole life long faith and affection. Really, Olive, how grave you are! I had no idea of making it such a serious matter. But poor Charles, to think that he should love me so very much. Oh, Sarah! Sarah! murmured Olive. How happy you ought to be! The time that followed was a strange period in Olive's life. It was one of considerable excitement, too. She might as well have been in love herself, so deeply did she sympathize with Sarah and with Charles. With the latter even more than with her friend. For there was something in the sincere, reserved, and yet passionate nature of the young sailor that answered to her own. If he had been her brother, she could not have felt more warmly interested in Charles Getty's and his wooing. And he liked her very much, for Sarah's sake first and then for her own, regarding her also with that gentle compassion which the strong and bold delight to show to the weak. He often called her his faithful little friend, and truly she stood his friend in every conceivable way by soothing Sarah's only parent, a most irascible papa, to consent to the engagement, and also by lecturing the gay and coquettish Sarah herself into as much good behavior as could be expected from an affianced damsel of seventeen. Charles Getty's went to see again. Poor little Olive, in her warm sympathies, suffered almost as much as the young man's own betrothed, who, after looking doleful for a week, consoled herself by entering heart and soul into the gayities of the gayest Christmas that ever was spent by the society of Old Church. Everywhere Miss Derwent was the bell, and continually did her friend need to remind her of the promise which Olive herself regarded as such a sacred, solemn thing. The love adventure in which she had borne apart had stirred strange depths in the nature of the young girl. She was awakening slowly to the great mystery of woman's life. And when, by degrees, Sarah's amusements somewhat alienated their continual intercourse, Olive was thrown back upon her own thoughts more and more. She felt a vague sadness, a something wanting in her heart which not even her mother's love could supply. Mrs. Rothsay saw how dull and pensive she was at times, and with a tender unselfishness contrived that, by Sarah Derwent's intervention, Olive should see a little more society. In a very quiet way, though, for her own now delicate health and Captain Rothsay's will prevented any regular introduction of their daughter into the world. And sometimes Mrs. Rothsay, pondering on Olive's future, felt glad of this. Poor child, she is not made for the world or the world for her, better that she should lead her own quiet life, where she will suffer no pain and be wounded by no neglect. Yet, nevertheless, it was with a vague pleasure that Mrs. Rothsay dressed Olive for her first ball, a birthday treat, coaxed by Sarah Derwent out of her formidable papa, and looked forward to by both girls for many weeks. No one would have believed that the young creature, on whom Mrs. Rothsay gazed with a tenderness not unmingled with admiration, had been the poor infant from which she once turned with a sensation of pain, almost amounting to disgust. But learning to love, one learns also to admire. Besides, Olive's defect was less apparent as she grew up, and the extreme sweetness of her countenance almost atoned for her bad figure. Yet, as the mother fastened her white dress, and arranged the golden curls so as to fall in a shower on her neck and bosom, she sighed heavily. Olive did not notice it. She was too much occupied in tying up a rare bouquet, a birthday gift for Sarah. Well, are you quite satisfied with my dress, dearest mama? Not quite. And Mrs. Rothsay fetched a small mantle of white fur, which she laid round Olive's shoulders. Where this, dear, you will look better then, see? She led her to the mirror, and Olive saw the reflection of her own figure so effectually disguised that the head, with its delicate and spiritual beauty, seemed lifting itself out of a white cloud. Tis a pretty little mantle, but why must I wear it, mama? The night is not cold. So little did she think of herself, and so slight had been her intercourse with the world, that the defect in her shape rarely crossed her mind. But the mother, so beautiful herself, and to whom beauty was still of such importance, was struck with bitter pain. She would not even console herself by the reflection, with which many a one had lately comforted her, that Olive's slight deformity was becoming less perceptible, and that she might, in a great measure, outgrow it in time. Still it was there. As Mrs. Rothsay looked at the swan-like curves of her own figure, and then at her daughters, she would almost have resigned her own once cherished but now disregarded beauty, could she have bestowed that gift upon her beloved child? Without speaking, lest Olive should guess her thoughts, she laid the mantle aside, only she whispered in bidding adieu. Dear, if you see other girls prettier or more admired, more noticed than yourself, never mind. Olive is mama's own pat always. Oh, blessed adversity! Oh, sweetness taught by suffering! How marvellous was the change Roth in Cibilla's heart! Olive had never in her life before been at a private ball, with chalked floors, route seats, and a regular band. She was quite dazzled by the transformation thus affected in the Derwent's large, rarely used dining room, where she had had many a merry game with little Robert and Lyle. It was perfect fairyland. The young damsels of Old Church, haughty boarding school bells whom she had always rather feared when Sarah's hospitality brought her in contact with them, were now grown into perfect court beauties. She was quite alarmed by their dignity, and they scarcely noticed poor little Olive at all. Sarah, sweeping across the room, appeared to the eyes of her little friend a perfect queen of beauty. But the vision came and vanished. Never was there a bell so much in request as the lively Sarah. Only once Olive looked at her, and remembered the sailor boy who was perhaps tossing in some awful nightstorm or lying on the lonely deck in the midst of the wide Atlantic. And she thought that when her time came to love and beloved she would not take everything quite so easily as Sarah. How pleasant quadrilles must be, said Olive, as she sat with her favourite Lyle watching the dancers. Lyle had crept to her, sliding his hand in hers, and looking up to her with the most adoring gaze, as indeed he often did. He had even communicated his intention of marrying her when he grew a man, a determination which greatly excited the ridicule of his elder brother. I like far better to sit here quietly with you, murmured the faithful little cavalier. Thank you, Lyle. Still they all look so merry. I almost wish someone had asked me to dance. You dance, Miss Rothsay. What fun! Why nobody would ever dance with you, cried rude Bob. Lyle looked imploringly at his brother. Hush, you naughty boy! Please, Miss Rothsay, I will dance with you at any time, that is, if you think I am tall enough. Oh, quite! I am so small myself, answered Olive, laughing, for she took quite a pride in patronizing him, as girls of sixteen often affectionately patronize boys some five or six years their junior. You know you are to grow up to be my little husband. Your husband, repeated Bob mischievously, don't be too sure of getting one at all. What do you think I overheard those girls there say, that you looked just like an old maid, and indeed no one would ever care to marry you because you were— Here, Lyle, blushing crimson, stopped his brother's mouth with his little hand, where at Bob flew into such a passion that he quite forgot Olive, and all he was about to say, in the excitement of a pugilistic combat with his unlucky cadet, in the midst of which the two belligerents, poor, untaught motherless lads, were hurried off to bed. Their companionship lost, Olive was left very much to her own devices for amusement. Some few young people that she knew came and talked to her for a little while, but they all went back to their singing, dancing, or flirting, and Olive, who seemed to have no gift nor share in either, was left alone. She did not feel this much at first, being occupied in her thoughts and observations on the rest. She took great interest in noticing all around. Her warm heart throbbed in sympathy with many an idle passing flirtation, which she in her simplicity mistook for a real attachment. It seemed as if everyone loved, or was loved, except herself. She thought this, blushing as if it were on maidenliness, when it was only nature speaking in her heart. Poor Olive, perhaps it was ill for her that Sarah's love affair had aroused prematurely these blind gropings after life's great mystery. So often, too early seen unknown and known too late. What, tired of dancing already, cried Sarah, flitting to the corner where Olive sat. I have not danced once yet, Olive answered, rather piteously. Come, shall I get you a partner? said Sarah carelessly. No, no, everyone is strange to me here. If you please, and if it would not trouble you, Sarah, I had much rather dance with you. Sarah consented with a tolerably good grace, but there was a slight shadow on her face which somewhat pained her friend. Is she ashamed of me, I wonder, thought Olive? Perhaps, because I am not beautiful. Yet no one ever told me I was very disagreeable to look at. I will see. As they danced, she watched in the tall mirror Sarah's graceful floating image and the little pale figure that moved beside her. There was a contrast. Olive, who inherited all her mother's love of beauty, spiritualized by the refinement of a dawning artist's soul, felt keenly the longing regret after physical perfection. She went through the dance with less spirit, and in her heart there rung the idle echoes of some old song she knew. I see the courtly ladies stand, with their dark