“This morning!” echoed poor Olive. She had half forgotten what had happened then, there had come such a death-like cloud between.
“Ye were both away at the Hermitage, Harold said. Ah! poor Harold!”
Olive stood waiting to hear some horrible tidings. All misfortunes seemed to come so naturally now; she felt as though she would scarcely have wondered had they told her Harold was dead.
“My dear Harold is gone away.”
“Gone away,” repeated Olive, slowly, as her cold hands fell heavily on her lap. She gave no other sign.
“Ah,” continued the unconscious old lady, “something has gone ill with the lad. He came in here, troubled like, and said he must just depart at once.”
“He was here, then?”
“Only for a wee while. I would have sent for ye, my dearie, but Jean said you were sleeping, and Harold said we had best not waken you, for you had seemed wearied. He could not wait longer, so he bade me bid you farewell, Lassie—lassie, stay!” But Olive had already crept out of the room.
He was gone then. That last clasp of his hand was indeed the last. O miserable parting! Not as between two who love, and loving can murmur the farewell, heart to heart, until its sweetness lingers there long after its sound has ceased; but a parting that has no voice—no hope—wherein one soul follows the other in a wild despair, crying, “Give me back my life that is gone after thee;” and from the void silence there comes no answer, until the whole earth grows blank and dark like an universal grave.
For many days after that day, Olive scarcely lifted her head. There came to her some friendly physical ailment, cold or fever, so that she had an excuse to comply with Mrs. Flora's affectionate orders, and take refuge in the quietness of a sick-chamber. There, such showers of love poured down upon her, that she rose refreshed and calmed. After a few weeks, her spirit came to her again like a little child's, and she was once more the quiet Olive Rothesay, rich in all social affections, and even content, save for the one never ceasing pain.