Olive's answer was stopped by the appearance of Christal, followed by one of the young Fludyer boys, with whom she had become a first-rate favourite. Her fearless frankness, her exuberant spirits, tempered only by her anxiety to appear always “the grand lady,” made her a welcome guest at Farnwood Hall. Indeed, she was rarely at home, save when appearing, as now, on a hasty visit, which quite disturbed Mrs. Rothesay's placidity, and almost drove old Hannah crazy.
“He is not come yet, you see,” Christal said, with a mysterious nod to Charley Fludyer. “I thought we should outride him—a parson never can manage a pony. But he will surely be here soon?”
“Who will be here soon?” asked Olive, considerably surprised. “Are you speaking of Mr. Gwynne?”
“Mr. Gwynne, no! Far better fun than that, isn't it, Charley? Shall we tell the secret or not? Or else shall we tell half of it, and let her puzzle it out till he comes?” The boy nodded assent “Well, then, there is coming to see you to-day a friend of Charley's, who only arrived at Farnwood last night, and since then has been talking of nothing else but his old idol, Miss Olive Rothesay. So I told him to meet me here, and, lo! he comes.”
There was a hurried knock at the door, and immediately the little parlour was graced by the presence of an individual,—whom Olive did not recognise in the least. He seemed about twenty, slight and tall, of a complexion red and white; his features pretty, though rather girlish.
Olive bowed to him in undisguised surprise; but the moment he saw her his face became “celestial rosy red,” apparently from a habit he had, in common with other bashful youths, of blushing on all occasions.
“I see you do not remember me, Miss Rothesay. Of course I could not expect it. But I have not forgotten you.”
Olive, though still doubtful, instinctively offered him her hand. The tall youth took it eagerly, and as he looked down upon her, something in his expression reminded her of a face she had herself once looked down upon—her little knight of the garden at Oldchurch. In the impulse of the moment she called him again by his old name—“Lyle! Lyle Derwent!”
“Yes, it is indeed I!” cried the young man. “Oh, Miss Rothesay, you can't tell how glad I am to meet you again.”
“I am glad, too.” And Olive regarded him with that half-mournful curiosity with which we trace the lineaments of some long-forgotten face, belonging to that olden time, between which and now a whole lifetime seems to have intervened.