and shining hair, and I coldly turn aside to weep, o' wood that I were fair. The quadril ended she hid herself in her old corner, and Sarah, whose good nature led her to perform this sacrifice to friendship, seemed to smile more pleasantly and affectionately when it was over. At least Olive thought so. She did not see her beautiful idol again for some time, and feeling little interest in any other girl, and none at all in the awkward old church bow, she took consolation in her own harmless fashion. This was hiding herself under the thick curtains and looking out of the window at the moon. Sarah's voice was heard close by, talking to a young girl whom Olive knew, but Olive was too shy to join them. She greatly preferred her friend, the moon. I laughed to see you dancing with that little Olive Roth say, Miss Derwent, for my part I hate dancing with girls, and as for her, but I suppose you wanted to show the contrast. Nay, that's ill-natured, answered Sarah. She is a sweet little creature and my very particular friend. Here Olive, blushing and happy, doubted whether she ought not to come out of the curtains. It was almost wrong to listen. Only her beloved Sarah often said she had no secrets from Olive. Yes, I know she is your friend, and Mr. Charles Getty's great friend, too. If I were you I should be almost jealous. Jealous of Olive, how very comical, and the silver laugh was a little scornful. To think of Olive's stealing any girl's lover, she who will probably never have one in all her life, poor thing. Of course not, nobody would fall in love with her, but there is a waltz I must run away. Will you come? Presently, when I have looked in the other room for Olive. Olive is here, said a timid voice. Oh, Sarah, forgive me if I have done wrong, but I can't keep anything from you. It would grieve me to think I heard what you were saying and never told you of it. Sarah appeared confused, and with a quick impulse kissed and fondled her little friend. You are not vexed or pained, Olive. Oh, no, that is, not much. It would be very silly if I were. But, she added doubtfully, I wish you would tell me one thing, Sarah. Not that I am proud or vain, but still I should like to know. Why did you and Jane Ormond say just now that nobody would ever love me? Don't talk so, my little pet, said Sarah, looking pained and puzzled. Yet instinctively her eye glanced to the mirror, where their two reflections stood. So did Olive's. Yes, I know, she murmured. I am little and plain and in figure very awkward, not graceful like you. Would that make people hate me, Sarah? Not hate you, but— Well, go on. Nay, I will know all, said Olive firmly, though gradually a thought, long subdued, began to dawn painfully in her mind. I assure you, dear, began Sarah hesitatingly, that it does not signify to me or to any of those who care for you. You are such a gentle little creature, we forget it all in time. But perhaps with strangers, especially with men who think so much about beauty, this defect. She paused, laying her arm round Olive's shoulders, even affectionately as if she herself were much moved. But Olive, with a cheek that whitened, and a lip that quivered more and more, looked resolutely at her own shape imaged in the glass. I see as I never saw before, so little I thought of myself. Yes, it is quite true, quite true. She spoke beneath her breath, and her eyes seemed fascinated into a hard cold gaze. Sarah became almost frightened. Do not look so, my dear girl. I did not say that it was a positive deformity. Olive faintly shuddered. Ah, that is the word. I understand it all now. She paused a moment covering her face. But very soon she sat down, so quiet and pale that Sarah was deceived. You do not mind it, then, Olive? You are not angry with me, she said, soothingly. Angry with you? How could I be? Then you will come back with me, and we will have another dance. Oh no, no! And the cheerful, good-natured voice seemed to make Olive shrink with pain. Sarah, dear Sarah, let me go home. CHAPTER XIII Well, my love, was the ball as pleasant as you expected, said Mrs. Rothsay, when Olive drew the curtains and roused her invalid mother to the usual early breakfast, received from no hands but hers. Olive answered quietly. Everyone said it was pleasant. But you returned to the mother, with an anxiety she could scarce disguise. Who talked to you? Who danced with you? No one except Sarah. Poor child was the half-involuntary sigh, and Mrs. Rothsay drew her daughter to her with deep tenderness. It was a strange fate that made the once slighted child almost the only thing in the world to which Cebilla Rothsay now clung. And yet, so rich, so full had grown the springs of maternal love, long hidden in her nature, that she would not have exchanged their sweetness to be again the petted, willful, beautiful darling of society as she was at Sterling. The neglected wife, the often ailing mother, dependent on her daughter's tenderness, was happier and nearer to heaven than she had ever been in her life. Mrs. Rothsay regarded Olive earnestly. You look as ill as if you had been up all night, and yet you came to bed tolerably early, and I thought you slept, you lay so quiet. Was it so, darling? Not quite, I was thinking, said Olive truthfully, though her face flushed, for she would feign have kept her bitter thoughts from her mother. Just then Mrs. Rothsay started at the sound of the whole bell. Is that your father come home? He said he might, to-day or to-morrow. Olive went downstairs. It was only a letter to say Captain Rothsay would return that day, and would bring, most rare circumstance, some guests to visit them. Olive seemed to shrink painfully at this news. What, my child, are you not pleased? It will make the house less dull for you. No, no, I do not wish. Oh, mama, if I could only shut myself up and never see anyone but you. And Olive turned very pale. At last resolutely trying to speak without any show of trouble, she continued, I have found out something that I never knew, at least never thought of before, that I am different from other girls. Oh, mother, am I really deformed? She spoke with much agitation. Mrs. Rothsay burst into tears. Oh, Olive, how wretched you make me to talk thus, unhappy mother that I am. Why should heaven have punished me thus? Punished you, mother? Nay, my child, my poor innocent child, I did not mean that, cried Mrs. Rothsay, embracing her with a passionate revulsion of feeling. But the word was said, to linger forever after on Olive's mind. It brought back the look once written on her childish memory, grown faint but never quite erased, her father's first look. She understood it now. Mrs. Rothsay continued weeping, and Olive had to cast aside all other feelings in the care of soothing her mother. She succeeded at last, but she learned at the same time that on this one subject there must be silence between them forever. It seemed also to her sensitive nature, as if every tear and every complaining word were a reproach to the mother that bore her. Henceforth her bitter thoughts must be wrestled with alone. She did so wrestle with them. She walked out into her favorite meadow, now lying in the silent, frost-bound mischievous of a January day. It was where she had often been in summer with Sarah and Charles Gettys and the little boys. Now everything seemed so wintry and lonely. What if her own future life were so, one long winter day wherein was neither beauty, gladness, nor love? I am deformed. That was Sarah's own word, murmured Olive to herself. If this is felt by one who loves me, what must I appear to the world? Will not all shrink from me? And even those who pity turn away in pain, as for loving me? Thinking thus, Olive's fancy began to count, almost in despair, all those whose affection she had ever known. There was Elsby, there were her parents. Yet the love of both father and mother, how sweet so ever now, had not blessed her always. She remembered the time when it was not there. Alas, that I should have been even to them a burden, a punishment, cried the girl, in the first outburst of suffering which became ten times keener, because concealed. Her vivid fancy even exaggerated the truth. She saw in herself a poor, deformed being, shut out from all natural ties, a woman to whom friendship would be given but in kindly pity, to whom love that blissful dream in which she had of late indulged, would be denied for ever more. How hard seemed her doom! If it were for months only, or even years, but to bear for a whole life this withering ban, never to be freed from it except through death, and her lips unconsciously repeated the bitter murmur, oh God, why hast thou made me thus? It was scarcely uttered before her heart trembled at its impiety. And then the current of her thoughts changed. Those mysterious yearnings which had haunted her throughout childhood, until they had grown fainter under the influence of earthly ties and pleasures, returned to her now. God's immeasurable infinite rose before her in glorious serenity. What was one brief lifetime to the ages of eternity? She felt it, she in her weakness, her untaught childhood, her helplessness, felt that her poor, deformed body enshrined a living soul, a soul that could look on heaven, and on whom heaven also looked, not like man with scorn or loathing, but with a divine tenderness that had power to lift the mortal into communion with the immortal. Olive Rothsay seemed to have grown years older in that hour of solitary musing. She walked homewards through the silent fields over which the early night was falling, night coming as it were in the midst of day, where the only light was given by the white cold snow. To Olive this was a symbol, too, a token that the freezing sorrow which had fallen on her path might palely light her on her earthly way. Strange things for a young girl to dream of. But they whom heaven teaches are sometimes called