What was Olive to do? Was she to reveal the truth, and thus blast for ever this dawning life, so full of hope? Was her hand to place the stigma of shame on the brow of this young creature?—a girl too! There might come a time when some proud, honourable man, however loving, would scruple to take to his bosom as a wife, one—whose mother had never owned that name. But then—was Olive to fix on herself the perpetual burden of this secret—the continual dread of its betrayal—the doubt, lest one day, chance might bring it to Christal's knowledge, perhaps when the girl would no longer be shielded by a sister's protection, or comforted by a sister's love?
While she struggled in this conflict, she heard a voice at the door.
“Olive—Olive!”—the tone was more affectionate than usual. “Are you never coming? I am quite tired of being alone. Do let me into the studio!”
Olive sprang to her desk and hid the letter therein. Then, without speaking—she had no power to speak—she mechanically unlocked the door.
“Well, I am glad to get at you at last,” cried Christal, merrily. “I thought you were going to spend the night here. But what is the matter? You are as white as a ghost. You can't look me in the face. Why, one would almost imagine you had been planning a murder, and I was the 'innocent, unconscious victim,' as the novels have it.”
“You—a victim!” cried Olive, in great agitation. But by an almost superhuman effort she repressed it, and added, quietly, “Christal, my dear, don't mind me. It is nothing—only I feel ill—excited.”
“Why, what have you been doing?”
Olive instinctively answered the truth. “I have been sitting here alone—thinking of old times—reading old letters.”
“Whose? nay, but I will know,” answered Christal, half playfully, half in earnest, as though there was some distrust in her mind.
“It was my father's—my poor father's.”