“More news do you want, Olive?” (Christal now sometimes called her so.) “Well, then, Dame Fortune is in the giving mood. She has given your favourite Mr. Lyle Derwent a fortune of £1000 a year, and a little estate to match!”
“I am so glad! for his sake, good dear Lyle!”
“Dear Lyle!” repeated Christal, turning round with a sparkle either of pleasure or anger in her glittering eyes; but it was quenched before it reached those of Olive. “Well, winning is one thing, deserving is another!” she continued, merrily. “I could have picked out a dozen worthy, excellent young men, who would have better merited the blessing of a rich uncle, ay, and made a better use of his money too.”
“Lyle would thank you if he knew.”
“That he ought, and that he does, and that he shall do, every day of his life!” cried Christal, lifting up her tall figure with a sudden haughtiness, not the less real because she laughed the while; then with one light bound she vanished from the room.
Olive, left alone with Mrs. Gwynne, would fain have taken her hands, and said as she had oft done before. “Friend, tell me all that troubles you—all that concerns you and him.” But now a faint fear repelled her. However, Harold's mother, understanding her looks, observed,
“You are anxious, my dear. Never was there such a faithful friend to me and to my son! I wish you had been here a week ago, and then you might have helped me to persuade him not to go away.”
“He is gone, then, to America?”
“America!—who mentioned America?” said Mrs. Gwynne, sharply. “Has he told you more than he told me?”
Olive, sorely repentant, tried to soothe the natural jealousy she had aroused. “You know well Mr. Gwynne would be sure to tell his plans to his mother; only I have heard him talk of liking America—of wishing to go thither.”