“But you may regard me tenderly still. You may learn to feel for me as a sister—an elder sister. That is the fittest relation between us. You yourself will think so, in time.” And Olive truly believed what she said. Perhaps she judged him rightly: that this passion was indeed only a boyish romance, such as most men have in their youth, which fades painlessly in the realities of after years. But now, at least, it was most deep and sincere.
As Miss Rothesay spoke, once more as in his childish days Lyle threw himself at her feet, taking both her hands, and looking up in her face with the wildest adoration.
“I must—must worship you still; I always shall! You are so good—so pure; I look up to you as to some saint. I was mad to think of you in any other way. But you will not forget me; you will guide and counsel me always. Only, if you should be taken away from me—if you should marry”——
“I shall never marry,” said Olive, uttering the words she had uttered many a time, but never more solemnly than now.
Lyle regarded her for a long and breathless space, and then laying his head on her knees, he wept like a child.
That moment, at the suddenly-opened door there stood Christal Manners! Like a vision, she came—and passed. Lyle never saw her at all. But Olive did; and when the young man had departed, amidst all her own agitation, there flashed before her, as it were an omen of some woe to come—that livid face, lit with its eyes of fire.
Not long had Olive to ponder, for the door once more opened, and Christal came in. Her hair had all fallen down, her eyes had the same intense glare, her bonnet and shawl were still hanging on her arm. She flung them aside, and stood in the doorway.
“Miss Rothesay, I wish to speak with you; and that no one may interrupt us, I will do this.” She bolted and locked the door, and then clenched her fingers over the key, as if it had been a living thing for her to crush.
Olive sat utterly confounded. For in her sister she saw two likenesses; one, of the woman who had once shrieked after her the name of “Rothesay,”—the other, that of her own father in his rare moments of passion, as she had seen him the night he had called her by that opprobrious word which had planted the sense of personal humiliation in her heart for life.
Christal walked up to her. “Now tell me—for I will know—what has passed between you and—him who just now went hence.”