Olive Part 42

"Ah--I see, I know! Do not say any more!" She closed her eyes faintly, and leaned against the wall. Had she loved her mother with a love less intense, less self-devoted, less utterly absorbing in its pa.s.sion, at that moment she would have gone mad, or died.

There was one little low sigh; and then upon her great height of woe she rose--rose to a superhuman calm.

"You would tell me, then, that there is no hope?"

He looked on the ground, and said nothing.

"And how long--how long?"

"It may be six hours--it may be twelve; I fear it cannot be more than twelve." And then he began to give consolation in the only way that lay in his poor power, explaining that in a frame so shattered the spirit could not have lingered long, and might have lingered in much suffering.

"It was best as it was," he said.

And Olive, knowing all, bowed her head, and answered, "Yes." She thought not of herself--she thought only of the enfeebled body about to be released from earthly pain, of the soul before whom heaven was even now opened.

"Does _she_ know? Did you tell her?"

"I did. She asked me, and I thought it right."

Thus, both knew, mother and child, that a few brief hours were all that lay between their love and eternity. And knowing this, they again met.

With a step so soft that it could have reached no ear but that of a dying woman, Olive re-entered the room.

"Is that my child!"

"My mother--my own mother!" Close, and wild, and strong--wild as love and strong as death--was the clasp that followed. No words pa.s.sed between them, not one, until Mrs. Rothesay said, faintly,

"My child, are you content--quite content?"

Olive answered, "I am content!" And in her uplifted eyes was a silent voice that seemed to say, "Take, O G.o.d, this treasure, which I give out of my arms unto Thine! Take and keep it for me, safe until the eternal meeting!"

Slowly the day sank, and the night came down. Very still and solemn was that chamber; but there was no sorrow there--no weeping, no struggle of life with death. After a few hours all suffering ceased, and Mrs.

Rothesay lay quiet; sometimes in her daughter's arms, sometimes with Olive sitting by her side. Now and then they talked together, holding peaceful communion, like friends about to part for a long journey, in which neither wished to leave unsaid any words of love or counsel; but all was spoken calmly, hopefully, and without grief or fear.

As midnight approached, Olive's eyes grew heavy, and a strange drowsiness oppressed her. Many a watcher has doubtless felt this--the dull stupor which comes over heart and brain, sometimes even compelling sleep, though some beloved one lies dying. Hannah, who sat up with Olive, tried to persuade her to go down and take some coffee which she had prepared. Mrs. Rothesay, overhearing, entreated the same. "It will do you good. You must keep strong, my child."

"Yes, darling."

Olive went down in the little parlour, and forced herself to take food and drink. As she sat there by herself, in the still night, with the wind howling round the cottage, she tried to realise the truth that her mother was then dying--that ere another day, in this world she would be alone, quite alone, for evermore. Yet there she sat, wrapped in that awful calm.

When Olive came back, Mrs. Rothesay roused herself and asked for some wine. Her daughter gave it.

"It is very good--all things are very good--very sweet to me from Olive's hand. My only daughter--my life's comfort--I bless G.o.d for thee!"

After a while she said--pa.s.sing her hand over her daughter's cheek--"Olive, little Olive, I wish I could see your face--just once, once more. It feels almost as small and soft as when you were a little babe at Stirling."

And saying this, there came a cloud over Mrs. Rothesay's face; but soon it went away, as she continued, "Child! listen to something I never told you--never could have told you, until now. Just after you were born, I dreamt a strange dream--that I lost you, and there came to me in your stead an angel, who comforted me and guided me through a long weary way, until, in parting, I knew that it was indeed my Olive. All this has come true, save that I did not _lose_ you: I wickedly cast you from me. Ay, G.o.d forgive me! there was a time when I, a mother, had no love for the child I bore."

She wept a little, and held Olive with a closer strain as she proceeded.

"I was punished, for in forsaking my child I lost my husband's love--at least not all, but for a time. But G.o.d pardoned me, and sent my child back to me as I saw her in my dream--an angel--to guard me through many troubled ways; to lead me safe to the eternal sh.o.r.e. And now, when I am going away, I say with my whole soul, G.o.d bless my Olive! the most loving and duteous daughter that ever mother had; and G.o.d will bless her evermore!"

One moment, with a pa.s.sionate burst of anguish, Olive cried, "O mother, mother, stay! Do not go and leave me in this bitter world alone." It was the only moan she made. When she saw the anguish it caused to her so peacefully dying, she stilled it at once. And then G.o.d's comfort came down upon her; and that night of death was full of a peace so deep that it was most like happiness. In after years Olive thought of it as if it had been spent at the doors of heaven.

Toward morning Mrs. Rothesay said, "My child, you are tired. Lie down here beside me."

And so, with her head on the same pillow, and her arm thrown round her mother's neck, Olive lay as she had lain every night for so many years.

Once or twice Mrs. Rothesay spoke again, as pa.s.sing thoughts seemed to arise; but her mind was perfectly composed and clear. She mentioned several that she regarded--among the rest, Mrs. Gwynne, to whom she left "her love."

"And to Christal too, Olive. She has many faults; but, remember, she was good to me, and I was fond of her. Always take care of Christal."

"I will. And is there no one else to whom I shall give your love, mamma?"

She thought a minute, and answered, "Yes--to Mr. Gwynne." And, as if in that dying hour there came to the mother's heart both clear-sightedness and prophecy, she said, earnestly, "I am very glad I have known Harold Gwynne. I wish he had been here now, that I might have blessed him, and begged him all his life long to show kindness and tenderness to my child."

After this she spoke of earthly things no more, but her thoughts went, like heralds, far into the eternal land. Thither her daughter's followed likewise, until, like the martyr Stephen, Olive almost seemed to see the heavens opened, and the angels of G.o.d standing around the throne. Her heart was filled, not with anguish, but with an awful joy, which pa.s.sed not even, when lifting her head from the pillow, she saw that over her mother's face was coming a change--the change that comes but once.

"My child, are you still there?".

"Yes, darling."

"That is well. All is well now. Little Olive, kiss me."

Olive bent down and kissed her. With that last kiss she received her mother's soul.

Then she suffered the old servant to lead her from the room. She never wept; it would have appeared sacrilege to weep. She went to the open door, and stood, looking to the east, where the sun was rising. Through the golden clouds she almost seemed to behold, ascending, the freed spirit upon whom had just dawned the everlasting morning.

An hour after, when she was all alone in the little parlour, lying on the sofa with her eyes closed, she heard entering a well-known step. It was Harold Gwynne's. He looked much agitated; at first he drew back, as though fearing to approach; then he came up, and took her hand very tenderly.

"Alas, Miss Rothesay, what can I say to you?"

She shed a few tears, less for her own sorrow than because she was touched by his kindness.

"I would have been here yesterday," continued he, "but I was away from Harbury. Yet, what help, what comfort, could you have received from me?"

Olive turned to him her face, in whose pale serenity yet lingered the light which had guided her through the valley of the shadow of death.

"G.o.d," she whispered, "has helped me. He has taken from me the desire of my eyes, and yet I have peace--perfect peace!"

Harold looked at her with astonishment.

"Tell me," he muttered, involuntarily, "whence comes this peace!"

"From G.o.d, as I feel him in my soul--as I read of Him in the revelation of his Word."

Harold was silent. His aspect of hopeless misery went to Olive's heart.

"Oh that I could give to you this peace--this faith!"

"Alas! if I knew what _reason_ you have for yours."