Next year! It seemed to Olive as if she were talking of the next world.
In some way or other the hours went by; how, Olive could not tell. She did not see, hear, or feel anything, save that she had to make an effort to appear in the eyes of Harold, and of Harold's mother, just as usual—the same quiet little creature—gently smiling, gently speaking—who had already begun to be called “an old maid”—whom no one in the world suspected of any human passion—least of all, the passion of love.
After this early dinner Harold went out. He did not return even when the misty autumn night had begun to fall. As the daylight waned and the firelight brightened, Olive felt terrified at herself. One hour of that quiet evening commune, so sweet of old, and her strength and self-control would have failed. Making some excuse about Christal, she asked Mrs. Gwynne to let her go home.
“But not alone, my dear. You will surely wait until Harold comes in?”
“No, no! It will be late, and the mist is rising. Do not fear for me; the road is quite safe; and you know I am used to walking alone,” said Olive, feebly smiling.
“You are a brave little creature, my dear. Well, do as you will.”
So, ere long, Olive found herself on her solitary homeward road. It lay through the churchyard. Closing the Parsonage-gate, the first thing she did was to creep across the long grass to her mother's grave.
“Oh, mother, mother! why did you go and leave me? I should never have loved any one if my mother had not died!”
And burning tears fell, and burning blushes came. With these came also the horrible sense of self-degradation which smites a woman when she knows that, unsought, she has dared to love.
“What have I done,” she cried, “O earth, take me in and cover me! Hide me from myself—from my misery—my shame.” Suddenly she started up. “What if he should pass and find me here! I must go. I must go home.”