Olive Part 51

"I think," said Miss Rothesay, "if I were a nun, and had known ever so great misery, I should grow calm by looking at these pictures."

"The nuns don't pa.s.s their time in that way I a.s.sure you," answered Marion M'Gillivray. "They spend it in making such things as these." And she pointed to a case of babyish ornaments, pin-cus.h.i.+ons, and artificial flowers.

"How very strange," said Olive, "to think that the interests and duties of a woman's life should sink down into such trifles as these. I wonder if the nuns are happy?"

"Stay and judge, for here comes one, my chief friend here, Sister Ignatia." And Sister Ignatia--who was, despite her quaint dress, the most bright-eyed, cheerful-looking little Scotchwoman imaginable--stole in, kissed Marion on both cheeks, smiled a pleasant welcome on the stranger, and began talking in a manner so simple and hearty, that Olive's previous notions of a "nun" were cast to the winds. But, after a while, there seemed to her something painfully solemn in looking upon the sister's, where not one outward line marked the inward current which had run on for forty years--how, who could tell? All was silence now.

They went all over the convent. There was a still pureness pervading every room. Now and then a black-stoled figure crossed their way, and vanished like a ghost. Sister Ignatia chattered merrily about their work, their beautiful flowers, and their pupils of the convent school.

Happy, very happy, she said they all were at St. Margaret's; but it seemed to Olive like the aimless, thoughtless happiness of a child.

Still, when there came across her mind the remembrance of herself--a woman, all alone, struggling with the world, and with her own heart; looking forward to a life's toil for bread and for fame, with which she must try to quench one undying thirst--when she thus thought, she almost longed for such an existence as this quiet monotony, without pleasure and without pain.

"You must come and see our chapel, our beautiful chapel," said Sister Ignatia. "We have got pictures of our St. Margaret and all her children." And when they reached the spot--a gilded, decorated, flower-garden temple, she pointed out with great interest the various memorials of the sainted Scottish Queen.

Olive thought, though she did not then say, that n.o.ble Margaret, the mother of her people, the softener of her half-savage lord, the teacher and guide of her children, was more near the ideal of womanhood than the simple, kind-hearted, but childish wors.h.i.+ppers, who spent their lives in the harmless baby-play of decking her shrine with flowers.

"Yet these are excellent women," said Marion M'Gillivray, when, on their departure, Olive expressed her thoughts aloud. "You cannot imagine the good they do in their restricted way. But still, if one must lead a solitary life I would rather be Aunt Flora!"

"Yes, a thousand, thousand times! There is something far higher in a woman who goes about the world, keeping her heart consecrated to Heaven, and to some human memories; not shrinking from her appointed work, but doing it meekly and diligently, hour by hour through, life's long day; waiting until at eve G.o.d lifts the burden off, saying, 'Faithful handmaid, sleep!'"

Olive spoke softly, but earnestly. Marion did not quite understand her.

But she thought everything Miss Rothesay said must be true and good, and was always pleased to watch her the while, declaring that whenever she talked thus her face became "like an angels."

Miss Rothesay spent the evening very happily, though in the noisy household of the M'Gillivrays. She listened to the elder girls' music, and let the younger tribe of "wee toddling bairnies" climb on her knee and pull her curls. Finally, she began to think that some of these days there would be great pleasure in becoming an universal "Aunt Olive" to the rising generation.

She walked home, escorted valiantly by three stout boys, who guided her by a most circuitous route across Bruntsfield Links, that she might gain a moonlight view of the couchant lion of Arthur's Seat. They amused her the whole way home with tales of High-school warfare. On reaching the garden-gate she was half surprised to hear the unwonted cheerfulness of her own laugh. The suns.h.i.+ne she daily strove to cast around her was falling faintly back upon her own heart.

"Good-night, good-night, Allan, and Charlie, and James. We must have another merry walk soon," was her gay adieu as the boys departed, leaving her in the garden-walk, where Mrs. Flora's tall hollyhocks cast a heavy shadow up to the hall-door.

"You seem very happy, Miss Rothesay." The voice came from some one standing close by. The next instant her hand was taken in that of Harold Gwynne.

But the pressure was very cold. Olive's heart, which had leaped up within her, sank down heavily, so heavily, that her greeting was only the chilling words,

"I did not expect to see you here!"

"Possibly not; but I--I had business in Edinburgh. However, it will not, I think, detain me long." He said this sharply even bitterly.

