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Still, amidst all, she was touched by the love of this other most wretched mother, who living and dying had renounced her maternal claim; and impressed upon her daughter's mind a feigned story, rather than let the brand of illegitimate birth rest upon the poor innocent. Suddenly she heard from the next room Christal's happy, unconscious voice, singing merrily. "My sister!" Olive gasped.
Gwynne and Olive, as to what must be done concerning that hapless child: for little more than a child she was in years, though her miserable destiny had nurtured in her so much of woman's suffering, and more than woman's sin. Yet still, when Olive read the reference to Mrs. Rothesay, she thought there might yet be a lingering angel sitting in poor Christal's heart.
"Not with me not with me. But I desire not to talk of myself." "Shall I talk then about your friend Harold your brother? He told me to say he would ever be so to you," said Olive, striving to awaken Christal's sympathies. And she partly succeeded; for her sister listened quietly, and with some show of interest, while she spoke of Harold and of their dear home.
He seemed to be under some mystification that the lively French girl was a guest of Miss Rothesay's, and his sister ventured not to break this delusion. Christal's surname created no suspicions; the very name of his former model, Celia Manners, had long since passed from his memory.
Such indifference seemed incredible, and could only be accounted for by Christal's light, careless nature, her haughtiness, or her utter ignorance of the world. What was Olive to do? Was she to reveal the truth, and thus blast for ever this dawning life, so full of hope? Was her hand to place the stigma of shame on the brow of this young creature? a girl too!
But she thought that if there was any strength in faithful affection and earnest prayers, the peace of a useful life, spent, not in barren solitude, but in the fruitful garden of God's world, should be Christal's portion yet. One only doubt troubled her. After considering for a long time she ventured to say: "I have told you now nearly all that has happened among us this year.
She spoke very softly; for the darkness quite obliterated the vision of that stylish damsel who had exhibited her airs and graces in the drawing-room. As she sat by Christal's bedside, Olive only felt the presence of a desolate orphan. She said in her heart, "Please God, I will do her all the good that lies in my feeble power.
Often, yearning for kindred ties, she longed to fall on Christal's neck, and call her by that tender name! But she knew it could never be, and her heart had been too long schooled into patience, to murmur because in every human tie this seemed to be perpetually her doom that save one who was gone none upon earth had ever loved her as much as she loved them.
Rothesay would bring her down to Farnwood, Olive demurred a little, lest the intrusion of a constant inmate might burden her mother: but the plan was at last decided upon Christal's own entreaties having no small influence in turning the scale. Thus, all things settled, there came the final parting of the two little families who for so many years had lived together in peace and harmony.
"Ah, Christal, even my husband grieves my husband, who would do anything in the whole world for your peace. You have forgotten Harold." A softness came over Christal's face. "No, I have not forgotten him. Day and night I pray for him who saved more than my life my soul. For that deed may God bless him! and God pardon me." She said this, shuddering, too, as at some awful memory.
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