Olive crossed the grass with a quick and noiseless step,--Harold following. “Mamma, darling!”
A light, bright as a sunburst, shone over Mrs. Rothesay's face--“My child! how long you have been away. Did Mrs. Gwynne”--
“Hush, darling!”--in a whisper--“I have been at the Parsonage, and Mr. Gwynne has kindly brought me home. He is here now.”
Olive came to him, saying, in a low tone, “Take her hand, she cannot see you, she is blind.”
He started with surprise. “I did not know--my mother told me nothing.”--And then, advancing to Mrs. Rothesay, he pressed her hand in both his, with such an air of reverent tenderness and gentle compassion, that it made his face grow softened--beautiful, divine!
Olive Rothesay, turning, beheld that look. It never afterwards faded from her memory.
Mrs. Rothesay arose, and said in her own sweet manner, “I am happy to meet Mr. Gwynne, and to thank him for taking care of my child.” They talked for a few minutes, and then Olive persuaded her mother to return to the house.
“You will come, Mr. Gwynne?” said Mrs. Rothesay. He answered, hesitating, that the afternoon would close soon, and he must go on to Farnwood Hall. Mrs. Rothesay rose from her chair with the touching, helpless movement of one who is blind.
“Permit me,” said Harold Gwynne, as, stepping quickly forward, he drew her arm through his, arranging her shawl with a care like a woman's. And so he led her into the house, with a tenderness beautiful to see.
Olive, as she followed silently after, felt her whole heart melted towards him. She never forgot Harold's first meeting with, and his kindness to, her mother.
He went away, promising to pay another visit soon.
“I am quite charmed with Mr. Gwynne,” said Mrs. Rothesay. “Tell me, Olive, what he is like.”
Olive described him, though not enthusiastically at all. Nevertheless, her mother answered, smiling, “He must, indeed, be a remarkable person. He is such a perfect gentleman, and his voice is so kind and pleasant;--like his mother, too, he has a little of the sweet Scottish tongue. Truly, I did not think there had been in the world such a man as Harold Gwynne.”
“Nor I,” answered Olive, in a soft, quiet, happy voice. She hung over her mother with a deeper tenderness--she looked out into the lovely autumn sunset with a keener sense of beauty and of joy. The sun was setting, the year was waning; but on Olive Rothesay's life had risen a new season and a new day.