Olive Part 41

Months might pa.s.s ere that frail tabernacle was quite dissolved.

As the winter glided away, Mrs. Rothesay seemed much better. One evening in March, when Harold Gwynne came laden with a whole basket of violets, he said--and truly--that she was looking as blooming as the spring itself. Olive coincided in this opinion--nay, declared, smiling, that any one would fancy her mother was only making pretence of illness, to win more kindness and consideration.

"As if you had not enough of that from every one, mamma! I never knew such a spoilt darling in all my life; and yet see, Mr. Gwynne, how meekly she bears it, and how beautiful and content she looks!"

It was true. Let us draw the picture which lived in Olive's memory evermore.

Mrs. Rothesay sat in a little low chair--her own chair, which no one else ever claimed. She did not wear an invalid's shawl, but a graceful wrapping-gown of pale colours--such as she had always loved, and which suited well her delicate, fragile beauty. Closely tied over her silvery hair--the only sign of age--was a little cap, whose soft pink gauze lay against her cheek--that cheek which even now was all unwrinkled, and tinted with a lovely faint rose colour, like a young girl's. Her eyes were cast down; she had a habit of doing this lest others might see there the painful expression of blindness; but her mouth smiled a serene, cheerful, holy smile, such as is rarely seen on human face, save when earth's dearest happiness is beginning to melt away, dimmed in the coming brightness of heaven. Her little thin hands lay crossed on her knee, one finger playing as she often did, with her wedding-ring, now worn to a mere thread of gold.

Her daughter looked at her with eyes of pa.s.sionate yearning that threw into one minute's gaze the love of a whole lifetime. Harold Gwynne looked at her too, and then at Olive. He thought, "Can she, if she knows what I know--can she be resigned--nay, happy! Then, what a sublime faith hers must be!"

Olive seemed not to see him, but only her mother. She gazed and gazed, then she came and knelt before Mrs. Rothesay, and wound her arms round her.

"Darling, kiss me! or I shall fear you are growing quite an angel--an angel with wings."

There lurked a troubled tone beneath the playfulness; she rose up quickly, and began to talk to Mr. Gwynne.

They had a pleasant evening, all three together; for Mrs. Rothesay, knowing that Harold was lonely--since his mother and Ailie had gone away on a week's visit--prevailed upon him to stay. He read to them--Mrs.

Rothesay was fond of hearing him read; and to Olive the world's richest music was in his deep, pathetic voice, more especially when reading, as he did now, with great earnestness and emotion. The poem was not one of his own choosing, but of Mrs. Rothesay's. She listened eagerly while he read from Tennyson's "May Queen."

Upon the chancel cas.e.m.e.nt, and upon that grave of mine, In the early, early morning the summer sun will s.h.i.+ne.

I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear you when you pa.s.s, With your feet above my head on the long and pleasant gra.s.s.

Good night, good night! When I have said, good night for evermore, And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door, Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave is growing green: She'll be a better child to you than I have ever been.

Here Harold paused; for, looking at Olive, he saw her tears falling fast; but Mrs. Rothesay, generally so easily touched, was now quite unmoved. On her face was a soft calm. She said to herself, musingly,

"How terrible for one's child to die first. But I shall never know that pang. Go on, Mr. Gwynne."

He read--what words for him to read!--the concluding stanzas; and as he did so, the movement of Mrs. Rothesay's lips seemed silently to follow them.

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done, The voice which now is speaking may be beyond the sun, For ever and for ever with those just souls and true, And what is life that we should moan? Why make we such ado?

For ever and for ever all in a blessed home, And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come; To lie within the light of G.o.d, as I lie upon your breast, Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

After he concluded, they were all three very silent. What thoughts were in each heart? Then Mrs. Rothesay said,

"Now, my child, it is growing late. Read to us yourself, out of the best Book of all." And when Olive was gone to fetch it, she added, "Mr.

Gwynne will pardon my not asking him to read the Bible, but a child's voice sounds so sweet in a mother's ears, especially when"---- She stopped, for Olive just then entered.

"Where shall I read, mamma?"

"Where I think we have come to--reading every night as we do--the last few chapters of the Revelations."

Olive read them--the blessed words, the delight of her childhood--telling of the heavenly kingdom, and the afterlife of the just. And _he_ heard them: he who believed in neither. He sat in the shadow, covering his face with his hands, or lifting it at times with a blind, despairing look, like that of one who, staggering in darkness, sees afar a faint light, and yet cannot, dare not, believe in its reality.

