“Oh that some one could seek her out and save her, some one who would rule and yet soothe her; who, coming from us, should not be mingled with us in her fancy, so that no good influence might be lost.”
“I have thought of this,” answered Mrs. Gwynne. “But, Olive, it is a solemn secret—your father's, too. You ought never to reveal it, except to one bound to you by closest ties. If you married, your husband would have a right to know it, or you might tell your brother.”
“I do not quite understand,” said Olive, yet she changed colour a little.
Mrs. Gwynne kindly dropped her eyes, and avoided looking at her companion, as she said, “You, my dear, are my adopted daughter; therefore, my son should be to you as a brother. Will you trust Harold?”
“Trust him? There is nothing with which I could not trust him,” said Olive, earnestly. She had long found out that praise of Harold was as sweet to his mother's heart as to her own.
“Then trust him in this. I think he has almost a right—or one day he may have.”
Mrs. Gwynne's latter words sank indistinctly, and scarcely reached Olive. Perhaps it was well; such light falling on her darkness might have blinded her.
Ere long the decision was made. Mrs. Gwynne wrote to her son and told him all. He was in Paris then, as she knew. So she charged him to seek out the school where Christal was. Sustained by his position as a clergyman, his grave dignity, and his mature years, he might well and ably exercise an unseen guardianship over the girl. His mother earnestly desired him to do this, from his natural benevolence, and for Olive's sake.
“I said that, my dear,” observed Mrs. Gwynne, “because I know his strong regard for you, and his anxiety for your happiness.”
These words, thrilling in her ear, made broken and trembling the few lines which Olive wrote to Harold, saying how entirely she trusted him, and how she implored him to save her sister.