Olive Part 65

"Kiss me, then, my own faithful one," he said faintly.

Olive leaned over him, and kissed him on the eyes and mouth. He tried to fold his arms round her, but failed.

"I have no strength at all," he said, sorrowfully. "I cannot take her to my heart--my darling--my wife! So worn-out am I--so weak."

"But I am strong," Olive answered. She put her arm under his head, and made him lean on her shoulder. He looked up smiling.

"Oh, this is sweet, very sweet! I could sleep--I could almost die--thus"----

"No, G.o.d will not let you die, my Harold," whispered Olive; and then neither spoke again.

Overpowered by an emotion which was too much for his feeble strength, Harold lay quiet By degrees, when the room darkened--for it was evening--his breathing grew deeper, and he fell asleep, his head still resting on Olive's shoulder.

She looked down upon him--his wasted face--his thin hand, that, even in slumber, still clung helplessly to hers. What a tide of emotion swept through her heart! It seemed that therein was gathered up for him every tenderness that woman's soul could know. She loved him at once with the love of mother, sister, friend, and wife--loved him as those only can who have no other kindred tie--nothing in the whole wide world to love beside. She laid her cheek against his hair--but softly, lest she should waken him.

"I thought to have led a whole long lonely life for thy sake, Harold!

And I would have led it, without murmuring, either against Heaven or thee, knowing my own un-worthiness. But since it is not to be so, I will give thee instead a whole life of faithful love--a wife's love--such as never was wife's before."

And then, over long years, her fancy went back, discerning how all things had worked together to this end. She saw how patience had ripened into hope, and suffering into joy. Not one step of the whole weary way had been trodden in vain--not one thorn had pierced her feet, that had not while entering there distilled a saving balm.

Travelling over many scenes, her memory beheld Harold, as in those early days when her influence and her prayers had changed his heart, and led him from darkness to light. Again, as in the first bitterness of her love for him; when continually he tortured her, never dreaming of the wounds he gave. And once more, as in the time, when knowing her fate, she had calmly prepared to meet it, and tried to make herself a true friend unto him--he so unresponsive, cold, and stern. Remembering him thus, she looked at him as he lay, turning for rest and comfort to her--only her. Once more she kissed his forehead as he slept, and then her lips uttered the words with which Mrs. Flora had blessed her.

"O G.o.d, I thank Thee, for Thou hast given me my heart's desire!"

Soon after, Mrs. Gwynne entered the room. But no blush came to Olive's cheek--too solemn was her joy.

"Hush!" she whispered; "do not wake him. He loves me--I know it now. You will not be angry?--I have loved him always."

"I knew it, Olive."

Harold's mother stood a long time in silence. Heaven only knows what struggle there might have been in her heart--so bound up as it was in him--her only child. Ere it ended--he awoke.

"Mother!--is not that my mother?"

"Yes!" Mrs. Gwynne answered. She went up and kissed them both, first her son, and afterwards Olive. Then, without speaking, she quitted the room, leaving them alone together.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

It was a Sunday afternoon, not bright, but dull. All the long day the low clouds had been dropping freshness down;--the soft May-rain, which falls warm and silent, as if the spring were weeping itself away for very gladness. Through the open window came the faint odour which the earth gives forth during rain--an odour of bursting leaves and dew-covered flowers. On the lawn you could almost "have seen the gra.s.s grow." And though the sky was dull and grey, still the whole air was so full of summer, so rich in the promise of what the next day would be, that you did not marvel to hear the birds singing as merrily as if it had been sunshine. There was one thrush to which Olive had stood listening for half-an-hour. He sat sheltered in the heart of the great syringa bush. Though the rain kept dropping continually from its flowers, he poured out a song so long and merry, that he even disturbed his friends in the parlour--the happy silent three--mother, son, and the son's betrothed.

Mrs. Gwynne, who sat in the far corner, put down her book--the best Book, for Sunday and all other days--the only one she ever read now.

Harold, still feeble, lying back in his armchair by the window, listened to the happy bird.

