Olive Part 50

Olive laughed; and afterwards said, thoughtfully, "She has then lived a happy life--has this good Aunt Flora!"

"Not always happy," answered the eldest and gravest of the M'Gillivrays.

"My mother once heard that she had some great trouble in her youth. But she has outlived it, and conquered it in time. People say such things are possible: I cannot tell," added the girl, with a faint sigh.

There was no more said of Mrs. Flora, but oftentimes during the day, when some pa.s.sing memory stung poor Olive, causing her to turn wearily from the mirth of her young companions, there came before her in gentle reproof the likeness of the aged woman who had lived down her one great woe--lived, not only to feel but to impart cheerfulness.

A few hours after, Olive saw her aunt sitting smiling amidst a little party which she had gathered together, playing with the children, sympathising with those of elder growth, and looked up to by old and young with an affection pa.s.sing that of mere kindred. And then there came a balm of hope to the wounded spirit that had felt life's burden too heavy to be borne.

"How happy you are, and how much everyone loves you!" said Olive, when Mrs. Flora and herself were left alone, and their hearts inclined each to each with a vague sympathy.

"Yours must have been a n.o.ble woman's life."

"I have tried to make it so, as far as I could, my dear bairn; and the little good I have done has come back upon me fourfold. It is always so."

"And you have been content--nay happy!"

"Ay, I have! G.o.d quenched the fire on my own hearth, that I might learn to make that of others bright My dear, one's life never need be empty of love, even though, after seeing all near kindred drop away, one lingers to be an old maid of eighty years."

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII.

"No letters to-day from Harbury!" observed Mrs. Mora, as, some weeks after Olive's arrival, they were taking their usual morning airing along the Queen's Drive. "My dear, are you not wearying for news from home?"

"Aunt Flora's house has grown quite home-like to me," said Olive, affectionately. It was true. She had sunk down, nestling into its peace like a tired broken-winged dove. As she sat beside the old lady, and drank in the delicious breezes that swept across from the Lothians, she was quite another creature from the pale drooping Olive Rothesay who had crept wearily up Harbury Hill. Still, the mention of the place even now took a little of the faint roses from her cheek.

"I am glad you are happy, my dear niece," answered Mrs. Flora; "yet others should not forget you."

"They do not. Christal writes now and then from Brighton, and Lyle Derwent indulges me with a long letter every week," said Olive, trying to smile. She did not mention Harold. She had hardly expected him to write; yet his silence grieved her. It felt like a mist of cold estrangement rising up between them. Yet--as sometimes she tried to think--perhaps it was best so!

"Alison Gwynne was aye the worst of all correspondents," pursued the old lady, "but Harold might write to you: I think he did so once or twice when he was living with me here, this summer."

"Yes;" said Olive, "we have always been good friends."

"I know that. It was not little that we talked about you. He told me all that happened long ago between your _father_ and himself. Ah, that was a strange, strange thing!"

"We have never once spoken of it--neither I nor Mr. Gwynne."

"Harold could not. He was sair grieved, and bitterly he repented having 'robbed' you. But he was no the same man then that he is now. Ah, that gay young wife of his--fair and fause, fair and fause! It's ill for a man that loves such a woman. I would like well to see my dear Harold wed to some leal-hearted la.s.sie. But I fear me it will never be."

Thus the old lady's talk gently wandered on. Olive listened in silence, her eyes vacantly turned towards the wide open country that sweeps down from Duddingston Loch. The yellow harvest-clad valley smiled; but beneath the same bright sky the loch lay quiet, dark, and still. The suns.h.i.+ne pa.s.sed over it, and entered it not. Olive wistfully regarded the scene, which seemed a symbol of her own fate. She did not murmur at it, for day by day her peace was returning. She tried to respond with cheerfulness to the new affections that greeted her on every side; to fill each day with those duties, that by the alchemy of a pious nature are so often trans.m.u.ted into pleasures. She was already beginning to learn the blessed and heaven-sent truth, that no life ought to be wrecked for the love of one human being, and that no sinless sorrow is altogether incurable.

The rest of the drive was rather dull, for Mrs. Flora, usually the most talkative, cheerful old lady in the world, seemed disposed to be silent and thoughtful. Not sad--sadness rarely comes to old age. All strong feelings, whether of joy or pain, belong to youth alone.

"Ye will ride with Marion M'Gillivray the day?" said Mrs. Flora, after a somewhat protracted silence. "You bairns will not want an auld wifie like me."

Olive disclaimed this, affirming, and with her whole heart, that she was never so happy as when with her good Aunt Flora.

