Part 62 (1/2)

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.