When he bade Mrs. Rothesay good night, she held his hand, and said, "G.o.d bless you!" with more than her usual kindness. He drew back, as if the words stung him. Then he wrung Olive's hand, looked at her a moment, as if to say something, but said it not, and quitted the house.

The mother and daughter were alone. They clasped their arms round each other, and sat a little while listening to the wild March wind.

"It is just such a night as that on which we came to Farnwood, is it not, darling?"

"Yes, my child! And we have been very happy here; happier, I think, than I have ever been in my life. Remember that, love, always!"

She said these words with a beautiful, life-beaming smile. Then, leaning on Olive's shoulder, she lifted herself rather feebly, from her little chair, and prepared to walk upstairs.

"Tired, are you? I wish I could carry you, darling: I almost think I could."

"You carry me in your heart, evermore, Olive! You bear all my feebleness, troubles, and pain. G.o.d ever bless you, my daughter!"

When Olive came down once more to the little parlour, she thought it looked rather lonely. However, she stayed a minute or two, put her mother's little chair in the corner, and her mother's knitting basket beside it.

"It will be ready for her when she comes down again." Then she went upstairs to bed; and mother and daughter fell asleep, as ever, closely clasped in each other's arms.

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

"My child!"

The feeble call startled Olive out of a dream, wherein she was walking through one of those lovely visionary landscapes--more glorious than any ever seen by day--with her mother and with Harold Gwynne.

"Yes, darling," she answered, in a sleepy, happy voice, thinking it a continuation of the dream.

"Olive, I feel ill--very ill! I have a dull pain here, near my heart. I cannot breathe. It is so strange--so strange!"

Quickly the daughter rose, and groped through the faint dawn for a light: she was long accustomed to all offices of tender care by night and by day. This sudden illness gave her little alarm; her mother had so many slight ailments. But, nevertheless, she roused the household, and applied all the simple remedies which she so well knew how to use.

But there must come a time when all physicians' arts fail: it was coming now. Mrs. Rothesay's illness increased, and the daylight broke upon a chamber where more than one anxious face bent over the poor blind sufferer who suffered so meekly. She did not speak much: she only held closely to Olive's dress, sorrowfully murmuring now and then, "My child--my child!" Once or twice she eagerly besought those around her to try all means for her restoration, and seemed anxiously to expect the coming of the physician. "For Olive's sake--for Olive's sake!" was all the reason she gave.

And suddenly it entered into Olive's mind that her mother felt herself about to die.

Her mother about to die! She paused a moment, and then flung the horror from her as a thing utterly impossible. So many illnesses as Mrs.

Rothesay had pa.s.sed through---so many times as her daughter had clasped her close, and dared Death to come nigh one who was s.h.i.+elded by so much love! It could not be--there was no cause for dread. Yet Olive waited restlessly during the morning, which seemed of frightful length. She busied herself about the room, talking constantly to her mother; and by degrees, when the physician still delayed, her voice took a quick, sharp, anxious tone.

"Hush, love, hus.h.!.+" was the soft reproof. "Be content, Olive; he will come in time. I shall recover, if it so please G.o.d."

"Of course--of course you will. Don't talk in that way, mamma!"--she dared not trust herself to say _darling_. She spoke even less caressingly than usual, lest her mother might think there was any dread upon her mind. But gradually, when she heard the strange patience of Mrs. Rothesay's voice, and saw the changes in the beloved face, she began to tremble. Once her wild glance darted upward in almost threatening despair. "G.o.d! Thou wilt not--Thou canst not--do this!" And when, at last, she heard the ringing of hoofs, and saw the physician's horse at the gate, she could not stay to speak with him, but fled out of the room.

She composed herself in time to meet him when he came downstairs. She was glad that he was a stranger, so that she had to be restrained, and to ask him in a calm, everyday voice, "What he thought of her mother?"

"You are Miss Rothesay, I believe," he answered, indirectly.

"I am."

"Is there no one to help you in nursing your mother--are you here quite alone?"

"Quite alone."

Dr. Witherington took her hand--kindly, too. "My dear Miss Rothesay, I would not deceive; I never do. If your mother has any relatives to send for, any business to arrange"----