Samuel-like, while to them still pertains the childish effort and the temple porch. Passing on, with footsteps silent and solemn as her own heart, Olive came to the street on the verge of the town where was her own dwelling in Saras. From habit she looked in at the Derwent's house. It had all the cheerful brightness given by a blazing fire, glimmering through windows not yet closed. Olive could plainly distinguish the light shining on the crimson wall, even the merry faces of the circle round the hearth. And, as if to chant the chorus of so sweet a scene, there broke out on the clear frosty air the distant carillon of old church bells, marriage bells, too, signifying that not far off was dawning another scene of love and hope, that somewhere in the parish was celebrated the coming home of a bride. The young creature born with a woman's longings, longings neither unholy nor impure after the love which is the religion of a woman's heart, the sweetness of home which is the heaven of a woman's life, felt that from both she was shut out forever. Not for me, alas, not for me, she murmured, and her head drooped, and it seemed as though a cold hand were laid on her breast, saying, grow still and throb no more. Then, lifting her eyes, she saw shining far up in the sky, beyond the mist and the frost and the gloom one little star, the only one. With a long sigh her soul seemed to pass upward in prayer. Oh God, since thou hast willed it so, if in this world I must walk alone, do thou walk with me? If I must know no human love, fill my soul with thine. If earthly joy be far from me, give me that peace of heaven which passeth all understanding. And so, mournful yet serene, Olive Rotsay reached her home. She found her friend there. Sarah looked confused at seeing her, and appeared to try with the unwanted warmth of her greeting to a face from Olive's mind the remembrance of what had happened the previous evening. But Olive, for the first time, shrank from these tokens of affection. Even Sarah's love may be only compassion, she bitterly thought, but her father's nature was in the girl, his self-command, his proud reserve. Sarah Derwent only thought her rather silent and cold. There was a constraint on both, so much so that Olive heard, without testifying much pain, news which a few days before would have grieved her to the heart. This visit was a good-bye. Sarah had been suddenly sent for by her grandfather, who lived in a distant county, and the summons entailed a parting of some weeks, perhaps longer. But I shall not forget you, Olive. I shall write to you constantly. It will be my soul amusement in the dull place I am going to, why nobody ever used to enter my grandfather's house except the parson, who lived some few miles off. Poor old soul. I used to set fire to his wig and hide his spectacles. But he is dead now, I hear, and there has come in his place a young clergyman. Shall I strike up a little flirtation with him, eh, Olive? But Olive was in no jesting mood. She only shook her head. Mrs. Rothsay looked with admiration on Sarah. What a blithe young creature you are, my dear. You win everybody's liking. I wish Olive were only half as merry as you. Another arrow in poor Olive's heart. Well, we must try to make her so when I come back, said Sarah affectionately. I shall have tales enough to tell, perhaps about that young curate. Nay, don't frown, Olive. My cousin says he is a Scotsman born, and you like Scotland. Only his father was Welsh, and he has a horrid Welsh name. Worder or Gwyn or something like it. But I'll give you all information. And then she rose, still laughing, to bid a Jew, which seemed so long a farewell, when the friends had never yet been parted but for one brief day. In saying it, Olive felt how dear to her had been this girl, this first idol of her warm heart. And then there came a thought almost like terror. Though fated to live unloved, she could not keep herself from loving. And if so, how would she bear the perpetual void, the yearning never to be fulfilled? She fell on Sarah's neck and wept. You do care for me a little, only a little. A great deal, as much as ever I can, seeing I have so many people to care for, answered Sarah, trying to laugh away the tears that, from sympathy, perhaps, sprang to her eyes. Ah, true, and everybody cares for you. No wonder, answered Olive. Now, little Olive, why do you put on that grave face? Are you going to lecture me about not flirting with that stupid curate and always remembering Charles? Oh, no fear of that. I hope not, said Olive quietly. She could talk no more, and they bade each other goodbye, perhaps not quite so enthusiastically as they might have done a week ago, but still with much affection. Sarah had reached the door, when with a sudden impulse she came back again. Olive, I am a foolish, thoughtless girl, but if ever I paint you in any way, don't think of it again. Kiss me, will you, once more? Olive did so, clinging to her passionately. When Sarah went away, she felt as though the first flower had perished in her garden. The first star had melted from her sky. Sarah gone, she went back to her old dreamy life. The romance of first friendship seemed to have been swept away like a morning cloud. From Sarah there came no letters. Olive wrote once or twice, even thrice, but a sense of wounded feeling prevented her writing again. Robert and Lyle told her their sister was quite well and very merry. Then, over all the dream of sweet affection fell a cold silence. In Olive's own home were arising many cares. A great change came over her father. His economical habits became those of the wildest extravagance, extravagance in which his wife and daughter were not likely to share. Little they saw that either, saved during his rare visits to his home. Then he either spent his evenings out, or else dining, smoking, drinking, disturbed the quiet house at Old Church. Many a time till long after midnight the mother and child sat listening to the gay tumult of voices below, clinging to each other pale and sad. Not that Captain Rothsay was unkind, or that either had any fear for him, for he had always been a strict and temperate man. But it pained them to think that any society seemed sweeter to him than that of his wife and daughter, that any place was become dearer to him than his home. One night when Mrs. Rothsay appeared exhausted, either with weariness or sorrow apart, Olive persuaded her mother to go to rest, while she herself sat up for her father. Nay, let some of the servants do that, not you, my child. But Olive, innocent as she was, had accidentally seen the footmen smile rudely when he spoke of Master coming home last night, and a vague thought struck her that such late hours were discreditable in the head of a family. Her father should not be despised in his servant's eyes. She dismissed the household and waited up for him alone. Twelve, one, two. The hours went by like long years. Heavily at first dropped her poor drowsy eyes, and then all weariness was dispelled by a feeling of loneliness, an impression of coming sorrow. At last, when this was gradually merging into fear, she heard the sound of the swinging gate and her father's knock at the door, a loud, unsteady, angry knock. Why do you stay up for me? I don't want anybody to sit up, grumbled Captain Rothsay, without looking at her. But I liked to wait for you, papa. What, is that you, Olive? And he stepped in with a lounging, heavy gate. Did you not see me before? It was I who opened the door. Oh, yes, but I was thinking of something else, he said, throwing himself into the study chair, and trying with an effort to seem just as usual. You are a very good girl, I'm much obliged to you. The pleasure is, I may truly say, on both sides. And he energetically struck the table with his hand. Olive thought this an odd form of speech, but her father's manner was grown so changed of late. Sometimes he seemed quite in high spirits, even jokos, as he did now. I am glad to see you are not much tired, papa. I thought you were. You walked so wearily when you first came in. I tired, nonsense child. I have had the merriest evening in the world. I'll have another tomorrow, for I've asked them all to dine here. We'll give dinner parties to all the county. Papa, said Olive timidly, will that be quite right after what you told me of our being now so much poorer than we were? Did I? Pshaw, I don't remember. However I am a rich man now, richer than I have ever been. I am so glad. Because then, dear papa, you know you need not be so much away from home, or weary yourself with the speculations you told me of, but come and live quietly with us. Her father laughed loudly. Foolish little girl, your notion of quietness would not suit a man like me. Take my word for it, Olive. Home serves as a fantastic dream till five and twenty, and then means nothing at all. A man's home is the world. Is it? I, as I intend to show to you, by the by I shall give up this stupid place and enter into society. Your mother will like it, of course, and you as my only child. Gay, what did I say? Here he stopped hastily with a blank, frightened look, then repeated, Yes, you, my only child, will be properly introduced to the world. Why, you will be quite an heiress, my girl, continued he, with an excited jocularity that frightened Olive, and the world always courts such. Who knows but that you may marry in spite of? Oh, no, never, interrupted Olive, turning away with bitter pain. Come, don't mind it, continued her father, with a reckless indifference to her feelings, quite unusual to him. Why, my little sensible girl, you are better than any beauty in England. Beauties are all fools or worse. And he laughed so loud, so long, that Olive was seized with a great horror that absorbed even her own individual suffering. Was her father mad? Alas, there is a madness worse than disease. A voluntary madness, by which a man, longing at