Olive Part 60

"All is quite well. He has written me a long letter, and here is one for you!"

"For me!" The poor pale face lighted up, and the hand was eagerly stretched out. But when she held the letter, she could not open it for trembling. In her feebleness, all power of self-control vanished. She looked wistfully at Harold's writing, and burst into tears.

Mrs. Gwynne regarded Olive for a moment, as _his_ mother naturally would, jealous over her own claim, yet not blaming the one whose only blame was "loving where _she_ did." But she said nothing, or in any way betrayed the secret she had learnt. Perhaps, after all, she was proud that her son should be so truly loved, and by such a woman.

Leaning over Olive, she soothed her with great tenderness. "You are indeed too weak to hear anything of the world without. I ought to have taken better care of you, my dear child. Nay, never mind because you gave way a little," she said seeing the burning blushes that rose one after the other in Olive's face. "It was quite natural. The most trifling thing must agitate one who has been so very, very ill. Come, will you read your letter, or shall I put it by till you are stronger?"

"No, no, I should like to read it. He is very good to write to me,--very good indeed. I felt his kindness the more from being ill; that is why it made me weep," said Olive, faintly.

"Certainly, my dear; but I will leave you now, for I have not yet read mine. I am sure Harold would be pleased to know how glad _we both_ are to hear from him," said Mrs. Gwynne, with a light but kindly emphasis.

And then Olive was left alone.

Oh that Harold had seen her as she sat! Oh that _he_ had heard her broken words of thankful joy, when she read of his welfare! Then he might at last have felt what blessedness it was to be so loved; to reign like a throned king in a pure woman's heart, where no man had ever reigned before, and none ever would, until that heart was dust.

Harold wrote much as he had always done, perhaps a little more reservedly, and with a greater degree of measured kindliness. He took care to answer every portion of Olive's letter, but wrote little about himself, or his own feelings. He had not been able to find out the Vanbrughs, he said, though he would try every possible means of so doing before he left Rome for Paris. Miss Rothesay must always use his services in everything, when needed, he said, nor forget how much he was "her sincere and faithful friend."

"He is that, and will be always! I am content, quite content;" and she gazed down, calmly smiling at the letter on her knee.

This news from Rome seemed to have given her new life. Hour by hour she grew rapidly better, and the peace in her own heart made it the more to yearn over her unhappy sister, who, if sinning, had been sinned against, and who, if she erred much, must bitterly suffer too.

"Tell Christal I long to see her," she said. "To-morrow I shall be quite strong, I think, and then I will go to her room myself, and never quit her until we are reconciled."

But Christal declared no power should induce her to meet Olive more.

"Alas! what are we to do?" cried Olive, sorrowfully; and the whole night, during which she was disturbed by the restless sounds in Christars room, she lay awake, planning numberless compa.s.sionate devices to soothe and win over this obdurate heart. Something told her they would not be in vain; love rarely is! When it was almost morning, she peacefully fell asleep.

It was late when she awoke, and then the house, usually so quiet, seemed all astir. Hasty feet were pa.s.sing in all directions, and Mrs. Gwynne's voice, sharpened and agitated, was heard in the next room. Very soon she stood by Olive's bed, and told her troubled tale.

Christal had fled! Ere any one had risen, whilst the whole household must have been asleep, she had effected her escape. It was evidently done with the greatest ingenuity and forethought. Her door was still bolted, and she had apparently descended from the window, which was very low, and made accessible by an espalier. But the flight, thus secretly accomplished, had doubtless been long arranged and provided for, since all her money and ornaments, together with most of her attire, had likewise disappeared. In whatever way the scheme had been planned and executed, the fact was plain that it had thoroughly succeeded. Christal was gone; whither, there was at first not a single clue to tell.

But when afterwards her room was searched, they found a letter addressed to Miss Rothesay. It ran thus:

"I would have killed myself days since, but that I know in so doing, I should release you from a burden and a pang which I wish to last your life, as it must mine. Also, had I died, I might have gone to h.e.l.l, and there met him whom I hate,--my wicked, wicked father. Therefore I would not die.

"But I will not stay to be tyrannised over, or insulted by hypocritical pity. I will neither eat your bread, nor live upon the cowardly charity of---- the man who is dead. I intend to work for my own maintenance; most likely, to offer myself as a teacher in the school where I was brought up. I tell you this plainly; though I tell you, at the same time, that if you dare to seek me there, or drag me thence.---- But no!

you will be glad to be freed from me forever.

"One thing only I regret; that, in justice to my own mother, I must no longer think tenderly of _yours_. For yourself all is ended between us.

Pardon I neither ask nor grant; I only say, Farewell.

"Christal Manners."

The letter was afterwards apparently re-opened, and a hasty postscript added:

"Tell Lyle Derwent that I have gone for ever; or, still better, that I am dead. But if you dare to tell him anything more, I will hunt you through the world, but I will be revenged."

Mrs. Gwynne read this letter aloud. It awoke in the stern, upright, G.o.d-fearing Scotswoman, less of pity, than a solemn sense of retributive justice, which she could scarcely repress, even though it involved the condemnation of him whose memory was mingled with the memories of her youth.

But Olive, more gentle, tried to wash away her dead father's guilt with tears; and for her living sister she offered unto Heaven that beseeching never offered in vain, a pure heart's humble prayers.

CHAPTER XLV.