"Do you like to hear it, or shall I close the window?" said Olive, coming towards him.

"Nay, it does me good; everything does me good now," he answered, smiling. And then he lay a long time, quietly looking on the garden and the misty view beyond. Olive sat, looking alone at him; watching him in that deep peace, that satisfied content with which our eyes drink in every lineament beloved, when, all sorrow past, the fulness of love has come. No need had she to seek his, as though asking restlessly, "Do you love me?" In her own love's completeness she desired no demonstration of his. To her it was perfect joy only to sit near him and to look at his face; the face which, whether seen or remembered, shone distinct from every other face in the wide world; and had done so from the first moment when it met her sight. Very calm and beautiful it was now; so beautiful, that even his mother turned round and looked at him for a moment with dimmed eyes.

"You are sure you feel quite well to-day? I mean as well as usual. You are not sitting up too long, or wearying yourself too much?"

"Oh, no, mother! I think I could even exert myself more; but there is such sweetness in this dreamy life. I am so happy! It will be almost a pain to go back to the troublesome world again."

"Do not say so, my son. Indeed, we must have you quite well soon--the sooner the better--and then you will return to all your old duties. When I sat in church this morning, I was counting how many Sundays it would possibly be before I heard my son Harold's voice there again."

Harold moved restlessly.

"What say you, Olive, my dear?" continued Mrs. Gwynne. "Will it not be a pleasure to hear him in his own pulpit again? How soon, think you, will he be able to preach?"

"I cannot tell," answered Olive, in a low voice; and she looked anxiously at her betrothed. For well she knew his heart, and well she guessed that though that heart was pure and open in the sight of G.o.d and in _her_ sight, it might not be so in that of every man. And although his faith was now the Christian faith--even, in many points, that of the Church--still Olive doubted whether he would ever be a Church of England minister again. No wonder that she watched his face in anxious love, and then looked from him to his mother, who, all unconscious, continued to speak.

"In truth, all your parishioners will be glad to have you back. Even Mrs. Fludyer was saying so yesterday; and noticing that it was a whole year since you had preached in your own church. A long absence! Of course, it could not be helped; still it was rather a pity. Please G.o.d, it shall not happen again--shall it, Harold?"

"Mother--mother!" His hands were crushed together, and with a look of pain. Olive stole to his side.

"Perhaps we are talking too much. Shall we go away, Harold, and leave you to sleep?"

"Hush, Olive! hush!" he whispered. "I have thought of this before. I knew I must tell it to her--all the truth."

"But not now--not now. Wait till you are stronger; wait a week--a day."

"No, not an hour. It is right!"

"What are you talking to my son about?" said Mrs. Gwynne, with a quick jealousy, which even yet was not altogether stilled.

Neither of the betrothed spoke.

"You are not hiding anything from me, Harold; from me, your mother!"

"My mother--my n.o.ble, self-denying, mother!" murmured Harold, as if thinking aloud. "Surely, if I sinned for her, G.o.d will forgive me!"

"Sinned for me! What are you talking of, Harold? Is there anything in your mind--anything I do not know?" And her eyes--still tender, yet with a half-formed suspicion--were fixed searchingly on her son. And when, as if to shield him even from his mother, Olive leaned over him, Mrs.

Gwynne's voice grew stern with reproof.

"Stand aside, Olive. Let me see his face. Not even you have a right to interpose between me and my son."

Olive moved a little aside. Very meek was she--as one had need to be whom Mrs. Gwynne would call daughter and Harold wife. Yet by her meekness she had oftentimes controlled them both. She did so now.

"Olive--darling," whispered Harold, his eyes full of love; "my mother says right Let her come and sit by me a little. Nay, stay near, though.

I must have you in my sight--it will strengthen me."

She pressed his hand, and went away to the other end of the room.

Then Harold said, tenderly, "Mother, I want to tell you something."

"It is no misfortune--no sin? O, my son, I am too old to bear either!"

she answered, as she sat down, trembling a little.