any price for excitement or oblivion, puts an enemy into his mouth to steal away his brains. This was the foe, the stealthy-footed demon that had at last come to overmaster the brave and noble Angus Rothsay. As yet it ruled him not, he was no sought. But his daughter saw enough to know that the fiend was nigh upon him, that this night he was even in its grasp. It is only the noblest kind of affection that can separate the sinner from the sin, and even while condemning, pity, fallen as he was, Olive Rothsay looked on her father mournfully, intriguingly. She could not speak. He seemed annoyed and slightly confounded. Come, simpleton, why do you stare at me? There is nothing the matter. Go away to bed. Olive did not move. Make haste, what are you waiting for? Nay, stay, till the cold night. Just leave out the keys of the sideboard, will you? There's a good little housekeeper," he said coaxingly. Olive turned away in disgust, but only for a moment. In case you should want anything, let me stay a little longer, papa. I am not tired, and I have some work to do. Suppose I go and fetch it? She went into the inner room, slowly, quietly, and when safe out of sight, burst into tears of such shame and terror as she had never before known. Then she sat down to think. Her father thus, her mother feeble in mind or body, no one in the wide world to trust to but herself, no one to go to for comfort and counsel, none save heaven. She sank on her knees and prayed. As she rose, the angel in the daughter's soul was stronger than the demon in her father's. Olive waited a little, and then walked softly into the other room. Some brandy left on the sideboard had attracted Captain Rothsay's sight. He had reached it stealthily, as if the act still conveyed to his dulled brain a consciousness of degradation. Once he looked round suspiciously. Alas, the father dreaded his daughter's eye. Then, stealthily standing with his face to the fire, he began to drink the tempting poison. It was taken out of his hand. So noiseless was Olive's step, so gentle her movement, that he stood dumb, astonished, as though in the presence of some apparition. And in truth the girl looked like a spirit, for her face was very white, and her parted lips seemed as though they never had uttered and never could utter one living sound. Father and daughter stood for some moments, thus gazing at each other, and then Captain Rothsay threw himself into his chair with a forced laugh. What's the matter, little fool? Can't your father take care of himself? Give me the brandy again. But she held it fast and made no answer. Olive, I say, do you insult me thus? And his voice rose in anger. Go to bed, I command you. Will you not? No. The refusal was spoken softly, very softly, but it expressed indomitable firmness, and there was something in the girl's resolute spirit, before which that of the man quailed. With a sudden transition, which showed that the drink had already somewhat overpowered his brain, he melted into complaints. You are very rude to your poor father. You, almost the only comfort he has left. This touch even of model and sentiment went direct to Olive's heart. She clung to him, kissed him, begged his forgiveness. Nay even wept over him. He ceased to rage and sat in a sullen silence for many minutes. Meanwhile Olive took away every temptation from his sight. Then she roused him gently. Now, papa, it is time to go to bed. Pray come upstairs. He, the calm, gentleman like Captain Rothsay, burst into a storm of passion that would have disgraced a boar. How dare you order me about in this manner? Cannot I do as I like without being controlled by you, a mere chit of a girl, a very child? I know I am only a child, answered Olive meekly. Do not be angry with me, papa. Do not speak unkindly to your poor little daughter. My daughter, how dare you call yourself so, you white-faced, mean-looking hunchback. At the word Olive recoiled, a strong shudder ran through her frame, one long sobbing sigh, and no more. Her father, shocked and a little sobered, paused in his cruel speech. For minutes they remained. He leaning back with a stupefied air. She's standing before him, her face drooped and covered with her hands. Olive, he muttered, in a repentant, humbled tone. Yes, papa. I am quite ready. If you like, I'll go to bed now. Without speaking she lighted him upstairs. Nay led him forward to his bitter shame. The guidance was not unneeded. When she left him he had the grace to whisper. Child, you are not vexed about anything I said. She looked sorrowfully into his hot fevered face and stroked his arm. No, no, not vexed at all. You could not help it, poor father. She heard her mother's feeble voice speaking to him as he entered, and saw his door close. Long she watched there, until beneath it she perceived not one glimmer of light. Then she crept away, only murmuring to herself, Oh God, teach me to endure. What is the matter with the child today? said Captain Rothsay to his wife, with whom, oh rare circumstance, he was sitting ta-ta-tet. But this, and a few other alterations for the better, had taken place in consequence of his longer stay at home than usual, during which an unseen influence had been busily at work. Poor Olive, was it not well for her that, to temper the first shock of her bitter destiny, there should arise in the dreary blank of the future, duty so holy that they stood almost in the place of joys? How dull the girl seems, again observed Captain Rothsay, looking after his daughter, with a tenderness of which he afterwards appeared rather ashamed. Dull is she, said the mother, oh very likely, poor child, she is grieving to lose her chief friend and companion, Mr. Wint. News came to her this morning that Sarah is about to be married. Oh, indeed. And Captain Rothsay made an attempt at departure. He hated gossiping, even of the most harmless kind. But his wife, pleased that he condescended to talk to her at all, tried to amuse him in her own easy way. Poor Sarah! I am glad that she is going to have a home of her own, though she is young enough to marry. But I believe it was a very sudden affair, and the gentleman fell so desperately in love with her. More fool he, muttered Captain Rothsay. Nay, he is not a fool at all. He is a very sensible, clever man, and a clergyman too. Mr. Wint said so in her brief note to Olive. But she did not mention where he lived. Little indeed she told but that his name was Gwynne. Captain Rothsay turned round quickly. And Sarah speaks of his mother being a stiff old Scotswoman. Ah, you are listening now, my dear. Let me see. I think Mr. Wint mentions her maiden name. The silly girl makes quite a boast of her lover's ancient family on the maternal side. There is no silliness in that, I hope, Mrs. Rothsay. Certainly not. Was I not always proud of yours? said the wife, with a meekness not newly learnt. She hunted in her reticule for Sarah's letter and read. Ah, here is the name. Alice in Balfour. Do you know it? I did once when I was a boy. Stay, do not go away in that hasty manner. Pray talk to me a little more, Angus. It is so dull to be confined to this sick room. Tell me of this Alice in Balfour. You know I should like to hear about your friends. Should you? That is something new. If it had been always so, if you had indeed made my interests yours, Sibylla. There was a touch of regret and old tenderness in his voice. She thought he was kind on account of her illness, and thanked him warmly. But the thanks sent him back to his usual cold self. He did not like to have his weakness noticed. Mrs. Rothsay understood neither one state of feeling nor the other. So she said, cheerfully, come, now for the story of Alice in Balfour. There is no story to tell. She was merely a young companion of my Aunt Flora. I knew her for some years. In fact, until she married Mr. Gwynne, she was a noble woman. Really, Angus, I shall grow jealous, said Mrs. Rothsay, half in jest, half in earnest. She must have been an old love of yours. Her husband frowned. Folly, Sibylla, she was a woman and I a schoolboy. And yet the words galled him, for they were not far off the truth. True, Alice in was old enough to have been his mother, but many a precocious lad of sixteen conceives a similar romantic passion, and Angus Rothsay had really been very much in love, as he thought, with Alice in Balfour. Even when he quitted the room, and walked out into the road, his thoughts went backward many years, picturing the old, dull mansion whose only brightness had come with her presence. He remembered how he used to walk by her side in lonely mountain rambles—he a young boy and she a grown woman—and how proud he was when she stooped her tall stature to lean upon his arm. Once she kissed him, and he lay awake all night, and many a night after, dreaming of the remembered bliss. And as he grew a youth, what delicious sweetness in these continued dreams, what pride to think himself in love, and with such a woman. Folly it was, hopeless folly, for she had been long betrothed to one she loved, but that was not Owen Gwynne. Alas, Alice in, like many another proud, passionate woman, had married in sudden anger, thereby wrecking her whole life. When she did so, Angus Rothsay lost his boyish dream. He had already begun to find out that it was only a dream, though his first fancy's idol never ceased to be to him a memory full of all that was noble and beautiful in womanhood. For many years this enchanted portion of Captain Rothsay's past life had rarely crossed his mind, but when it did it was always with a half unconscious thought that he himself might have been a better and a happier man had his own beautiful sabilla been more like Alice in Balfour. This chance-news of her awakened memories connected with other scenes and characters, which had gradually melted away from Angus Rothsay's life, or been enveloped in the mist of selfishness and worldliness which had