Olive Part 36

"What did he do?" asked Olive, eagerly. Strange that her question and her thoughts were not of Sara, but of Harold.

"Do? nothing! But his words--I remember them distinctly, they were so freezing, so stern. He grasped her arm, and said, 'Sara, when you said you loved me, you uttered _a lie!_ When you took your marriage oath, you vowed _a lie!_ Every day since, that you have smiled in my face, you have looked _a lie!_ Henceforth I will never trust you--or any woman. '"

"And what followed?" cried Olive, now so strongly interested that she never paused to think if she had any right to ask these questions.

"Soon after, Sara came home to us. She did not stay long, and then returned to Harbury. Harold was never unkind to her--that I know. But, somehow, she pined away; the more so after she heard of Charles Geddes's sudden death."

"Alas! he died too."

"Yes; by an accident his own recklessness caused. But he was weary of his life, poor fellow! Well--Sara never quite recovered that shock.

After little Ailie was born, she lingered a few weeks, and then died. It was almost a relief to us all."

"What! did you not love your sister?"

"Of course I did; but then she was older than I, and had never cared for me much. Now, as to Harold, I owe him everything. He has been to me less like a brother than a father; not in affection, perhaps that is scarcely in his nature, but in kindness and in counsel. There is not in the world a better man than Harold Gwynne."

Olive replied warmly. "I am sure of it, and I like you the more for acknowledging it." Then, in some confusion, she added, "Pardon me, but I had quite gone back to the old times, when you were my little pet. I really must learn to show more formality and respect to Mr. Derwent."

"Don't say _Mr. Derwent_. Pray call me Lyle, as you used to do."

"That I will, with pleasure. Only," she continued, smiling, "when I look up at you, I shall begin to feel quite an ancient dame, since I am so much older than you."

"Not at all," Lyle answered, with an eagerness somewhat deeper than the mannish pride of youths who have just crossed the Rubicon that divides them from their much-scorned '_teens_.' "I have advanced, and you seem to have stood still; there is scarcely any difference between us now." And Olive, somewhat amused, let her old favourite have his way.

They spoke on trivial subjects, until it was time to return to the house. Just as they were entering, Lyle said:

"Look! there is my brother-in-law standing at the gate. Oh, Miss Rothesay, be sure you never tell him of the things we have been talking about."

"It is not likely I shall ever have the opportunity. Mr. Gwynne seems a very reserved man."

"He is so; and of these matters he now never speaks at all."

"Hush! he is here;" and with a feeling of unwonted nervousness, as if she feared he had been aware of how much she had thought and conversed about him, Olive met Harold Gwynne.

"I am afraid I am an intruder, Miss Rothesay," said the latter, with a half-suspicious glance at the tall, dark figure which stood near her in the moonlight.

"What! did you not know me, brother Harold? How funny!" And he laughed: his laugh was something like Sara's.

It seemed to ring jarringly on Mr. Gwynne's ear. "I was not aware, Miss Rothesay, that you knew my brother-in-law."

"Oh, Miss Rothesay and I were friends almost ten years ago. She was our neighbour at Oldchurch."

"Indeed." And Olive thought she discerned in his face, which she had already begun to read, some slight pain or annoyance. Perhaps it wounded him to know any one who had known Sara. Perhaps--but conjectures were vain.

"I am glad you are come," she said to Harold. "Mamma has been wishing for you all day. Lyle, will you go and tell her who is here. Nay, Mr.

Gwynne, surely you will come back with me to the house?"

He seemed half-inclined to resist, but at last yielded. So he made one of the little circle, and "a.s.sisted" well at this, the first of many social evenings, at Farnwood Dell But at times, Olive caught some of his terse, keen, and somewhat sarcastic sayings, and thought she could imagine the look and tone with which he had said the bitter words about "never trusting woman more."

He and Lyle went away together, and Christal, who had at last succeeded in apparently involving the light-hearted young collegian within the meshes of her smiles, took consolation in a little quiet drollery with Charley Fludyer; but even this resource failed when Charley spoke of returning home.

