Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

“ Even on her marriage-day the thought had come—“O thou, to whom in life I gave all love, all duty,—now needed by thee no more, both pass unto him. If souls can behold and rejoice in the happiness of those beloved on earth, mother, look down from heaven and bless my husband!”
Nor did it wrong the dead, if this marriage-bond involved another, which awakened in Olive feelings that seemed almost a renewal of the love once buried in Mrs. Rothesay's grave. And Harold's wife inly vowed, that while she lived, his mother should never want the devotion and affection of a daughter. ”

“ I would like to lead a life like Aunt Flora's—a quiet stream that goes on singing to the end.”
“Look me in the face, Olive Rothesay,” said Harold, abruptly. “Nay—pardon me, but I speak like one athirst, who would fain know if any other human thirst is ever satisfied. Tell me, do you look back on your life with content, and forward with hope? Are you happy?”
Olive's eyes sank on the ground.
“Do not question me so.” she said trembling. “In life there is nothing perfect; but I have peace, great peace. And for you there might be not only peace, but happiness.” ”

“ You are not acting kindly towards me,” said Olive, trying to resume her wonted dignity, but still speaking in a placable, quiet tone. “My dear Christal, you are younger than I, and have scarcely a right to question me thus.”
“Right! When it comes to that, where is yours? How dare you suffer Lyle Derwent to kneel at your feet? How dare you, I say!”
“Christal—Christal! Hush!”
“I will not! I will speak. I wish every word were a dagger to stab you—wicked, wicked woman! who have come between me and my lover—for he is my lover, and I love him.” ”

“ And in his own cheek, now brown with health, rose the fresh mountain-blood, while the bold mountain-spirit shone in his fearless eyes. No marvel that Olive looked with pride at her husband, and thought that not in the whole world was there such another man!
“I glory in the wind,” cried Harold, tossing back his head, and shaking his wavy hair, something lion-like. “It makes me strong and bold. I love to meet it, to wrestle with it; to feel myself in spirit and in frame, stern to resist, daring to achieve, as a man should feel!” ”

“ My friend, my dear friend! I could not die, knowing or fearing that the abyss of eternity would lie between my spirit and his. Now, whatever may part us during life”——
Here again she paused, overcome with the consciousness of great pain. If there was gloom in the silence of a week, what would a whole life's silence be? Something whispered that even in this world it would be very bitter to part with Harold Gwynne.
“You are not painting, Miss Rothesay; you are thinking,” suddenly cried Lyle Derwent.
Olive started almost with a sense of shame. “Has not an artist a right to dream a little?” ”

“ Olive Rothesay, are you dreaming?” he cried, angrily.
She only answered him softly, that all her plans were settled, and that much as she should delight in seeing Rome, she could not think of leaving her mother.
“Your mother! What right have we artists to think of any ties of kindred, or to allow them for one moment to weigh in the balance with our noble calling?—I say ours, for I tell you now what I never told you before, that, though you are a woman, you have a man's soul. I am proud of you; I design to make for you a glorious future. ”

“ What I receive I will take thankfully; but I have no claim upon any one in this wide world. Many pleasant friendships I have, many tender ties, but none close enough to fill the void in my heart—none to love as I could love—as I did love for many years. Oh, mother, why did you go away? Why did I love again—lose again? Always loving only to lose.”
Many times she said to herself, “I am alone—quite alone in the world;” and at last the words seemed to strike the echo of some old remembrance. But it was one so very dim, that for a long time Olive could not give it any distinct form. ”

“ Olive, humbled and disconsolate, prepared for her voluntary duty as Vanbrugh's lay-figure. If she had not so reverenced his genius, she certainly would not have altogether liked the man. But her hero-worship was so intense, and her womanly patience so all-forgiving, that she bore his occasional strange humours almost as meekly as Meliora herself. To-day, for the hundredth time she watched the painter's brow smooth, and his voice soften, as upon him grew the influence of his beautiful creation. “Alcestis,” calmly smiling from the canvas, shed balm into his vexed soul. ”

“ They entered the little convent-parlour. There, on the plain, ungamished walls, hung the two favourite pictures of Catholic worship; 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.
“I think,” said Miss Rothesay, “if I were a nun, and had known ever so great misery, I should grow calm by looking at these pictures.” ”

“ But Olive had already crept out of the room.
He was gone then. That last clasp of his hand was indeed the last. O miserable parting! Not as between two who love, and loving can murmur the farewell, heart to heart, until its sweetness lingers there long after its sound has ceased; but a parting that has no voice—no hope—wherein one soul follows the other in a wild despair, crying, “Give me back my life that is gone after thee;” and from the void silence there comes no answer, until the whole earth grows blank and dark like an universal grave. ”

“ Men's natures are different; his was not meant for that of a quiet village priest. Circumstances, associations, habits of mind—all were against him. And so his scepticism and his misery increased, until in despair of heaven, he plunged into the oblivion of an earthly passion. He went mad for a woman's beauty,—for her beauty only!”
Harold pressed his hand upon his brow, as if old memories stung him still. His betrothed saw it, but she felt no pain. She knew that her own love had shone down into his heart's dark depths, removing every stain, binding up every wound. ”

“ There was the difference of a lifetime between his juvenile romance and her calm reality of six-and-twenty years.
She did not always feel so old though. When kneeling by her mother's side, amusing her, Olive still felt a very child; and there were times when near Harold Gwynne she grew once more a feeble, timid girl. But now that the secret bond between them was held in abeyance, their intercourse sank within its former boundary. Even his influence could not compete with that affection which had been the day-star of Olive's life. No other human tie could come between her and her mother. ”