gathered over it and over him. He thought of the old uncle, Sir Andrew Rothsay, whose pride he had been, of the sweet Aunt Flora, whose pale beauty had bent over his cradle with a love almost like a mother's, save that it was so very, very sad. One had died estranged, the other, he would not let many weeks pass before he sought out Miss Flora Rothsay, that he was determined on, and to do so the best plan would be first to go and see Allison, Mrs. Gwynn. Captain Rothsay always kept his intentions to himself and transacted his matters alone. Therefore, without the aid of wife or daughter, he soon discovered in what region lay Mr. Gwynn's curacy, and determined to hasten his customary journey to London that he might visit the place on his way. The night before his departure came, it was really a melancholy evening, for he had stayed at home so long, and been most of the time what his wife called so good, that she quite regretted his going. The more so as he was about to travel by the awful railway, then newly established, which, in the opinion of poor Mrs. Rothsay, with her delicate nerves and easily roused terrors, entailed on him the certainty of being killed. She pleaded so much and so anxiously, even to the last, that when, in order to start at daybreak, he bade good-bye to her and Olive overnight, Captain Rothsay was softened even to tenderness. "'Do you really care so much about me, Sibylla?' said he, half-mournfully. She did not spring to his arms like the young wife at Stirling, but she kissed his hand affectionately and called him Angus. "'Olive,' said the father, when, having embraced his wife, he now turned to his daughter. "'Olive, my child, take care of your mother. I shall be at home soon, and we shall be very happy again, all three.'" As they ascended the staircase, they saw him watching them from below. Olive so content, even though her father was going away, she kissed her hand to him with a blithe gesture, and then saw him go in and close the door. When the house sank into quietness, a curious feeling oppressed Captain Rothsay. It seemed to take rise in his wife's infectious fears. "'Women are always silly,' he argued to himself. "'Why should I dread any danger? The railway is as safe as a coach, and yet that affair of poor Huskesson! Puh! what a fool I am!' But even while he mocked it, the vague presentiment appeared to take form in his mind. And sitting, the only person awake in the slumbering house, where no sound broke the stillness, except the falling of a few cinders, and the occasional noise of a mouse behind the wainscot, somewhat of the superstitions of his northern youth came over him, his countenance became grave, and he sank into deep thought. It is a trite saying that every man has that in his heart, which, if known, would make all his fellow-creatures hate him. Was it this evil spirit which now struggled in Captain Rothsay's breast, and darkened his face with storms of passion, remorse, or woe? He gave no utterance to them in words. If any secret there were he would not trust it even to the air. But at times his mute lips writhed, his cheeks burned and grew ghastly. Sometimes, too, he wore a cowed and humble look, as on the night when his daughter had stood like a pure angel to save him from the abyss on the brink of which he trod. She had saved him, apparently. That night's shame had never occurred again. Slowly his habits were changing, and his tastes becoming home-like. But still his lonely hours betokened some secret hidden in his soul, a secret which, if known, might have accounted for his having plunged into a brawrious excitement or drunken oblivion. At length, as by a violent effort, Angus Rothsay sat down and began to write. He wrote for several hours, though frequently his task was interrupted by long reveries and by fits of vehement emotion. When he had finished, he carefully sealed up what he had written and placed it in a secret drawer of his desk. Then he threw himself on a sofa to sleep, during the brief time that intervened before daybreak. In the grey of the morning, when he stood dispatching a hasty breakfast, he was startled by a light touch on his arm. "'Little Olive, why I thought you were fast to sleep? I could not sleep when Papa was going away, so I rose and dressed. You will not be angry.' "'Angry? No.' He stooped down and kissed her, more affectionately even than was his want. But he was hasty and fidgety, as most men are when starting on a journey. They were both too busy for more words until the few minutes during which he sat down to wait for the carriage. Then he took his daughter on his knee, an act of fatherly tenderness rather rare with him. "'I wish you were not going, or that I were going with you, Papa,' Olive whispered, wrestling to him in a sweet childish way, though she was almost a woman now. How tired you look! You have not been in bed all night. No, I had writing to do.' As he spoke his countenance darkened. "'Olive,' he said, looking at her with sorrowful, questioning eyes. "'Well, dear Papa, nothing, nothing. Is the carriage ready? Not yet. You will have time just for one little thing. It will only take a minute,' said Olive persuasively. "'What is it, little one?' "'Mama is asleep. She was tired and ill. But if you would run upstairs and kiss her once again before you go, it would make her so much happier. I know it would.' "'Poor Sibylla,' he muttered, remorsefully, and quitted the room slowly, not meeting his daughter's eyes. But when he came back he took her in his arms very tenderly. "'Olive, my child in whom I trust, always remember I did love you, you and your mother. These were the last words she heard him utter, ere he went away.' CHAPTER XV Captain Rothsay had intended to make the business excursion wait on that of pleasure. If pleasure the visit could be called, which was entered on from duty and would doubtless awaken many painful associations. But he changed his mind, and it was not until his return from London that he stayed on the way, and sought out the village of Harbury. Verbal landscape painting is rarely interesting to the general reader, and as Captain Rothsay was certainly not devoted to the picturesque, it seems idle to follow him during his ten-mile ride from the nearest railway station to the place which he discovered was that of Mrs. Gwynne's abode, and where her son was perpetual curate. Her son! It seemed very strange to imagine Alice and a mother, and yet, while he thought, Angus Rothsay almost laughed at himself for his folly. His boyish fancy had perforce faded at seventeen, and he was now, pshaw, he was somewhere above forty. As for Mrs. Gwynne, sixty would probably be nearer her age. Yet, not having seen her since she married, he never could think of her but as Alice and Balfour. As before observed, Captain Rothsay was by no means keenly susceptible to beauty of scenery. Otherwise he would often have been attracted from his meditations by that through which he passed. Lovely woodlands just bursting into the delicate green of spring, deep, still streams, flowing through meadows studded with cattle. Forest roads shadowed with stately trees, and so little frequented that the green turf spread from hedge to hedge, and the prim roses and bluebells sprung up almost in the pathway. All these composed a picture of rural loveliness which is peculiar to England, and chiefly to that part of England where harbury is situated. Captain Rothsay scarcely noticed it, until, pausing to consider his track, he saw in the distance a church upon a hill. Beautiful and peaceful it looked, its ancient tower rising out against the sky, and the evening sun shining on its windows and gilded vein. That must surely be my landmark, thought Captain Rothsay, and he made an inquiry to that effect of a man passing by. Aye, aye, meester, was the answer in rather unintelligible Doric. Thought be's harbury church as sure as my name's John Dent, and thought red house, connoissee it, that's our parson's. Prompted by curiosity Rothsay observed, Oh, Mr. Gwins, he is quite a young man, I believe. Do you like him, you good folks hear about? Some on a stun, and some on a stunna. He's not much a parson, though. He want to send you to sleep with his long preachings. But, oh, he say, the man's a good man. He'll come and see you when you're bad, and talk to ye by the hour, though he dina talk oot o the Bible. But, oh, I'm a lad o' to forest, and I'll be a keeper some toim. That's better, nor book-larning. Captain Rothsay had no will to listen to more personal revelations from honest John Dent. So he said, quickly, Perhaps so, my good fellow. Then added, Mr. Gwins has a mother living with him, I believe. What sort of person is she? Her's a good enough lady, I reckon. Only a bit too proud. Many's the blanket, her's again to poor folk, and my old mother sees her every week. But her's never shook hands we are yet. Ay, mister, won't you go? This last remark was bellowed after Captain Rothsay, whose horse had commenced a sudden canter, which ceased to not until its owner dismounted at the parsonage gate. This gate formed the boundary of the garden, and a most lovely spot it was. It extended to the churchyard, with which it communicated by a little wicket door. You passed through beautiful parterres and alleys, formed of fragrant shrubs, to the spot where grew the turf in many a mouldering heap. It seemed as though the path of death were indeed through flowers. Men and churchyard covered the hill's summit, and from both might be discerned of you such as is rarely seen in level England. It was a panorama, extending some twenty or thirty miles across the country, where, through woodlands and meadowlands, flowed the silver windings of a small river. Here and there was an old ruined castle, a manor house rising among its ancestral trees, or the faint misty smoke-cloud that indicated some hamlet or small town. Save these the landscape