Miss Denison felt, however, that she was trying to put on human nature burdens too great for it to bear, and she wasted no more words in pressing the point. Tired as she was when she lay down that night on the little bed so strangely provided, for some hours she could not sleep; excited fancies concerning the girl who had disappeared and the man to whom her disappearance was attributed filled her head with a waking nightmare. Gratitude remained uppermost, however.
“He shall see that whatever I have heard makes not the least difference,” was her last clear thought before sleeping.
But Olivia’s kind intentions were more difficult to carry out than she imagined. Next day she saw nothing of Mr. Brander, although she received another proof of his thoughtfulness. A vanful of the much-expected furniture arrived in the course of the morning; and scarcely was it emptied before the two maids from the Vicarage appeared again upon the scene; “by Mr. Vernon’s order,” to give what assistance they could towards getting the house ready for occupation. Then began for Olivia three of the happiest days she had ever passed. There was work—real, useful, genuine work—for head and hand and muscular arm in the arrangement of every room to the best advantage. The maids from the Vicarage and her own trusty Lucy seconded her with a right goodwill, being all ready to worship this handsome, bright-voiced, sparkling-eyed girl, to whom the lifting of the heaviest weights seemed to be child’s play, and who worked harder than any of them. On the second day the very last consignment of the household goods duly arrived, and Olivia was able to send back the Vicarage furniture with a grateful little note of thanks. In the evening, when she was resting in an armchair, tired out with her labors, and enjoying a glow of satisfaction in their success, there was a rap of knuckles on the knockerless outer door, and Olivia started up, with her heart beating violently. The persistent self-effacement on the part of Mr. Brander made the girl nervously anxious to show him that her gratitude was proof against any evil rumors; and the hope that it was he brought a deep flush to her face as Lucy, now installed in her own kitchen, and busy still with polishing of pots and pans, went to open the door. But she only brought in a note, which Olivia took with some disappointment. It was an answer from Mr. Brander to her own, but was so very formal that Olivia felt her cheeks tingle with shame at the impulsive warmth of her letter.
The clergyman’s note was as follows:—
“Dear Madam”—(And she had put “Dear Mr. Brander.” Olivia could have torn her pretty hair.)—“I beg to assure you there is nothing in what I have done to put you under any sense of obligation. In doing what little I could to make you as comfortable as the unfortunate circumstances of your arrival would permit, I only acted in my capacity of representative to my brother, who is hospitality itself to all strangers.
“I am, dear madam, yours faithfully,
“Vernon Brander.”
Olivia read the note twice, while Lucy stood still at the door.
“The young farmer’s son brought it, ma’am, and he’s waiting,” said she.
Olivia went to the door, and held out her hand to Mat Oldshaw, who took it very sheepishly in his own great paw, and, having given it a convulsive squeeze, dropped it hastily, as if overwhelmed with horror at his presumption in touching it at all.