Olive Part 62

Margaret's, where your aunt has arranged all Olive, we must not fail both to go to Edinburgh soon. Something tells me this will be the last good deed done on earth by our n.o.ble aunt Flora. For what you say in your last letter, thank you! But why do you talk of grat.i.tude? All I ever did was not half worthy of you. You ask of myself, and my plans?

I have thought little of either lately, but I shall now. Tell my mother that all her letters came safe, and welcome--especially _the first_ she wrote."

"Lord Arundale stays abroad until the year's close. For me, in the early spring, when I have finished my duties with him, I shall come home.

_Home!_ Thank G.o.d!"

CHAPTER XLVI.

Night and day there rung in Olive's heart the last words of Harold's letter, "I shall come home!" Simple they were; but they seemed so strangely joyful--so full of hope. She could not tell why, but thinking of him now, her whole world seemed to change. He was coming back! With him came spring and suns.h.i.+ne, youth and hope!

It was yet early in the year. The little crocuses peeped out--the violets purpled the banks. Now and then came soft west winds, sighing sweetness over the earth. Not a breeze pa.s.sed her by--not a flower sprang in her sight--not one sunny day dawned to ripen the growing year, but Olive's heart leaped within her; for she said, "He will come with the spring--he will come with the spring!"

How and with what mind he would come--whether he would tell her he loved her, or ask her to be his wife--she counted none of these things. Her love was too unselfish, too utterly bound up in him. She only thought that she would see his face, clasp his hand, and walk with him--the same as in the dear old time. Not quite, perhaps, for she was conscious that in the bond between them had come a change, a growth. How, she knew not, but it had come. Sometimes she sat thinking--would he tell her all those things which he had promised, and what could they be? And, above all, would he call her, as in his letters, _Olive_? Written, it looked most beautiful in her sight; but when spoken, it must be a music of which the world could hold no parallel.

A little she strove to temper her happiness, for she was no love-sick girl, but a woman, who, giving her heart--how wholly none but herself could tell--had given it in the fear of G.o.d, and in all simplicity.

Having known the sorrow of love, she was not ashamed to rejoice in love's joy. But she did so meekly and half-tremblingly, scarcely believing that it was such, lest it should overpower her. She set herself to all her duties, and above all, worked sedulously at a picture which she had begun.

"It must be finished before Harold comes home," said Harold's mother. "I told him of it in my letters, you know."

"Indeed. I do not remember that. And yet for this long while you have let me see all your letters, I think."

"All--except one I wrote when you were ill. But never mind it, my dear, I can tell you what I said--or, perhaps Harold will," answered Mrs.

Gwynne, her face brightening in its own peculiar smile of heartfelt benevolence and lurking humour. And then the brief conversation ceased.

For a while longer these two loving hearts waited anxiously for Harold's coming. At last he came.

It was in the sweetest month, the opening gate of the summer year--April Mrs. Gwynne and Olive, only they two, had spent the day together at Harbury; for little Ailie, a child too restless to be ruled by quiet age, was now sent away to school. Mrs. Gwynne sat in her armchair, knitting. Olive stood at the window, thinking how beautiful the garden looked, just freshened with an April shower; and how the same pa.s.sing rain-cloud, melting in the west, had burst into a most gorgeous sunset Her happiness even took a light tone of girlish romance. Looking at the thorn-tree, now covered with pale green leaves, she thought with a pleasant fancy, that when it was white with blossoms Harold, would be here. And her full heart, hardly conscious why, ran over with a trembling joy.

Nevertheless, amidst all her own hope, she remembered tenderly her poor sister far away. And also Lyle, whom since that day he parted from her she had never seen. Thinking, "How sweet it is to feel happy!" she thought likewise--as those who have suffered ever must--"Heaven make all the world happy too!"

It was just after this silent aspiration, which of all others must bring an answering blessing down, that the long-desired one came home. His mother heard him first.

"Hark--there's some one in the hall. Listen, Olive! It is his voice--I know it is! He is come home--my son!--my dear son, Harold." And with eager, trembling steps, she hurried out.

Olive stayed behind. She had no right to go and meet him, as his mother did. And after one wild throb, her heart sank, so faintly that she could hardly stand.

His voice--his long silent voice! Hearing it, the old feeling came over her. She shuddered, even with a sort of fear. "Heaven save me from myself! Heaven keep my heart at peace! Perhaps he will not suffer himself to love me, or does not wish me to love him. I have thought so sometimes. Yes! I am quite calm--quite ready to meet him now." And she felt herself growing all white and cold as she stood.

The door opened, and Harold came in alone. Not one step could she advance to meet him, not one word of welcome fell from her lips,--nor from his, which were pale as her own. But as he clasped her hands and held them fast, she felt him gazing down upon her--now, for the first time, beginning to read her heart. Something in that fond--ay, it was a fond look--was drawing her closer to him--something that told her she was dearer than any friend. It might have happened so--that moment might have proved the crowning moment of life, which blends two hearts of man and woman into one love, making their being complete, as G.o.d meant it should be.

But at the same instant Mrs. Gwynne came in. Their hands fell from one another; Harold quitted Olive's side, and began talking to his mother.

Olive stood by herself in the window. She felt as if her whole destiny was changing--melting from cloud to glory--like the sunset she had watched an hour before. Whatever was the mystery that had kept him silent, she believed that in the secret depth of his heart Harold loved her. Once she had thought, that were this knowledge true, the joy would overpower her reason. Now, it came with such a solemnity, that all agitation ceased. Her hands were folded on her heart, her eyes looked heavenwards. Her prayer was,--"O G.o.d, if this happiness should be, make me worthy of it--worthy of him!--If not, keep us both safe until the eternal meeting!"