swept on unbroken, until it ended at the horizon in the high range of the deshire hills. Even to Captain Rothsay this scene seemed strangely beautiful. He contemplated it for some time, his hand still on the unopened gate, and then he became aware that a lady, whose gardening dress and gardening implements showed she was occupied in her favourite evening employment, was looking at him with some curiosity. The traces of life's downward path are easier to recognize than those of its ascent. Though the mature womanhood of Alice and Balfour had glided into age, Rothsay had no difficulty in discovering that he was in the presence of his former friend. Not so with her. He advanced, addressed her by name, and even took her hand before she had the slightest idea that her guest was Angus Rothsay. Have you then so entirely forgotten me? Forgotten the days in our native Perthshire when I was a bit laddy, and you, our guest, were Miss Alice and Balfour. There came a trembling over her features. I aged woman as she was. But at her years, all the past, whether of joy or grief, becomes faint. Else how would age be born? She extended both her hands with a warm friendliness. Welcome, Angus Rothsay! No wonder I did not know you. These thirty years, is it not thus much, have changed you from a boy into a middle-aged man, and made of me an old woman? She really was an elderly lady now. It seemed almost ridiculous to think of her as his youth's idol. Neither was she beautiful. How could he ever have imagined her so? Her irregular features, unnoticed when the white and red tints of youth adorned them, were now, in age, positively plain. Her strong-built frame had, in losing elasticity, lost much of grace, though dignity remained. Looking on Mrs. Gwynne for the first time, she appeared a large, rather plain woman. Looking again, it would be to observe the noble candor that dwelt in the eyes, and the sweetness, at times even playfulness, that hovered round the mouth. Regarding her for the third time, you would see a woman whom you felt sure you must perforce respect, and might, in time, love very much if she would let you. Of that gracious permission you would long have considerable doubt, but once granted, you would never unlove her to the end of your days. As for her loving you, you would not be quite clear that it did not spring from the generous benevolence of her nature, rather than from any individual warmth toward yourself. And such was the reserve of her character, that, were her affection ever so deep, she might possibly never let you know it until the day of your death. Yet she was capable of attachments, strong as her own nature. All her feelings, passions, energies were on a grand scale. In her were no petty feminine follies, no weak, narrow illiberalities of judgment. She had the soul of a man and the heart of a woman. You were gardening, I see, said Captain Rothsay, making the first ordinary remark that came to his mind to break the awkward pause. Yes, I do so every fine evening. Harold is very fond of flowers. That reminds me I must call him to you at once, as it is Wednesday, service night, and he will be engaged in his duties soon. Pray, let us enter the house. I should much like to see your son, said Angus Rothsay. He gave her his arm, and they walked together through the green alleys of Holly to the front door. Then Mrs. Gwynn stopped, put her hand over her eyes for a moment, removed it, and looked earnestly at her guest. Angus Rothsay! How strange this seems! Like a dream! A dream of thirty years! Well, let us go in. Mechanically, and yet in a subdued absent manner, she laid her bonnet and shawl on the hall-table and took off her gardening gloves, thereby discovering hands which, though large, were white and well-formed, and in their round tapered delicacy exhibited no sign of age. Captain Rothsay, without pausing to think, took the right hand. Ah! you wear still the ring I used to play with when a boy! I thought— and recollecting himself, he stopped, ashamed of his discourtesy in alluding to what must have been a painful past. But she said quietly, sadly, You have a good memory. Yes, I wear it again now. It was left to me ten years since on the death of Archibald Maclean. Strange that she could thus speak that name. But over how many a buried grief does the grass grow green in thirty years? In the hall they encountered a young man. Harold, said Mrs. Gwyn, give welcome to an old, a very old friend of mine, Captain Angus Rothsay. Angus, this is my son, my only son, Harold. And she looked upon him as a mother, widowed for twenty years looks upon an only son. Yet the pride was tempered with dignity, the affection was veiled under reserve. She, who doubtless would have sustained his life with her own heart's blood, had probably never since his boyhood suffered him to know a mother's passionate tenderness or to behold a mother's tear. Perhaps that was the reason that Harold's whole manner was the reflection of her own, not that he was like her in person, for nature had to him been far more bountiful. But there was a certain rigidness and harshness in his mean, and a slightly repellent atmosphere around him. Probably not one of the young lambs of his flock had ever dreamed of climbing the knee of the Reverend Harold Gwyn. Though he wore the clerical garb, he did not look at all apostle-like. He was neither a Saint Paul nor a Saint John. Yet a grand noble head it was. It might have been sketched for that of a young philosopher, a Galileo or a priestly, with the heavy, strongly marked brows. The eyes, hackneyed as the description is, no one can paint a man without mentioning his eyes. Those of Harold Gwyn were not unlike his mother's, in their open, steadfast look. Yet they were not soft like hers, but of steel gray, diamond clear. He carried his head very erect, and these eyes of his seemed as though unable to rest on the ground. They were always turned upwards, with a gaze, not reverent or dreamy, but eager, inquiring and piercing as truth itself. Such was the young man with whom Captain Rothsay shook hands, congratulating his old friend on having such a son. �You are more fortunate than I,� he said. �My marriage has only bestowed on me a daughter.� �Daughters are a great comfort sometimes,� answered Mrs. Gwyn, �though for my part I never wished for one.� The quick reproachful glance of Harold sought his mother's face, and shortly afterwards he re-entered his study. �My son thinks I meant to include a daughter-in-law,� was Mrs. Gwyn's remark, while the concealed playfulness about her mouth appeared. �He is soon to bring me one. I know it, and know her, too. By this means I found you out. I should scarcely have imagined Sarah Derwent the girl for you to choose. He chooses, not I. A mother whose dutiful son has been her soul stay through life, has no right to interfere with what he deems his happiness,� said Allison gravely. And at that moment the young curate reappeared, ready for the duties to which he was summoned by the sharp sound of the church-going bell. �I will stay at home with Captain Rothsay,� observed Mrs. Gwyn. Her gasp made a courteous disclaimer which ended in something about religious duties. �Hospitality is a duty, too. At least we thought so in the north,� she answered, �and old friendship is ever somewhat of a religion with me. Therefore I will stay, Harold.� �You are right, mother,� said Harold. �But he would not that his mother had seen the smile which curled his lip as he passed along the hall and through the garden towards the church yard. There it faded into a look, dark and yet mournful, which, as it turned from the dust beneath his feet to the stars overhead, and then back again to the graves, seems to ask despairingly at once of heaven and earth for the solution of some inward mystery. While Harold preached, his mother and Captain Rothsay sat in the parsonage and talked of their olden days, now faint as a rising wind which, sweeping over the wide champagne, came to moan in the hillside trees, seemed to sing the dirge of that long past life. Yet the heart of both, even of Angus Rothsay, throbbed to its memory, as a Scottish heart ever does to that of home and the mountain land. Among other long-unspoken names came that of Miss Flora Rothsay. She is an old woman now, a few years older than I. Harold visits her not infrequently, and she and I correspond now and then, but we have not met for many years. Yet you have not forgotten her. Do I ever forget, said Allison, as she turned her face towards him? And looking thereon, he felt that such a woman never could. Their conversation, passing down the stream of time, touched on all that was memorable in the life of both. She mentioned her husband, but merely the two events, not long distant each from each, of their marriage and his death. Your son is not like yourself. Does he resemble Mr. Gwynn? observed Rothsay. In person, yes, a little. In mind, no, a thousand times no. Then recollecting herself, she added, it was not likely. Mr. Gwynn has been dead so many years that my son—it was always my son—has no remembrance of his father. Alas, that there should be some whose memories are gladly suffered to perish with the falling of the earth above them. A thought like this passed through the mind of Angus Rothsay. I fancy, said he, that I once met Mr. Gwynn. He was—my husband. Mrs. Gwynn's tone suppressed all further remark, even all recollection of the contemptible image that was intruding on her guest's mind, an image of a young, roistering, fox-hunting fool. Rothsay looked on the widow, and the remembrance passed away, or became sacred as memory itself. And then the conversation glided as a mother's heart would feign direct it to her only son. He was a strange creature ever was my herald. In his childhood he always teased me with his why and because. He would come to the root of everything, and would not believe anything