Olive Varcoe: a novel ... New edition

Chapter I

' To me, Sir Hdton ! — and you say this to me ! ' 'To you, Eleanor Maristowe, ancl to none other in the world. Why are you astonished . Have you not seen this long while that I love you . ' ' No,' said Eleanor, ' I never dreamed of it. I thought that you loved another.' ' Then, Eleanor, on my life you have wronged me ! ' he cried. ' Whom did you suppose I loved 1 I have never seen any woman but you whom I could wish to make my wife. ' The young girl to whom Sir Hilton Trewavas spoke thus earnestly was silent, but her fair face was covered with blushes, and the little hand resting in his trembled visibly. ' If I could only believe you,' she said at last, in a low voice ; ' if I could only think it was true.' ' Tell me why you doubt me, Eleanor 1 ' cried her lover, eagerly. ' Let me defend myself.

Of what do you accuse rneT ' I thought your cousin, Olive ' ' My cousin Olive ! ' he interrupted, fiercely. ' What of her?' The girl drew her hand from his, and turned away her face proudly. ' I see,' said she, ' you grow angry the moment I mention her name. Go back to your cousin Olive. I will never take another girl's lover from her.' ' This is nonsense, Eleanor ! I am not her lover. Has she dared to say so ? ' B 'She has not quite said so,' was the reply; 'but her manner, and y7our manner ' ' My manner was that of a cousin,' said he, ' nothing more. Eleanor — dear Eleanor, hear me ! Don't leave me ; don't wreck my happiness for such a folly as this.' Eleanor Maristowe was stealing away from his side among the trees, but she came back at this appeal, and he seized her hand again. ' Eleanor,' he exclaimed, ' what can I say — what can I do to convince you of my truth ? ' ' And have you never loved Olive Varcoe ? ' ' No, never,' he replied. ' Eleanor, do not make me hate the poor girl.

Bemember, she is dependent on my bounty.' ' I am sorry,' said Eleanor, softly ; ' I would not say a word to injure her; but I assure you she has always implied to me that you loved her ; therefore I have avoided you as much as I piossibly could.' ' And for this you have treated me so coldly, so cruelly ! Eleanor, you owe me some amends. Say frankly now that you love me, and will be my wife.' ' If Olive ' ' Fling Olive to the winds ! ' he interrupted. ' Say " Yes," Eleanor. I want that one word — " Yes." ' 'If you really love me, I say it — Yes. But if Olive has any place in your heart ' 'If!' said her lover. I will have no "iss." You are mine now.' He had her in his arms ; and as his lips touched hers, Eleanor forgot her jealousy, ancl the vision of Olive Varcoe's bright flashing face faded away. ' John, I am going to be married,' said Sir Hilton Tre wavas to his brother. ' My bachelor days are nearly over.

Congratulate me.' ' I'll wait till I know who the lady is,' said John, a great, easy, good-natured fellow, slightly given to superstition and a few other weaknesses. ' Well, guess then who it is,' said his brother. ' Do I know her, Hilton 1 ' ' Slightly, I think.' ' My dear brother,' said John, ' I hope it is not Olive Varcoe ? ' ' Olive Varcoe ! ' exclaimed Sir Hdton, impatiently. 'Am I to have that girl always thrust into my ears 1 Do you think me a fool, John, that I should marry a little flirting witch like Olive Varcoe . — a cousin, too ! ' ' So you own she is a witch,' said John. ' And you know she is a flirt. Bad signs, Hdton — very.' ' Cut it short, John, unless you want me to get savage ! ' exclaimed Sir Hdton. ' I am going to marry Eleanor Maristowe.' The blood flew to the face of John, leaving it quite pale as it rushed back to his heart. ' Then you are going to marry a good girl, Hilton,' he answered ; ' and may God bless you and her !