Then, all emotion having pa.s.sed away, she went back quietly to Harold and his mother.

They were sitting together on the sofa, Harold holding his mother's hand in one of his. When Olive approached, he stretched out the other, saying, "Come to us, little Olive,--come! Shall she, mother?"

"Yes," was Mrs. Gwynne's low answer. But Olive heard it. It was the lonely heart's first welcome home.

For an hour afterwards she sat by Harold's side in the gathering darkness, feeling her hand safe clasped in his. Never was there any clasp like Harold's--so firm, yet soft--so gentle, yet so close and warm. It filled her with a sense of rest and protection--she, long tossed about in the weary world. Once or twice she moved her hand, but only to lay it again in his, and feel his welcoming fingers close over it, as if to say, "Mine--mine--always mine!"

So they sat and talked together--she, and Harold, and Harold's mother--talked as if they were one loving household, whose every interest was united. Though, nevertheless, not one word was spoken that might break the seal upon any of their hearts.

"How happy it is to come home!" said Harold. "How blessed to feel that one has a home! I thought so more strongly than ever I had done before, one day, at Home, when I was with Olive's old friend, Michael Vanbrugh."

"Oh, tell me of the Vanbrughs," cried Olive eagerly. "Then you did see them at last, though you never said anything about it in your letters?"

"No; for it was a long story, and both our thoughts were too full. Shall I tell it now? Yet it is sad, it will pain you, Olive." And he pressed her hand closer while he spoke.

She answered, "Still, tell me all." And she felt that, so listening, the heaviest worldly sorrow would have fallen light.

"I was long before I could discover Mr. Vanbrugh, and still longer before I found out-his abode. Day after day I met him, and talked with him at the Sistine, but he never spoke of his home, or asked me thither.

He had good reason."

"Were they so poor then? I feared this," said Olive compa.s.sionately.

"Yes, it was the story of a shattered hope. As I think, Vanbrugh was a man to whom Fortune could never come. He must have hunted her from him all his life, with his pride, his waywardness, his fitful morose ambition. I soon read his character--for I had read another very like it, once. But that is changed now, thank G.o.d," said Harold, softly.

"Well, so it was: the painter dreamed his dream, the little sister stayed at home and starved."

"Starved! oh, no! you cannot mean that!"

"It would have been so, save for Lord Arundale's benevolence, when we found them out at last. They lived in a miserable house, which had but one decent room--the studio. 'Michael's room must always be comfortable,' said Miss Meliora--I knew her at once, Olive, after all you had told me of her. The poor little woman! she almost wept to hear the sound of my English voice, and to talk with me about you. She said, 'she was very lonely among strangers, but she would get used to it in time. She was not well too, but it would never do to give way--it might trouble Michael She would get better in the spring.'"

"Poor Meliora! But you were very kind to her--you went to see her often?--I knew you would."

"There was no time," Harold answered, sadly. "The day after this we sought out Michael Vanbrugh, in his old haunt, the Sistine Chapel. He was somewhat discomposed, because his sister had not risen in time to set his palette, and get all things ready in his painting-room at home.

I went thither, and found her--dying."

Harold paused--but Olive was too much moved to speak. He went on--

"So sudden was the call that she would not believe it herself. She kept saying continually, that she must contrive to rise before Michael came back at night. Even when she knew she was dying, she seemed to think only of him; but always in her simple, humble way. I remember how she talked, brokenly, of some draperies she had to make for his model that day--asking me to get some one else to do it, or the picture would be delayed. Once she wept, saying, 'who would take care of Michael when she was gone?' She would not have him sent for--he never liked to be disturbed when he was at the Sistine. Towards evening she seemed to lie eagerly listening, but he did not come home. At last she bade me give her love to Michael: she wished he had come, if only to kiss her before she died--he had not kissed her for thirty years. Once more, just when she seemed pa.s.sing into a death-like sleep, she half-roused herself, to beg some one would take care that Michael's tea was all ready for him against he came home. After this she never spoke again."

"Poor Meliora! poor simple, loving soul!" And Olive melted into quiet tears. After a while she inquired in what way this blow had fallen upon Michael Vanbrugh.

"Strangely, indeed," said Harold. "It was I who told him first of his sister's death. He received the news quite coldly--as a thing impossible to realise! He even sat down to the table, as if he expected her to come in and pour out his tea; but afterwards, leaving the meal untouched, he went and shut himself up in his painting-room, without speaking a word.

And then I quitted the house."

"But you saw him again?"

"No; for I left Rome immediately. However, I had a friend who watched over him and constantly sent me news. So I learnt that after his sister's death a great change came over him. His one household stay gone, he seemed to sink down helpless as a child. He would wander about the house, as though he missed something--he knew not what; his painting was neglected, he became slovenly in his dress, restless in his look.

No one could say he grieved for his sister, but he missed her--as one misses the habit of a lifetime. So he gradually changed, and grew speedily to be a worn-out, miserable old man. A week since I heard that his last picture had been bought by the Cardinal F----, and that Michael Vanbrugh slept eternally beneath the blue sky of Rome."

"He had his wish--he had his wis.h.!.+" said Olive, gently. "And his faithful little sister had hers; for nothing ever parted them. Women are content thus to give up their lives to some one beloved. The happiness is far beyond the pain."

"You told me so once before," answered Harold, in a low tone. "Do you remember? It was at the Hermitage of Braid."