that he could not quite understand. Gradually I began to glory in this peculiarity, for I saw it argued a mind far above the common order. Angus, you are a father. You may be happy in your child, but you never can understand the pride of a mother in an only son. While she talked, her countenance and manner brightened, and Captain Rothsay saw again not the serene stern widow of Owen Gwynn, but the energetic, impassioned Alice in Balfour. He told her this. Is it so? Strange. And yet I do but talk to you as I often did when we were young together. He begged her to continue. His heart warmed as it had not done for many a day, and, to lead the way, he asked what chance had caused the descendant of the Balfours to become an English clergyman. From circumstances, when Harold was very young, and we two lived together in the poor Highland Cottage where he was born, my boy made an acquaintance with an Englishman, one Lord Arendale, a great student. Harold longed to be a student too. A noble desire. I shared it too. When the thought came to me that my boy would be a great man, I nursed it, cherished it, made it my whole life's aim. We were not rich. I had not married for money. And there was a faint show of pride in her lip. Yet Harold must go as he desired to an English university. I said in my heart, he shall, and he did. Angus looked at Mrs. Gwynn, and thought that a woman's will might sometimes be as strong and daring as a man's. Alice in continued. My son had only half finished his education when Fortune made the poor poorer. But Scotland and Cambridge, thank heaven, were far distant. I never told him one word. I lived. It mattered little how. I cared not. Our Fortune lasted, as I had calculated it would, till he had taken his degree and left college rich in honours. And then—she ceased, and the light in her countenance faded. Angus Rothsay gazed upon her as reverently as he had done upon the good angel of his boyish days. I said you were a noble woman, Alice in Belfort. I was a mother, and I had a noble son. They sat a long time silent, looking at the fire and listening to the wind. There was a momentary interruption, a message from the young clergyman, to say that he was summoned some distance to visit a sick person. On such a stormy night as this, said Angus Rothsay, Harold never fails in his duties, replied the mother with a smile. and turning abruptly to her guest. You will let me talk, old friend, and about him. I cannot often talk to him, for he is so reserved, that is, so occupied with his clerical studies. But there never was a better son than my Harold. I am sure of it, said Captain Rothsay. The mother continued. Never shall I forget the triumph of his coming home from Cambridge. Yet it brought a pang, too, for then first he had to learn the whole truth. Poor Harold, it pained me to see him so shocked and overwhelmed at the sight of our lowly roof and mean fare, and to know that even these would not last us long. But I said to him, my son, what signifies it, when you can soon bring your mother to your own home? For he, already a deacon, had had a curacy offered him, as soon as ever he chose to take priest's orders. Then he had already decided on entering the church. He had chosen that career in his youth. Towards it his whole education had tended. But, she added with a troubled look. My old friend, I may tell you one doubt, which I never yet breathed to living soul. I think at this time there was a struggle in his mind. Perhaps his dreams of ambition rose higher than the simple destiny of a country clergyman. I hinted this to him, but he repelled me. Alas! he knew, as well as I, that there was now no other path open for him. Mrs. Gwynn paused, and then went on, as though speaking more to herself than to her listener. The time came for Harold to decide. I did not wonder at his restlessness, for I knew how strong ambition must be in a man like him. God knows I would have worked, begged, starved rather than he should be thus tried. I told him so the day before his ordination, but he entreated me to be silent, with a look such as I never saw on his face before, such as I trust in God I may never see again. I heard him all night walking about his room, and the next morning he was gone ere I rose. When he came back, he seemed quite excited with joy, embraced me, told me I should never know poverty more, for that he was in priest's orders, and we should go the next week to the Curacy at Harbury. And he has never repented. I think not. He is not without the honors he desired, for his fame in science is extending far beyond his small parish. He fulfills his duties scrupulously, and the people respect him, though he sides with no party, high church or evangelical. We abhor illiberality, my son and I. That is clear, otherwise I had never seen Alice in Balfour quitting the Kirk for the church. Angus Rothsay, said Mrs. Gwynne with dignity, I have learned throughout a long life the lesson that trifling outward differences matter little. The spirit of religion is its true life. This lesson I have taught my son from his cradle, and where will you find a more sincere, moral or pious man than Harold Gwynne? Where indeed, mother, echoed a voice, as Harold opening the door caught her last words. But come, no more of that, and thou lovest me. CHAPTER XVI Captain Rothsay found himself at breakfast on the sixth morning of his stay at Harbury, so swiftly had the time flown. But he felt a purer and a happier man every hour that he spent with his ancient friend. The breakfast-room was Harold's study. It was more that of a man of science and learning than that of a clergyman. Beside Layton and Flavelle were placed Bacon and Descartes. Dust lay upon John Newton's sermons, while close by rested in honored, well-thumbed tatters his great namesake who read God's scriptures in the stars. In one corner by a large unopened packet, marked Religious Society's Tracts, it served as a stand for a large telescope, whose clumsiness betrayed the ingenuity of home manufacture. The theological contents of the library was a vast mass of polemical literature, orthodox and heterodox, including all faiths, all variations of sect. Muhammad and Swedenborg, Calvin and the Talmud, lay side by side, and on the farthest shelf was the great original of all creeds, the Book of Books. On this morning, as on most others, Harold Gwynne did not appear until after prayers were over. His mother read them, as indeed she always did morning and evening. A stranger might have said that her doing so was the last lingering token of her sway as the head of the household. Harold entered, his countenance bearing the pallid, restless look of one who lies half-dreaming in bed, long after he is awake and ought to have risen. His mother saw it. Not right, Harold, I had far rather that you rose at six and studied till nine as formerly than that you should dream away the morning hours and come down looking as you do now. Forgive me, but it is not good for you, my son. She often called him my son with a beautiful simplicity that reminded one of the holy Hebrew mothers of Rebekah or of Hannah. Harold looked for a moment disconcerted, not angry. Do not mind me, mother, I shall go back to study in good time. Let me do as I judge best." Certainly was all the mother's reply. She reproved, she never scolded. Turning the conversation she directed hers to Captain Rothsay while Harold ate his breakfast in silence, a habit not unusual with him. Immediately afterwards he rose and prepared to depart for the day. I need not apologize to Captain Rothsay, he said in his own straightforward manner, which was only saved from the imputation of bluntness by a certain manly dignity, and contrasted strongly with the reserved and courtly grace of his guest. My pursuits can scarcely interest you, while I know, and you know, what pleasure my mother takes in your society. You will not stay away all this day too, Harold. Surely that is a little too much to be required, even by Mr. Wint, spoke the quick impulse of the mother's unconscious jealousy. But she repressed it once, even before the sudden flush of anger awakened by her words had faded from Harold's brow. Go, my son, your mother never interferes either with your duties or your pleasures. Harold took her hand, though with scarce less formality than he did that of Captain Rothsay, and in a few minutes they saw him gallop down the hill and across the open country, with a speed best seeming well the age of five and twenty, and the season of a first love. Mrs. Gwynne looked after him with an intensity of feeling that in any other woman would have found vent in a tear, certainly a sigh. You are thinking of your son and his marriage, said Angus. That is not strange. It is a life crisis with all men, and it has come so suddenly. I scarcely know my Harold of two months since in my Harold now. To work such results it must be an ardent love. Say rather a vehement passion. Love does not spring up in flower like my hyacinths there in six weeks. But I do not complain. Even if not feeling, tells me that a mother cannot be all in all to a young man. Harold needs a wife. Let him take one. They will be married soon, and if all Sarah's qualities equal her beauty, this wild passion will soon mature into affection. He may be happy. I trust so. But does the girl love him? Of course, spoke the quick-rising maternal pride. But she almost smiled at it herself, and added, Really you must excuse these speeches of mine. I talk to you as I never do to anyone else, but it is all for the sake of olden times. This has been a happy week to me. You must pay us another visit soon. I will. And you must take a journey to my home and learn to know my wife and Olive, said Rothsay. The influence of Alice and Gwynn was unconsciously strengthening him, and though from some inexplicable feeling he had spoken but little of his wife and child, there were growing