"I shall not go back with you to-night," said Christal. "I shall stay at the Dell. You may come and fetch me to-morrow, with the pony you lent me; and bring Mr. Derwent, too, to lead it. To see him so employed would be excellent fun."

"You seem to have taken a sudden pa.s.sion for riding, Christal," said Olive, with a smile, when they were alone.

"Yes, it suits me. I like dashing along across the country--it is excitement; and I like, too, to have a horse obeying me--'tis so delicious to rule! To think that Madame Blandin should consider riding unfeminine, and that I should have missed that pleasure for so many years! But I am my own mistress now. By the way," she added, carelessly, "I wanted to have a few words with you, Miss Rothesay." She had rarely called her _Olive_ of late.

"Nay, my dears," interposed Mrs. Rothesay, "do not begin to talk just yet--not until I am gone to bed; for I am very, very tired" And so, until Olive came downstairs again, Christal sat in dignified solitude by the parlour fire.

"Well," said Miss Rothesay, when she entered, "what have you to say to me, my dear child?"

Christal drew back a little at the familiar word and manner, as though she did not quite like it. But she only said, "Oh, it is a mere trifle; I am obliged to mention it, because I understand Miss Vanbrugh left my money matters under your care until I came of age."

"Certainly; you know it was by your consent, Christal."

"O yes, because it will save me trouble. Well, all I wanted to say was, that I wish to keep a horse."

"To keep a horse!"

"Certainly; what harm can there be in that? I long to ride about at my own will; go to the meets in the forest; even to follow the hounds. I am my own mistress, and I choose to do it," said Christal in rather a high tone.

"You cannot, indeed, my dear," answered Olive mildly. "Think of all the expenses it would entail--expenses far beyond your income."

"I myself am the best judge of that."

"Not quite. Because, Christal, you are still very young, and have little knowledge of the world. Besides, to tell you the plain truth--must I?"

"Certainly; of all things I hate deceit and concealment." Here Christal stopped, blushed a little; and half-turning aside, hid further in her bosom a little ornament which occasionally peeped out--a silver cross and beads. Then she said in a somewhat less angry tone, "You are right; tell me all your mind."

"I think, then, that though your income is sufficient to give you independence, it cannot provide you with luxuries. Also," she continued, speaking very gently, "it seems to me scarcely right, that a young girl like you, without father or brother, should go riding and hunting in the way you purpose."

"That still is my own affair--no one has a right to control me." Olive was silent. "Do you mean to say _you_ have? Because you are in some sort my guardian, are you to thwart me in this manner? I will not endure it."

And there rose in her the same fierce spirit which had startled Olive on the first night of the girl's arrival at Woodford Cottage, and which, something to her surprise, had lain dormant ever since, covered over with the light-hearted trifling which formed Christal's outward character. "What am I to do?" thought Olive, much troubled. "How am I to wrestle with this girl? But I will do it--if only for Meliora's sake.

Christal," she said affectionately, "we have never talked together seriously for a long time; not since the first night we met."

"I remember, you were good to me then," answered Christal, a little subdued.

"Because I was grieved for you--I pitied you." "Pitied!" and the angry demon again rose. Olive saw she must not touch that chord again.

"My dear," she said, still more kindly; "indeed I have neither the wish nor the right to rule you; I only advise." "And to advice I am ready to listen. Don't mistake me, Miss Rothesay. I liked you--I do still--very much indeed; but you don't quite understand or sympathise with me now."

"Why not, dear? Is it because I have little time to be with you, being so much occupied with my mother, and with my profession?"

"Ay, that is it," said Christal, loftily. "My dear Miss Rothesay, I am much obliged to you for all your kindness; but we do not suit one another. I have found that out since I visited at Farnwood Hall. There is a difference between a mere artist working for a livelihood, and an independent lady."

Even Christal, abrupt as her anger had made her, blushed for the rudeness of this speech. But false shame kept her from offering any atonement.