A Changed Heart Part 52

"Now, Olly, don't be hateful, but go and put your things on, like a darling. I am just dying to go, and I can't go without you, so do come, there's a dear!"

"But don't you see I have company," laughed Olive; "I can't be rude; I can't leave them."

"Nonsense, Olive, my love," cut in Mrs. Darcy; "you don't call Catty and I strangers, I hope. Go down to the wharf; the sea-breeze will sharpen your appet.i.te for dinner."

"A very romantic reason, certainly," said Olive, sauntering out of the room, however. "You had better come too, Miss Clowrie."

This was said for politeness' sake, for the attorney's daughter was no favorite with the heiress. Catty, only too glad to be seen in public with Miss Henderson, accepted at once, and went up to dress.

"Is it true, Laura," asked Mrs. Darcy, "that Miss Rose came back last night?"

"Yes," said Laura, "she called this morning, and I was so glad to see her. She looks extremely well. England must have agreed with her."

"Where is she stopping? I should like to see her."

"At ---- House, with Mrs. and Major Wheatly. She told me she would be at the boat this afternoon, when she would see all the old faces, if Speckport had not changed greatly in her absence."

"Tell her to call and see me," said Mrs. Darcy; "I always liked Miss Rose. I think she has the sweetest face I ever saw."

"Now, then, Laura," exclaimed Olive, appearing at the door with Catty, "I am ready, and I hear the steamer blowing."

The three young ladies walked down to the wharf, which, as usual, was crowded. One of the first persons they met was Val Blake, watching the pa.s.sengers, who were beginning to come up the floats, running the gauntlet of all eyes. He was telling them something about Tom Oaks, who had started off up the country, when he stopped in the middle of what he was saying with a sort of shout of astonishment, and stared at a gentleman coming up the floats, with a valise in one hand, and an overcoat across his arm.

"Now, of all the people coming and going on the face of the earth,"

cried out Mr. Blake, in his amazement, "whatever has sent Paul Wyndham to Speckport?"

The next instant he was off, flinging the crowd right and left out of his way, and arresting the traveler with a sledge-hammer tap on the shoulder. The girls laughingly watched him, as he shook the stranger's hand as vigorously as if he meant to wrench it off, crying out in a voice that everybody heard: "Why, Wyndham, old fellow! what the deuce drove you here?"

Mr. Wyndham smiled quietly at his impetuous friend, and walked away with him to a cab, which they both entered, and Olive Henderson, still laughing at Mr. Blake, looked carelessly after them, and never dreamed that she had met her fate. No; who ever does dream it, when they meet that fate first!

So Paul Wyndham pa.s.sed Olive Henderson, and the curtain of the future shrouded the web of life destiny was weaving. She forgot him as soon as seen, and turned to Laura, who was speaking animatedly.

"Look, Olly! there's the Miss Rose you have heard me speaking of so often--that little girl with the black silk dress and mantle, and black straw hat, talking to Miss Blake. Look! hasn't she the sweetest face!

I'll call her over."

The crowd of men, women and children, thronging the wharf and floats, were strangely startled a moment after, and every eye turned in one direction. There had been a long, wild, woman's shriek, and some one had reeled and fallen to the ground like a log. There was a rus.h.i.+ng and swaying, and startled talking among the people; and Dr. Leach, coming along, took the Rev. Augustus Tod by the b.u.t.ton, and wanted to know what was the matter.

"Miss Olive Henderson had fainted," the Rev. Augustus said, with a startled face. "She had been standing on the wharf, apparently quite well, only a second before, when she had suddenly screamed out and fallen down in a fainting-fit. It was really quite shocking."

CHAPTER XXV.

THE DOUBLE COMPACT.

Olive Henderson lay on a sofa in her bedroom, her face half buried among the pillows, her cloud of tar-black hair all loose and disordered, falling about her, and still wearing the out-door dress of yesterday.

Bright streaks of crimson glory, in the dull dawn sky, heralded the rising of another sun, of another day to the restless, feverish little planet below. Dressed in that uncomfortable attire for repose, Olive Henderson, while the red morning broke, lay there and slept. Stuff! It was more stupor than sleep, and she had only sank into it half an hour before, from sheer physical exhaustion. Those in the cottage had been disturbed all night long, by the sound of restless footsteps pacing up and down the chamber where she now lay, up and down, up and down, ceaselessly, the livelong night. When they had lifted her up, and carried her home in that death-faint, and Dr. Leach had brought her to, her first act had been to turn every soul of them out of her room, Laura Blair included, to lock the door, and remain there alone by herself, ever since. Everybody wondered; Catty Clowrie, most of all, and tender-hearted Laura cried. That sympathizing confidante had gone to the locked door, and humbly and lovingly entreated "Olly" to let her in; but Olly turned a deaf ear to all her entreaties, and never even condescended to reply. Mrs. Hill felt deeply on the subject of refreshments--if her young lady would but partake of some weak tea and dry toast, or even water-gruel, and go to bed comfortable, and sleep it off, she would be all right to-morrow; but to shut herself up, and her friends out, was enough to give her her death. Catty Clowrie said very little, but she thought a good deal. She had remained all night at the cottage, and had listened to that troubled footstep, and had mused darkly, instead of sleeping. At day-dawn the restless pacing had ceased, and Olive Henderson lay sleeping, a deep, stupor-like sleep. Her face, lying among the pillows, contrasting with her black hair, looked ghastly white in the pale dawn, and her brows were drawn, and her position strangely wretched and unnatural.