Hollo ! there's Vivian Damerel ; I must go and speak to him.' John Trewavas sprang out of the open window, and ran down the lawn in fiery speed, but he clashed among the laurels, avoiding the elegantly dressed fop, who called out to him in a languid voice to stop. ' The deuce is in John this morning, I believe,' observed Sir Hdton to himself. ' He need not have gone off in that style ; I had a hundred things to tell him.' A light step made him turn round, and then he faced a tiny figure of a woman, so small, that she might have been a child, and so wonderfully attractive that she might have been a syren, or a witch, or a nymph, or all three in one. ' Olive ! ' exclaimed Sir Hilton. 'Yes, Olive,' she repeated; 'just arrived. Are you glad to see me 1 ' 'I am always delighted to see the most charming of cousins,' he replied. 'That means nothing,' saM Olive, seating herself on a little footstool just in front of Sir Hilton. ' I hate compli ments.

Say something true and kind, Cousin Hilton.' The tall, handsome man looked down on the little figure in slight embarrassment. She looked lovely, and she knew it, as she turned her large black eyes up to his and smiled. One little hand rested on the large arm-chair against which she leaned. It was covered with green velvet ; and the contrast between this and her white fingers, her glossy black b2 hair, coiled massively around her head, and the folds of her pale pink dress, all made a picture, the beauty of which no one could appreciate more than her impulsive cousin. 'Upon my word, black hari is the richest in the world,' he said aloud, speaking his thoughts too frankly ; ' ancl the colour you have in your cheeks, Olive, would shame a da mask rose. You were born somewhere in the sun, I think, and dropped upon this world by mistake.' Olive had just said she did not like compliments, yet she made no objection to this speech ; on the contrary, her red lips broke into a smile, and her bright face was lit up with a flash of joy.

She suddenly bent forward, and seizing Sir Hdton's hand, she impressed a kiss upon it. The young man coloured to the roots of his hair, but he did not take his hand away from the ripe Ups that lingered on it lovingly. 'That's to thank you,' she said, 'for your pretty compli ment. Words are so tame, they never say anything that I want to express with my whole heart.' ' It was a very pretty, cousinly act, Olive,' returned Sir Hilton, a little gravely. Olive's dark eyes flashed at Sir Hdton's words, and she flung his hand away with an angry gesture. ' There, you have undone your kindness now,' she said. ' I understand you ; I have not acted up to your stiff Eng lish notions of propriety. Wait — you shall not get a kiss from me again untd you go on your knees for it. If you like prudes, go and flirt with Miss Maristowe.' 'Miss Maristowe will never let any man flirt with her, Olive,' said Sir Hdton. ' Dear me ! ' said Olive. ' She is too good, I suppose a sort of angel in flounces.

Well, leave her alone, if you won't flirt with her. I assure you, whether you do or not it won't trouble me.' ' Nothing troubles you, Olive,! said he. ' I really think you never cared for any human being in your life.' 'No, I never cared for anybody but my clog Spot,' she replied; 'and he isn't a human being, is he? Look here Sir Hilton — how do you like this new dance . I learnt it last week.' She displayed a pair of twinkling feet, and danced a new Mazurka, twisting in and out between chairs and tables with marvellous grace. ' The dance is very pretty7,' said Sri Hilton. ' Who taught it to you ? ' 'A bear — a Russian bear,' she replied, 'rich and ugly. Oh Hdton, I had such a time in London.' ' What, pleasant ? ' said Sir Hdton. ' Balls, and concerts, and flirtations, I suppose, constantly ? ' ' Plenty of all that,' replied Olive. ' But where was the pleasure ?

Oh, it was such a dreary time to me ! I would rather be at Trewavas than I would live in London, ancl go to parties every night.' ' I don't believe that, Olive,' said Sir Hilton. ' Oh yes, you do,' said Olive ; ' you know it is true. Just try this dance, Hilton. I am sure I can teach it to you iu five minutes.' He put his arm around her ; he took her hand in his ; the glossy cods of hair rested on his breast : they could not reach his shoulder. He forgot Eleanor Maristowe, and the dance grew faster and faster, as she sang in a low voice a wild Russian melody to Mazurka time. ' There ! ' she cried at last, triumphantly. ' I knew you would learn it in a minute or two. You are so quick at anything. By-the-by, have you not found it slow here with out me ? I have been away a whole month, you know.' ' Is it really so long ? ' said Sir Hilton, gasping a little from his exertions in the dance. ' Then the time has not seemed so long to you ! ' exclaimed Olive. ' " Out of sight, out of mind !

