“Shall I read it aloud, mamma? and then the subject will be taken from your mind,” said Olive, as she came and stood by her mother's chair.
Mrs. Rothesay assented.
“Well, then, here it begins—'Reverend Sir' (I ought to address him thus, you know, because he is a clergyman, though he does seem so harsh, and so unlike what a Christian pastor ought to be).”
“He does, indeed, my child—but, go on.” And Olive read:
“'Reverend Sir—I address you by my mother's desire, to say
that she was quite unaware of your claim upon my late dear
father. She can only reply to it, by requesting your
patience for a little time, until she is able to liquidate
the debt—not out of the wealth you attribute to her, but
out of her present restricted means. And I, my father's only
child, wishing to preserve his memory from the imputations
you have cast upon it, must tell you, that his last moments
were spent in endeavouring to write your name. We never
understood why, until now. Oh, sir! was it right or kind
of you so harshly to judge the dead? My father intended to
pay you. If you have suffered, it was through his
misfortune—not his crime. Have a little patience with us,
and your claim shall be wholly discharged.
“'Olive Rothesay.'”
“You have said nothing of Sara. I wonder if she knows this!” said the mother, as Olive folded up her letter.
“Hush, mamma! Let me forget everything that was once. Perhaps, too, she is not to blame. I knew Charles Geddes; Sara might not like to speak of me to her husband?”
Yet, with a look of bitter pain, Olive wrote the address of her letter—“Harbury Parsonage”—Sara's home! She lingered, too, over the name of Sara's husband.
“Harold Gwynne! Oh, mamma! how different names look! I cannot bear the sight of this! I hate it.”
Years after, Olive remembered these words.