Mrs. Hill came to the door several times and tried to get in, but in vain. Her feeble knocks failed to awake her young mistress from that deep sleep, and the sun was high in the purple arch outside, before the dark eyes slowly opened to this mortal life again. She sat up feeling stiff, and cold, and cramped, and unrefreshed, and put the black cloud of hair away from her face, while memory stepped back to its post. With something like a groan she dropped her face once more among the pillows, but this time not to sleep. She lay so still for nearly half an hour, that not a hair of her head moved, thinking, thinking, thinking. A terrible fear came upon her, a horrible danger threatened her, but she was not one easily to yield to despair. She would battle with the rising tide, battle fiercely to the last, and if the black waves engulfed her at the end, she would die waging war against relentless doom, to the close.

Olive Henderson rose up, twisted her disordered tresses away from her face, searched for her ink and paper, and sat down to a little rosewood desk, to write. It was very short, the note she rapidly scrawled, but the whole pa.s.sionate heart of the girl was in it.

"For G.o.d's sake come to me!" (this abrupt note began) "every second is an age of agony till I see you. I thought you were dead--as Heaven is my witness, I did, or I should never have come here! By the memory of all the happy days we have spent together, by the memory of your dead father, I conjure you be silent, and come to me at once!

"H."

The note had neither date, address, nor signature, save that one capital letter, but when it was folded and in the envelope, she wrote the address:--"Miss W. Rose, ---- House, Queen Street, Speckport."

Then, rising, she exchanged the crumpled robe in which she had slept for one of plain black silk, hastily thrust her hair loose into a chenille net, put on a long black silk mantle, a bonnet and thick brown vail, placed the letter in her pocket, and went down stairs. There was no possibility of leaving the house unseen; Mrs. Hill heard her opening the front door and came out of the dining-room. Her eyes opened like full moons at the sight of the street costume, and the young lady's white, resolute face.

"My patience, Miss Olive, you're never going out?"

"Yes," Miss Henderson said, constraining herself to speak quietly. "My head aches, and I think a walk in the air will do it good. I will be back directly."

"But, do take something before you go. Some tea, now, and a little bit of toast."

"No, no! not any, thank you, until I come back."

She was gone even while she spoke; the thick vail drawn over her face, her parasol up, screening her effectually. Catty Clowrie, watching her from the window, would have given considerable to follow her, and see where she went. She had little faith in that walk being taken for the sake of walking; some covert meaning lay hidden beneath.

"I declare to you, Catty," exclaimed Mrs. Hill, coming back, "she gave me quite a turn! She was as white as a ghost, and those big black eyes of hers looked bigger and blacker than ever. She is turning bilious, that's what she's doing."

Miss Henderson walked to Queen Street by the most retired streets, and pa.s.sed before the hotel, where Major and Mrs. Wheatly boarded. She had some idea of putting the letter in the post-office when she started, but in that case Miss Rose would not receive it until evening, and how could she wait all that time, eating out her heart with mad impatience? There was a man standing in the doorway of the ladies' entrance, a waiter, and quite alone. With her vail closely drawn over her face, Miss Henderson approached him, speaking in a low voice:

"There is a young lady--a governess, called Miss Rose, stopping here--is there not?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Is she in now?"

"Yes'm."

"Will you please give her this letter! give it into her own hand, and at once!"

She gave him the letter, and a fee that made him stare, and was gone.

The man did not know her, and Olive reached home without once meeting any one who recognized her.

Miss Catty Clowrie did not leave the cottage all that day. She was sewing for Mrs. Hill; and, seated at the dining-room window, she watched Miss Henderson furtively, but incessantly, under her white eyelashes. That young lady seemed possessed of the very spirit of restlessness, since her return from her walk. It had not done her much good, apparently, for it had neither brought back color nor appet.i.te; and she wandered from room to room, and up-stairs and down-stairs, with a miserable feverish restlessness, that made one fidgety to look at her.

And all the time in her dark colorless face there was only one expression, one of pa.s.sionate, impatient waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting! For what? Catty Clowrie's greenish-gray eyes read the look aright, but for what was she waiting?

"I'll find it out, yet," Miss Clowrie said, inwardly. "She is a very fine lady, this Miss Olive Henderson, but there is an old adage about 'All that glitters is not gold.' I'll wait and see."

There were a great many callers in the course of the morning, but Miss Henderson was too indisposed to see any of them. Even Miss Blair was sent away with this answer, when she came; but Miss Henderson had left word, Mrs. Hill said, that she would be glad to see Miss Laura to-morrow. Miss Henderson herself, walking up and down the drawing-room, heard the message given, and the door closed on her friend, and then turned to go up-stairs. She stopped to say a word to her housekeeper as she did so.

"There is a person to call to-day, Mrs. Hill," she said, not looking at the pilot's widow, "and you may send her up to my room when she comes.

It is Miss Rose, Mrs. Major Wheatly's governess!"