“Harold Gwynne!” Olive, repeating the name to herself, let the letter fall on the ground. Well was it that she stood hidden from sight by the “great picture,” so that her mother could not know the pang which came over her.
The mystery, then, was solved. Now she knew why in his last agony her dying father had written the name of “Harold”—her poor father, who was here accused, by implication at least, of a wilful act of dishonesty! She regarded the letter with a sense of abhorrence—so coldly cruel it seemed to her, whose tenderness for a father's memory naturally a little belied her judgment. And the heartless charge was brought by the husband of Sara Derwent! There was bitterness in every association connected with the name of Harold Gwynne.
“Well, dear, the letter!” said Mrs. Rothesay, as they passed from the studio to their own apartment.
“It brings news that will grieve you. But never mind, mamma, darling: we will bear all our troubles together.” And as briefly and as tenderly as she could she explained the letter—together with the fact hitherto unknown to Mrs. Rothesay, that her husband in his last moments had evidently wished to acknowledge the debt.
Well Olive knew the effect this would produce on her mother's mind. Tears, angry exclamations, and bitter repinings; but the daughter soothed them all.
“Now, dear mamma,” she whispered, when Mrs. Rothesay was a little composed, “we must answer the letter at once. What shall we say!”
“Nothing! That cruel man deserves no reply at all.”
“Mamma!” cried Olive, somewhat reproachfully. “Whatever he may be, we are evidently his debtors. Even Mr. Wyld admits this, you see. We must not forget justice and honour—my poor fathers honour.”
“No—no! You are right, my child. Let us do anything, if it is for the sake of his dear memory,” sobbed the widow, whose love death had sanctified, and endowed with an added tenderness. “But, Olive, you must write—I cannot!”
Olive assented. She had long taken upon herself all similar duties. At once she sat down to pen this formidable letter. It took her some time; for there was a constant struggle between the necessary formality of a business letter, and the impulse of wounded feeling, natural to her dead father's child. The finished epistle was a curious mingling of both.