Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
Olive, Vol. 3
(1850)
**********
About the print version:
OLIVE. A Novel.
BY
THE AUTHOR OF "THE OGILVIES."
IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. III. LONDON:
CHAPMAN AND HALL
193, PICCADILLY
(LATE 186, STRAND).
1850.
Page verso
WHITING, BEAUFORD HOUSE, STRAND.
**********
OLIVE.
CHAPTER I.
IT was again the season of late summer; and Time's soothing shadow had
risen up between the daughter and her grief. The grave in the beautiful
churchyard of Harbury was bright with many months' growth of grass and flowers.
It never looked dreary--nay, often seemed almost to smile. It was watered by no
tears--it never had been. Those which Olive shed were only for her own
loneliness, and at times she felt that even these were wrong. Many people, see
ing how calm she was, and how, after a season, she fell into her old pursuits
and her kindly duties to all around, used to say, "Who would have thought that
Miss Rothesay would have forgotten her mother so easily?"
But she did not forget. Selfish, worldly mourners are they, who think
that the memory of the beloved lost can only be kept green by tears. Olive
Rothesay was not of these. To her, her mother's departure appeared no more like
death, than did one Divine parting--with reverence be it spoken!--appear to
those who stood and looked heavenward from the hill of Bethany. And thus should
we think upon all happy and holy deaths--if we fully and truly believed the
faith we aver.
Olive did not forget her mother--she could as soon have forgotten her
own soul. In all her actions, words, and thoughts, this most sacred memory abided--a continual presence, silent as sweet, and sweet as
holy. When her many and most affectionate friends had beguiled her into
cheerfulness, so that they fancied she had lost thought of her sorrow, she used
to say in her heart, "See, mother, I can think of thee and not grieve. I would
not, that, looking down from heaven, it should pain thee to know I suffer
still!"
Yet human feelings could not utterly be suppressed; and there were many
times, when at night-time she buried her face on the now lonely pillow, and
blindly stretched out her arms into the empty darkness, crying, "My mother, oh
my mother!" But then strong love came between Olive and her agony, whispering,
"Child, wherever her spirit abides, thy mother forgets not thee!" And so the
desolate one grew calm.
She looked very calm now, as she sat with Mrs. Gwynne in the bay-window
of the little drawing-room at the Parsonage, engaged in some light work, with
little Ailie reading a lesson at her knee. It was a lesson, too, taken from that
lore--at once the most simple and most divine--the Gospels of the New Testament.
"I thought my son would prove himself right in all his opinions,"
observed Mrs. Gwynne, when the lesson was over and the child had run away. "I
knew he would allow Ailie to learn everything at the right time."
Olive made no answer. Her thoughts turned to the day--now some months
back--when, stung by the disobedience and falsehood that lay hid in a young mind
which knew no higher law than a human parent's command, Harold had come to her
for counsel. She remembered his almost despairing words, "Teach the child as you will--true or false--I care not; so that she becomes like yourself, and is saved from those doubts which rack her father's soul."
Harold Gwynne was not singular in this. Scarce ever was there an
unbeliever who desired to see the image of his own scepticism reflected in his
child.
Mrs. Gwynne continued--"I don't think I can ever sufficiently thank you,
my dear Miss Rothesay."
"Say Olive, as you generally do," was the affectionate whisper.
It seemed that her Christian name sounded so sweet and homelike from
Harold's mother; especially now that, save from these kind lips, its sound had
ceased on earth.
"Olive, then! My dear, how good you are to take Ailie so entirely under
your care and teaching. But for that, we must have sent her to some school from home, and, I will not conceal from you, that would
have been a great sacrifice, even in a worldly point of view, since our income
is so diminished by my son's resigning his duties to his curate." Mrs. Gwynne
had learned to talk to Olive with more unreserve than to any other human being.
"But tell me, do you think Harold looks any better? What an anxious summer this
has been!"
And Olive, hearing the heavy sigh of the mother, whose whole existence
was bound up in her son, felt that there was something holy even in that deceit,
or rather concealment, wherein she herself was now a sorely-tried sharer. "You
must not be anxious," she said; "you know that there is nothing dangerous in Mr.
Gwynne's state of health, only his mind has been overworked."
"I suppose so; and perhaps it was the best plan for him to give up all
clerical duties for a time. I think, too, that these short excursions of his do him good."
"I hope so," said Olive, observing that the anxious mother looked for an
acquiescence.
"Besides, seeing that he is not positively disabled by illness, his
parishioners might think it peculiar that he should continually remain among
them, and yet discharge none of his duties. But my Harold is a strange being; he
always was. Sometimes I think his heart is not in his calling--that he would
have been more happy as a man of science than as a clergyman. Yet of late he has
ceased even that favourite pursuit; and though he spends whole days in his
study, I sometimes find he has not displaced one book, except the large Bible
which I gave him when he went to college. God bless him--my dear Harold!"
Olive's inmost heart echoed the blessing, and in the same words. For of late--perhaps with more frequently hearing him called by the familiar home appellation, she had thought of him less as Mr. Gwynne than as Harold. Alas! it is a serious thing for any woman, when, thinking of some friend, to her heart comes unconsciously not the name he bears in the world, but that which is uttered only by household affection or love.
"I wonder what makes your blithe Christal so late," observed Mrs.
Gwynne, abruptly, as if, disliking to betray further emotion, she wished to
change the conversation. "Lyle Derwent promised to bring her himself--much
against his will, though," she added, smiling. "He seems quite afraid of Miss
Manners; he says she teazes him so!"
"But she suffers no one else to do it. If I say a word against Lyle's
little peculiarities, she is quite indignant. I rather think she
likes him--that is, as much as she likes any of her friends."
"There is little depth of affection in Christal's nature. She is too
proud. She feels no need of love, and therefore cares not to win it. Do you
know, Olive," continued Mrs. Gwynne, "if I must unveil all my weaknesses, there
was a time when I watched Miss Manners more closely than any one guesses. It was
from a mother's jealousy over her son's happiness, for I heard her name coupled
with Harold's."
"So have I, more than once," said Olive. "But I thought at the time how
idle was the rumour."
"It was idle, my dear; but I did not quite think so then."
"Indeed!" There was a little quick gesture of surprise; and Olive,
ceasing her work, looked inquiringly at Mrs. Gwynne.
"I knew that a man must love; that, having once been wedded, Harold's necessity for a wife's sympathy and affection
would be the greater. I always expected that my son would marry again, and
therefore I eagerly watched every young woman whom he might meet in society, and
be disposed to choose. All men, especially clergymen, are better married--at
least in my opinion. Even you yourself, as Harold's friend, his most valued
friend, must acknowledge that he would be happier with a wife."
What was there in this frank speech that smote Olive with a secret pain?
Was it the unconscious distinction drawn between her and all other women on whom
Harold might look with admiring eyes, so that his mother, while calling her his
friend, never dreamed of her being anything more?
Olive knew not whence came the pain, yet still she felt it was there.
"Certainly he would," she answered, speaking in a slow, quiet tone. "Nevertheless, I should scarcely think Christal a girl whom
Mr. Gwynne would be likely to select."
"Nor I. At first, deeming her something like the first Mrs. ...
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Go to the beginning of the document
Go to previous page
Go to next page
Go to the end of document