up in his mind many schemes, the chief of which were connected with Olive. But he now thought less of her appearing in the world as Captain Rothsay's heiress, than of her being placed within the shadow of Alice and Gwynn, and so reflecting back upon her father's age that benign influence which had been the blessing of his youth. He went on to tell Mrs. Gwynn more of his affairs, and of his plans than he had communicated to anyone for many a long year. In the midst of their conversation came the visitation, always so important in remote country districts, the every other day's post. For you, not me, I have few correspondence, so I will go to my duties while you attend to yours, said Mrs. Gwynn, and departed. When she came in again, Captain Rothsay was pacing the room uneasily. No ill news, I hope. No, my kind friend, not exactly ill news, though vexatious enough. But why should I trouble you with them? Nothing ever troubles me that can be of use to my friends. I ask no unwelcome confidence. If it is any relief to you to speak, I will gladly hear. It is sometimes good for a man to have a woman to talk to. It is. It is. And his heart opening itself more and more he told her of his cause of annoyance. A most important mercantile venture would be lost to him for want of what he called a few paltry hundreds to be forthcoming on the morrow. If it had been a fortnight, just till my next ship is due, or even one week to give me time to make some arrangement. But where is the use of complaining? It is too late. Not quite, said Alice and Gwynn, looking up after a few moments of deep thought, and with a clearness which would have gained for her the repute of a thorough woman of business, she questioned Captain Rothsay until she drew from him a possible way of obviating his difficulty. If, as you say, I were in London now, where my banker or some business friend would take up a bill for me, but that is impossible. Nay! Why say that you have friends only in London? replied Alice in, with a gentle smile. That is rather too unjust, Angus Rothsay. Our Highland clanship is not so clean forgotten, I hope. Come, old friend, it will be hard if I cannot do something for you. And Herald, who loves Flora Rothsay almost as much as he loves me, would gladly aid her kinsmen. How? How? Nay, but I will never consent! cried Angus, with a resoluteness through which his first eager sense of relief was clearly discernible. Truly there was coming upon him, with this mania of speculation, the same desperation which causes the gambler to clutch money from the starving hands of those who even yet are passionately dear. You shall consent, friend! answered Mrs. Gwynne, composedly. Why should you not? It is a mere form, an obligation of a weak at most. You will accept that for the sake of Alice in Balfour. He clasped her hand with as much emotion as was in his nature to show. She continued, Well, we will talk of this again when Herald comes into dinner. But positively I see him returning. There he is, dashing up the hill. I hope nothing is the matter. Yet she did not quit the room to meet him, but sat apparently quiet, though her hands were slightly trembling until her son came in. In answer to her question, he said, No, no, nothing amiss. Only Mr. Fledger would have me go to the hall to see his new horses, and there I found. Sarah! interrupted the mother. Well, perhaps she thought it would be a pleasant change from the dullness of Waterton during your absence, so never mind. He did mind. He restlessly paced the room, angry with his mother, himself, with the whole world. Mrs. Gwynne might well notice how this sudden passion had changed his nature. A moralist looking on the knotted brow would have smiled to see, not for the first time. A wise man making of himself a slave, nay a very fool for the enchantments of a beautiful woman. His mother took his arm and walked with him up and down the room, without talking to him at all. But her firm step and firm clasp seemed to soothe, almost force him into composure. She had over him at once a mother's influence and a father's control. Meanwhile Captain Rothsay busied, or seemed to busy himself with his numerous letters, and very wisely kept nearly out of sight. As soon as her son appeared a little recovered from his vexation, Mrs. Gwynne said, Now, Harold, if you are quite willing, I want to talk to you for a few minutes. Shall it be now or this evening? This evening I shall ride over to Waterton. What! Not one evening to spare for your mother, or— She corrected herself. For your beloved books? He moved restlessly. Nay, I have had enough of study. I must have interest, amusement, excitement. I think I have drunk all the world's pleasures dry except this one. Mother, don't keep it from me. I know no rest except I am beside Sarah. He rarely spoke to her so freely, and despite her pain the mother was touched. Go then, go to Sarah, and the matter I wish to speak upon we will discuss now. He sat down and listened, though often only with his outward ears to her plan, by which Captain Rothsay might be saved from his difficulty. It is a merely nominal thing. I would do it myself, but a man's name would be more useful than a woman's. Yours will. My son Harold will at once perform such a trifling act of kindness for his mother's friend. Of course, of course. Come, mother, tell me what to do. You understand business affairs much better than your son," said Harold, as he rose to seek his guest. Captain Rothsay scrupled a while longer, but at length the dazzling vision of coming wealth absorbed both pride and reluctance. It would be so hard to miss the chance of thousands by objecting to a mere form. Besides, Harold Gwyn shall share my success, he thought, and he formed many schemes for changing the comparative poverty of the parsonage into comfort and luxury. It was only when the pen was in the young man's hand, ready to sign the paper, that the faintest misgiving crossed Rothsay's mind. Stay! It is but for a few days. Yet life sometimes ends in an hour. What if I should die at once before I can requite you? Mr. Gwyn you shall not do it. He shall, I mean he will, answered the mother. But not until I have secured him in some way. Nay, Angus, we old acquaintance should not thus bargain away our friendship," said Mrs. Gwyn with wounded pride, highland pride, and besides there is no time to lose. Here is the acceptance ready, so Harold, sign. Harold did sign. The instant after, glad to escape, he quitted the room. Mrs. Rothsay sank on a chair with a heart-deep sigh of relief. It was done now. He eyed with thankfulness the paper which had secured him the golden prize. It is but a trifle, a sum not worth naming, he muttered to himself, and so indeed it seemed to one who had turned over thousands like mere heaps of dust. He never thought that it was an amount equal to Harold's yearly income for which the young man had thus become bound. Yet he omitted not again and again to thank him, Mrs. Gwyn, and with excited eagerness to point to all the prospects now before him. And besides you cannot think from what you have saved me, the annoyance, the shame of breaking my word. Oh, my friend, you know not in what a whirling, restless world of commerce I live. To fail in anything or to be thought to fail would positively ruin me and drive me mad. Angus, old companion, answered Mrs. Gwyn regarding him earnestly. You must not blame me if I speak plainly. In one week I have seen far into your heart, farther than you think. Be advised by me. Change this life for one more calm. Home and its blessings never come too late. You are right, said Angus. I sometimes think that all is not well with me. I am growing old and business racks my head sadly sometimes. Feel it now. He carried to his brow her hand, the hand which had led him when a boy, which in his fantastic dream of youth he had many a time kissed. Even now when the pulses were grown leaden with age it felt cool, calm, like the touch of some pitying and protecting angel. Alice and Gwyn said gently, My friend, you say truly all is not well with you. Let us put aside all business and walk in the garden. Come. Captain Rothsay lingered at Harbury yet one day more, but he could not stay longer, for this important business venture made him restless. Besides, Harold's wedding was near at hand. In less than a week the mother would be sole regent of her son's home no more. No wonder that this made her grave and anxious, so that even her old friend's presence was a slight restraint. Yet she bade him adieu with her own cordial sincerity. He began to pour out thanks for all kindness, especially the one kindness of all adding, But I will say no more. You shall see or hear from me in a few days at farthest. Not until after the wedding. I can think of nothing till after the wedding, answered Mrs. Gwyn. Now fair well, friend, but not for another thirty years, I trust. No, no, cried Angus warmly. He looked at her as she sat by the light of her own hearth. Life's trials conquered, life's duties fulfilled. And she appeared not less divine a creature than the Alice in Balfour, who had trod the mountains full of joy and hope and energy. Holy and beautiful she had seemed to him in her youth, and though every relic of that passionate idealization he once called love was gone, still holy and beautiful she seemed to him in her age. Angus Rothsay rode away from Harbury Parsonage, feeling that there he had gained a new interest to make life and life's duties more sacred. He thought with tenderness of his home, of his wife and of his little olive, and then, travelling by a rather circuitous route, his thoughts rested on Harold Gwyn. The kind-hearted, generous fellow, I will take care he is for quite a double. And to-morrow, before even I reach Old Church, I will go to my lawyers and make all safe on his account. To-morrow. He remembered not the warning. Boast not thyself of to-morrow.