“ He ceased to rage, and sat in a sullen silence for many minutes. Meanwhile Olive took away every temptation from his sight. Then she roused him gently.
“Now, papa, it is time to go to bed. Pray, come upstairs.”
He—the calm, gentlemanlike, Captain Rothesay—burst into a storm of passion that would have disgraced a boor. “How dare you order me about in this manner! Cannot I do as I like, without being controlled by you—a mere chit of a girl—a very child?”
“I know I am only a child,” answered Olive, meekly. “Do not be angry with me, papa; do not speak unkindly to your poor little daughter.” ”

“ Tracing the beautiful hereditary mould of the Rothesay line, she now knew why Christal's hand was like her own father's.
A shiver of instinctive repugnance came over her, and then the mysterious voice of kindred blood awoke in her heart. She took and passionately clasped that hand—the hand of her sister.
“O Christal! let us love one another—we two, who have no other tie left to us on earth.”
But Christal was rarely in a pathetic mood. She only shrugged her shoulders, and then stroked Olive's arm with a patronising air. ”

“ 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, God-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.” ”

“ Nay—I do not give my heart like some women I have known—from dread of living to be an old maid, or to gain a house, a name, and a husband;—I gave it for love, pure love! If I were to wait for years—if I were never your wife at all, but died only your betrothed, still I should die satisfied. Oh, Harold, you know not how sweet it is to love you, and be loved by you—to share all your cares, and rejoice in all your joys! Indeed—indeed I am content.”
“You might, my gentle one, but not I. Little you think how strong is man's pride—how stronger still is man's love. ”

“ But sometimes chance or circumstance or wrong, sealing up her woman's nature, converts her into a self-dependent human soul. Instead of life's sweetnesses, she has before her life's greatnesses. The struggle passed, her genius may lift itself upward, expand, and grow; though never to the stature of man's. Then, even while she walks with scarce-healed feet over the world's rough pathway, heaven's glory may rest upon her upturned brow, and she may become a light unto her generation.
Such a destiny lay open before Olive Rothesay. ”

“ Flora, but oftentimes during the day, when some passing 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 passing that of mere kindred. ”

“ Olive thought a minute, and then said, very seriously, “Was it Christal Manners?”
“It was. She led me into it, and then she teased me out of it. But indeed it was not love—only a mere passing fancy.”
“Did you tell her of your feelings?”
“Only in some foolish verses, which she laughed at.”
“You should not have done that. It is very wicked to make any pretence about love.”
“O! dearest Miss Rothesay, you are not angry with me? Whatever my folly, you must know well that there is but one woman in the world whom I ever truly loved—whom I do love, most passionately! It is yourself.” ”

“ You long to be an artist!” It was the only thing wanted to make Olive quite perfect in Meliora's eyes. She jumped up, and embraced her young favourite with the greatest enthusiasm. “I knew this was in you. All good people must have a love for Art. And you shall have your desire, for my brother shall teach you. I must go and tell him directly.”
But Olive resisted, for her poor little heart began to quake. What if her long-loved girlish dreams should be quenched at once—if Mr. Vanbrugh's stern dictum should be that she had no talent, and never could become an artist at all! ”

“ Was her hand to place the stigma of shame on the brow of this young creature?—a girl too! There might come a time when some proud, honourable man, however loving, would scruple to take to his bosom as a wife, one—whose mother had never owned that name. But then—was Olive to fix on herself the perpetual burden of this secret—the continual dread of its betrayal—the doubt, lest one day, chance might bring it to Christal's knowledge, perhaps when the girl would no longer be shielded by a sister's protection, or comforted by a sister's love? ”

“ Far purer art thou than many a young creature, married without love, living on in decent dignity as the mother of her husband's children, the convenient mistress of his household, and so sinking down into the grave, a pattern of all matronly virtue. Envy her not! A thousand times holier and happier than such a destiny is that silent lot of thine.
With meekness, yet with courage, Olive Rothesay prepared to live her appointed life. At first it seemed very bitter, as must needs be. Youth, while it is still youth, cannot at once and altogether be content to resign love. ”

“ The most trifling thing must agitate one who has been so very, very ill. Come, will you read your letter, or shall I put it by till you are stronger?”
“No, no, I should like to read it. He is very good to write to me,—very good indeed. I felt his kindness the more from being ill; that is why it made me weep,” said Olive, faintly.
“Certainly, my dear; but I will leave you now, for I have not yet read mine. I am sure Harold would be pleased to know how glad we both are to hear from him,” said Mrs. Gwynne, with a light but kindly emphasis. And then Olive was left alone. ”

“ Vanbrugh,” observed Mrs. Rothesay, with maternal pride; which Olive, deeply blushing, soon quelled by an entreating motion of silence.
But the painter went on painting; he saw nothing, thought of nothing, save his “Alcestis.” He was indeed an enthusiast. Olive watched how, beneath the coarse, ill-formed hand, grew images of perfect beauty; how, within the body, almost repulsive in its ugliness, dwelt a brain which could produce the grandest ideal loveliness; and there dawned in the girl's spirit a stronger conviction than ever of the majesty of the human soul. ”

“ The eyes—hackneyed as the description is, no one can paint a man without mentioning his eyes: those of Harold Gwynne were not unlike his mother's, in their open, steadfast look; yet they were not soft, like hers, but of steel-grey, diamond-clear. He carried his head very erect; and these eyes of his seemed as though unable to rest on the ground; they were always turned upwards, with a gaze—not reverent or dreamy—but eager, inquiring, and piercing as truth itself.
Such was the young man with whom Captain Rothesay shook hands, congratulating his old friend on having such a son. ”