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Updated: May 19, 2025
If I should undertake to wryte in prayse of a gentlewoman, I would neither praise her christal eye, nor her cherrie lippe, etc. For these things are trita et obvia. But I would either find some supernaturall cause whereby my penne might walke in the superlative degree, or els I would undertake to answer for any imperfection that shee hath, and thereupon rayse the prayse of hir commendacion.
Christal did not ask her to come again, but she kissed her when they parted, and once looked back ere she again passed into the quiet silent home which she had chosen as her spirit's grave. Olive walked on quickly, for the afternoon was closing. Very soon she heard overtaking her a footstep, whose sound quickened her pulse even now. "How good and thoughtful of him, my dear Harold my husband!"
It seemed most strange that Christal had lived for so many years, cherishing her blind belief, nay, not even seeking to investigate it when it lay in her power. For since the day she returned from France, she had never questioned Miss Vanbrugh, nor alluded to the subject of her parentage.
Gwynne thought, when there was hanging over her what might become the guilt of murder; but as soon as Olive's danger passed, it again rose. No commands, no persuasions, could induce Christal to visit her sister, though the latter entreated it daily, longing for the meeting and reconciliation. But in illness there is great peace sometimes, especially after a long mental struggle.
As for Godwin himself, he has large noble eyes, and a nose, oh, most abominable nose! Language is not vituperative enough to express the effect of its downward elongation. He loves London, literary society, and talks nonsense about the collision of mind, and Mary Hayes echoes him. But Miss Christal, have you seen her Poems? A fine, artless, sensible girl.
For in her sister she saw two likenesses; one, of the woman who had once shrieked after her the name of "Rothesay," the other, that of her own father in his rare moments of passion, as she had seen him the night he had called her by that opprobrious word which had planted the sense of personal humiliation in her heart for life. Christal walked up to her.
"Then, Christal, if you never did really love him" "Who told you that? Not I!" she cried, her broken and contradictory speech revealing the chaos of her mind. "I say, I did love him more than you, with your cold prudence, could ever dream of! What could such an one as you know about love? Yet you have taken him from me. "I tell you, no! Never till this day did he breathe one word of love to me.
And if I did not, you might hear it from some one else, and that would make me very miserable." "Well, what was it?" "That though I never loved but this my beautiful lady, once, only once, for a very little while, I assure you, I was half disposed to like some one else whom you know." Olive thought a minute, and then said, very seriously, "Was it Christal Manners?" "It was.
She has many faults; but, remember, she was good to me, and I was fond of her. Always take care of Christal." "I will. And is there no one else to whom I shall give your love, mamma?" She thought a minute, and answered, "Yes to Mr. Gwynne."
She accounted for it to Christal by telling the simple truth that in the churchyard she had found the grave of an early and dear friend. Her young companion looked serious, condoled in set fashion; and then became absorbed in the hateful labyrinths of the muddy road. Certainly, Miss Manners was never born for a simple rustic. Olive could not help remarking this.
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