Olive, startled by the suddenness of this meeting, could make no answer, but as they stood beneath the lamp she glanced at the face, whose every change she knew so well. She saw that something troubled him. Forgetful of all besides, her heart turned to him in sympathy and tenderness.

"There is nothing wrong, surely! Tell me, are you quite well, quite happy? You do not know how glad I am to see you, my dear friend."

And her hand alighted softly on his arm like a bird of peace. Harold pressed it and kept it there, as he often did; they were used to that kind of friendly familiarity.

"You are very good, Miss Rothesay. Yes, all is well at Harbury. Pray, be quite easy on that account But I thought, hearing how merry you were at the garden-gate, that amidst your pleasures here you scarcely remembered us at all."

His somewhat vexed tone went to Olive's heart. But she only answered,

"You were not quite right there. I never forget my friends."

"No, no! I ought to have known that. Forgive me; I speak rudely, unkindly; but I have so many things to embitter me just now. Let us go in, and you shall talk my ill-humour away, as you have done many a time."

There was a repentant accent in his voice as he drew Olive's arm in his.

And she--she looked, and spoke, and smiled, as she had long learned to do. In the little quiet face, the soft, subdued manner, was no trace of any pa.s.sion or emotion.

"Have you seen Aunt Flora?" said Olive, as they stood together in the parlour.

"No. When I came she had already retired. I have only been here an hour.

I pa.s.sed that time in walking about the garden. Jean told me you would come in soon."

"I would have come sooner had I known. How weary you must be after your journey! Come, take Aunt Flora's chair here, and rest."

He did indeed seem to need rest. As he leaned back with closed eyes on the cus.h.i.+ons she had placed, Olive stood and looked at him a moment. She thought, "Oh, that I were dead, and become an invisible spirit, that I might comfort and help him. But I shall never do it. Never in this world!"

She pressed back two burning tears, and then began to move about the room, arranging little household matters for his comfort. She had never done so before, and now the duties seemed sweet and homelike, like those of a sister, or--a wife. Once she thought thus--but she dared not think again. And Harold was watching her, too; following her--as she deemed--with the listless gaze of weariness. But soon he turned his face from her, and whatever was written thereon Olive read no more.

He was to stay that night, for Mrs. Flora's house was always his home in Edinburgh. But he seemed disinclined to talk. One or two questions Olive put about himself and his plans, but they seemed to increase his restlessness.

"I cannot tell; perhaps I shall go; perhaps not at all. We will talk the matter over to-morrow--that is, if you are still kind enough to listen."

She smiled. "Little doubt of that, I think."

"Thank you! And now I will say good-night," observed Harold, rising.

Ere he went, however, he looked down curiously into Olive's face.

"You seem quite strong and well now, Miss Rothesay. You have been happy here?"

"Happy--oh, yes! quite happy."

"I thought it would be so--I was right! Though still--But I am glad, very glad to hear it. Good-night."

He shook her hand--an easy, careless shake; not the close, lingering clasp--how different they were! Then he went quickly up-stairs to his chamber.

But hour after hour sped; the darkness changed to dawn, the dawn to light, and still Olive lay sleepless. Her heart, stirred from its serenity, again swayed miserably to and fro. Vainly she argued with herself on her folly in giving way to these emotions; counting over, even in pitiful scorn, the years that she had past her youth.

"Three more, and I shall be a woman of thirty. Yet here I lie, drowning my pillow with tears, like a love-sick girl. Oh that this trouble had visited me long ago, that I might have risen up from it like the young gra.s.s after rain! But now it falls on me like an autumn storm--it tears me, it crushes me; I shall never, never rise."

When it was broad daylight, she roused herself, bathed her brow in water, shut out the sunbeams from her hot, aching eyes, and then lay down again and slept.

Sleeping, she dreamed that she was walking with Harold Gwynne, hand-in-hand, as if they were little children. Suddenly he took her in his arms, clasping her close as a lover his betrothed; and in so doing pressed a bright steel into her heart. Yet it was such sweet death, that, waking, she would fain have wished it true.

But she lifted her head, saw the sunlight dancing on the floor, and knew that the morning was come--that she must rise once more to renew her life's bitter strife.

CHAPTER x.x.xIX.

Olive dressed herself carefully in her delicate-coloured morning-gown.

She was one of those women who take pains to appear freshest and fairest in the early hours of the day; to greet the sun as the flowers greet him--rich "in the dew of youth." Despite her weary vigil, the balmy morning brought colour to her cheek and a faint sweetness to her heart.