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On the morning of the fourth day, she seized the first leisure moment for a visit to the post-office. Instead of the single letter from Olive that she had expected, she found three. They were enclosed in one wrapper. This she removed on her way back to Oakley, and found the first, as was the wrapper, addressed in Olive's hand.
Olive's older view of things, her sad, strange outlook upon life, her dislike of anything in the shape of man, her melancholy aversion to her father, all this fascinated and puzzled Nancy, whose impetuous nature ran out to every living thing, revelling in the very act of loving, so long as she did not meet rebuff. Cyril perplexed her.
Such was their day for three years. Then change came into their lives: Olive had a baby, and as a result Merlin had a new influx of material resources. In the third week of Olive's confinement, after an hour of nervous rehearsing, he went into the office of Mr. Moonlight Quill and demanded an enormous increase in salary. "I've been here ten years," he said; "since I was nineteen.
Aunt Madge's eyes had a dreamy look in them; the beautiful voice vibrated in Olive's ear like music; but as she stooped to kiss her, somewhat awed by her unusual solemnity, the old kind smile returned to her lips. "Good-bye, Livy darling, my love, and congratulations to Marcus."
They walked for some time in perfect silence. Troubled thoughts were careering like storm-clouds over Olive's spirit. Wonder was there, and pity, and an indefined dread. As she leaned on Mr. Gwynne's arm, she had a presentiment that in the heart whose strong beating she could almost feel, was prisoned some great secret of woe or wrong, before which she herself would stand aghast.
Olive's room was not very far from the Vivians', and as Betty on this special night was hurrying towards the appointed meeting-place she came across Fanny. Between Fanny and herself not a word had been exchanged for several days. Fanny stopped her now. "Are you ill, Betty?" she said. Betty shook her head.
"She seldom speaks to anyone, never to me." "She is jealous of you probably." The heats of July tried the boy. He was not so well as he had been in the spring, and lately he had not been able to help his mother with her needlework. The hours of enforced idleness seemed very long, and he watched for Olive's coming with pathetic eagerness.
After a very bad dinner in an airless room as frugally lighted they made themselves comfortable in Alexina's room over the oil stove she had bought, and supplied through Olive's influence with the higher powers. She took off her street clothes and put on a thick dressing gown, giving her sister-in-law a quilted red wrapper of Janet's, which threw some warmth into Gora's pale cheeks.
But a thousand a year is impossible. I haven't got it. But I can settle five hundred on her, and there's many a peeress of the realm who hasn't that. Of course five hundred a year is very little. No one feels it more than I. For had I the riches of the world, I should not consider them sufficient to create a place worthy of Olive's beauty.
Even in youth it had probably resembled Alice's rather than Olive's, but neither had inherited her mother's hands the most beautiful hands ever seen and while they trifled with the newly bought foulards a warbling voice inquired if Olive was sure she was not tired. 'Five hours in the train! And you, Alice? You must be starving, my dear, and I'm afraid the saffron buns are cold.
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