Many a consultation was held between Mrs. Gwynne and Olive, as to what must be done concerning that hapless child: for little more than a child she was in years, though her miserable destiny had nurtured in her so much of woman's suffering, and more than woman's sin. Yet still, when Olive read the reference to Mrs. Rothesay, she thought there might yet be a lingering angel sitting in poor Christal's heart.

"Oh that some one could seek her out and save her, some one who would rule and yet soothe her; who, coming from us, should not be mingled with us in her fancy, so that no good influence might be lost."

"I have thought of this," answered Mrs. Gwynne. "But, Olive, it is a solemn secret--your father's, too. You ought never to reveal it, except to one bound to you by closest ties. If you married, your husband would have a right to know it, or you might tell your brother."

"I do not quite understand," said Olive, yet she changed colour a little.

Mrs. Gwynne kindly dropped her eyes, and avoided looking at her companion, as she said, "You, my dear, are my adopted daughter; therefore, my son should be to you as a brother. Will you trust Harold?"

"Trust him? There is nothing with which I could not trust him," said Olive, earnestly. She had long found out that praise of Harold was as sweet to his mother's heart as to her own.

"Then trust him in this. I think he has almost a right--or one day he may have."

Mrs. Gwynne's latter words sank indistinctly, and scarcely reached Olive. Perhaps it was well; such light falling on her darkness might have blinded her.

Ere long the decision was made. Mrs. Gwynne wrote to her son and told him all. He was in Paris then, as she knew. So she charged him to seek out the school where Christal was. Sustained by his position as a clergyman, his grave dignity, and his mature years, he might well and ably exercise an unseen guardians.h.i.+p over the girl. His mother earnestly desired him to do this, from his natural benevolence, and for _Olive's sake_.

"I said that, my dear," observed Mrs. Gwynne, "because I know his strong regard for you, and his anxiety for your happiness."

These words, thrilling in her ear, made broken and trembling the few lines which Olive wrote to Harold, saying how entirely she trusted him, and how she implored him to save her sister.

"I am ready to do all you wish," wrote Harold in reply. "O my dear friend, to whom I owe so much, most happy should I be if in any way I could do good to you and yours!"

From that time his letters came frequently and regularly. Pa.s.sages from them will best show how his work of mercy sped.

"Paris, Jan.--I have had no difficulty in gaining admittance to the _pension_, for I chanced to go in Lord Arundale's carriage, and Madame Blandin would receive any one who came under the shadow of an English _milord_. Christal is there, in the situation she planned. I found out speedily,--as she, poor girl, will find,--how different is the position of a poor teacher from that of a rich pupil. I could not speak with her at all. Madame Blandin said she refused to see any English friends: and, besides, she could not be spared from the schoolroom. I must try some other plan... Do not speak again of this matter being 'burdensome' to me. How could it be so, when it is for you and your sister? Believe me, though the duty is somewhat new, it is most grateful to me for your sake, my dear friend."

... "I have seen Christal. It was at ma.s.s. She goes there with some Catholic pupils, I suppose. I watched her closely, but secretly. Poor girl! a life's anguish is written in her face. How changed since I last saw it! Even knowing all, I could not choose but pity her. When she was bending before a crucifix, I saw how her whole frame trembled with sobs.

It seemed not like devotion--it must be heart-broken misery. I came closer, to meet her when she rose. The moment she saw me her whole face blazed. But for the sanct.i.ty of the place, I think she could not have controlled herself. I never before saw at once such anger, such defiance, and yet such bitter shame. She turned away, took her little pupils by the hand, and walked out of the chapel. I dared not follow her; but many times since then I have watched her from the same spot, taking care that she should not see me. Who would think that haggard woman, sharp in manner, careless in dress--you see how closely I observe her--was the blithe Christal of old! But I sometimes fancied, even from her sporting, that there was the tigress-nature in that girl. Poor thing! And she had the power of pa.s.sionately loving, too. Ah! we should all be slow to judge. We never can look into the depths of one another's hearts."

... "Christal saw me to-day. Her eye was almost demoniacal in its threatening. Perhaps the pity she must have read in mine only kindled hers with wrath the more. I do not think she will come to the chapel again."

... "My dear Miss Rothesay, I do not like playing this underhand game--it almost makes me despise myself. Yet it is with a good intent; and I would do anything from my friends.h.i.+p for you.

"I have heard much about your sister to-day from a girl who is a _pensionnaire_ at Madame Blandin's. But fear not, I did the questioning skillfully, nor betrayed anything. My friend, you know me well as you say; but even you know not how wisely I can acquire one secret and hold fast another. An honourable school of hypocrisy I learnt in, truly!

But to my subject. Little Clotilde does not love her instructress. Poor Christal seems to be at war with the whole household. The pupil and the poor teacher must be very different in Madame Blandin's eyes. No wonder the girl is embittered--no marvel are those storms of pa.s.sion, in which, according to Clotilde, she indulges, 'just as if she were a great English _miladi_, when she is n.o.body at all, as I told her once,' said the triumphant little French girl.

"'And what did she answer?' asked I.

"'She went into a great fury, and shook me till I trembled all over; then she threw herself on her own bed, at one end of the dormitory, and all that night, whenever I woke, I heard her crying and moaning. I would have been sorry for her, except that she was _only_ the teacher--a poor penniless _Anglaise_.'

"This, my friend, is the lesson that Christal must soon have to learn.