"'Tis pleasant to hear ye say the like of that. But it must be even so--for this night I would fain bide alone at home."

The carriage stopped in Abercromby Place.

"I will see ye again the morn," the old lady observed, as her niece descended. And then, after looking up pleasantly to the window, that was filled with a whole host of juvenile M'Gillivrays vehemently nodding and smiling, Aunt Flora pulled down her veil and drove away.

"I thought you would be given up to us for to-day," said Marion, as she and Olive, now grown almost into friends, strolled out arm-in-arm along the shady walks of Morning-side.

"Indeed! Did Aunt Flora say"----

"She said nothing--she never does. But for years I have noticed this 20th of September; because, when she lived with us, on this day, after teaching us in the morning, she used to go to her own room, or take a long, lonely walk,--come back very pale and quiet, and we never saw her again that night. It was the only day in the year that she seemed wishful to keep away from us. Afterwards, when I grew a woman, I found out why this was."

"Did she tell you?"

"No; Aunt Flora never talks about herself. But from her maid and foster-sister, an old woman who died a while ago, I heard a little of the story, and guessed the rest--one easily can," added quiet Marion.

"I think I guess, too. But let me hear, that is, if I _may_ hear?"

"Oh yes. 'Tis many, many years ago. Aunt Flora was quite a girl then, and lived with Sir Andrew, her elder brother. She had 'braw wooers' in plenty, according to Isbel Graeme (you should have seen old Isbel, cousin Olive). However, she cared for n.o.body; and some said it was for the sake of a far-away cousin of her own, one of the 'gay Gordons.' But he was anything but 'gay'--delicate in health, plain to look at, and poor besides. While he lived he never said to her a word of love; but after he died,--and that was not until both were past their youth,--there came to Aunt Flora a letter and a ring. She wears it on her wedding finger to this day."

"And this 20th of September must have been the day _he_ died," said Olive.

"I believe so. But she never says a word, and never did."

The two walked on silently. Olive was thinking of the long woe-wasted youth--the knowledge of love requited came too late--and then of her who after this great blow could gird up her strength and endure for nearly fifty years. Ay, so as to find in life not merely peace, but sweetness.

Olive's own path looked less gloomy to the view. From the depths of her forlorn heart uprose a feeble-winged hope; it came and fluttered about her pale lips, bringing to them

The smile of one, G.o.d-satisfied; and earth-undone.

Marion turned round and saw it. "Cousin Olive, how very mild, and calm, and beautiful you look! Before you came, Aunt Flora told us she had heard you were 'like a dove.' I can understand that now. I think, if I were a man, I should fall in love with you."

"With me; surely you forget! Oh no, Marion, not with me; that would be impossible!"

Marion coloured a little, but then earnestly continued, "I don't mean any one who was young and thoughtless, but some grave, wise man, who saw your soul in your face, and learned, slowly and quietly, to love you for your goodness. Ay, in spite of--of"----(here the frank, plain-speaking Marion again hesitated a little, but continued boldly) "any little imperfection which may make you fancy yourself different to other people. If that is your sole reason for saying, as you did the other day, that"----

"Nay, Marion, you have talked quite enough of me."

"But you will forgive me! I could hate myself if I have pained you, seeing how much I love you, how much every one learns to love you."

"Is it so? Then I am very happy!" And the smile sat long upon her face.

"Can you guess whither I am taking you?" said Marion, as they paused before a large and handsome gateway. "Here is the Roman Catholic convent--beautiful St. Margaret's, the sweetest spot at Morningside.

Shall we enter?"

Olive a.s.sented. Of late she had often thought of those old tales of forlorn women, who, sick of life, had hidden themselves from the world in solitudes like this. Sometimes she had almost wished she could do the same. A feeling deeper than curiosity attracted her to the convent of St. Margaret's.

It was indeed a sweet place; one that a weary heart might well long after. The whole atmosphere was filled with a soft calm--a silence like death, and yet a freshness as of new-born life. When the heavy door closed, it seemed to shut out the world; and without any sense of regret or loss, you pa.s.sed, like a pa.s.sing soul, into another existence.

They entered the little convent-parlour. There, on the plain, ungamished walls, hung the two favourite pictures of Catholic wors.h.i.+p; one, thorn-crowned, ensanguined, but still Divine; the other, the Mother lifted above all mothers in blessedness and suffering. Olive gazed long upon both. They seemed meet for the place. Looking at them, one felt as if all trivial earthly sorrows must crumble into dust before these two grand images of sublime woe.