" as the old proverb says. But what have you been doing with yourself all this while ? ' ' Doing ? Why nothing,' replied Sir Hilton. ' Then if you were doing nothing,' said Olive, ' why did you not come to meet the coach this morning, and escort me home? I felt so dismal when I saw the carriage was empty.' ' Upon my word, Olive, I didn't know the carriage was gone for you,' said Sir Hilton. ' My respected grandmother never said one word about your return. I never knew you were coming till you appeared to me here like a vision.' Olive laughed aloud. ' Aunt did not know I was coming till last night,' she said. ' I have returned without orders. I am not wanted here.' ' Olive ! ' he ejaculated, ' if I thought any one, even my father's mother, dared to make you unwelcome in my house, ' I am always welcome wherever I go,' said Olive. ' In five minutes from this time I mean to make Aunt thank me for coming.

I know she has been dull ever since she sent me away. Who has been here ? Have you had those Maristowes all this whde — the prude and her stately stick of a mother ? ' A burning flush came over her cousin's face at these words. In his embarrassment he drew Olive closer to him, and grasped her hand with nervous strength. At that moment the door opened, and a well-trained servant, standing respectfully at the portal, said in the soft, calm voice peculiar to the English domestic, ' The horses are at the door, sir; and Miss Maristowe sent me to say she was waiting.' ' I am coming,' said Sir Hilton, biting his lip. The servant closed the door, while the cousins looked at each other blankly. Olive was the first to laugh — ' Oh, it does not matter, as we are cousins — that's just like brother and sister, you know.' ' Of course it is,' exclaimed Sir Hilton, eagerly ; ' and I hope you wdl always feel it so, Olive.' Olive turned her back on him, and walked to the window. ' I wish,' she murmured, ' you hadn't promised to ride with that tiresome Miss Maristowe on the very first day of my coming home.' But she spoke to the winds — her cousin was gone ; and, gazing blankly from the window, she saw him in a moment lifting Eleanor Maristowe on her horse.

What was there in this little act of courtesy that made Olive gasp for breath, and send the blood to her heart in a rush of terror and anguish ? * * * * * % The green glades of Trewavas slope down to the sea and honeysuckle and hawthorn, lilac and arbutus trail their branches on the beach, whde the shadows of stately elm and oak fall far across the waters. The waves are blue and limpid, clear as liquid crystal ; so that far beneath the surface, down among the very depths, the eye watches delightedly the silvery fish, darting to and fro, and marks the glittering sands, white as snow, the rocks of serpentine flashing purple and green, and the many-coloured plants of the sea waving in a thousand shapes of beauty. The bay of Trewavas, like an inland lake, is shut in on nearly every side by green bills and sloping woods ; and dotted around it, Uke gems, lie the glistening sands of little sheltered coves, up which the waves roll lovingly, dancing in with a gentle murmur.

High up, on the sunniest slopie of the fairest hill, stands the old mansion of Trewavas. It seems embowered in roses, so luxuriant are the flowers of every sort that cluster round its windows, and climb up to its old grey roof. The garden, too, is lovely as a dream ; green glades, soft as velvet, with here and there between the trees a vista opening to the sea, or a peep given for an instant of the great rugged hdls far away, and then the waUs of leaf and flower shut them out again. In this lovely nook of the west lived old Lady Trewavas, a stately dame of the old school, full of pride ancl kindness ; and with her lived her two grandsons — -Sir Hilton, a man not without faults, and kindly, simple John, who thought every man a Bayard, and every woman a saint ; a good heart born to be deceived, born to 'love unwisely and too well.' Olive Varcoe, a second cousin to the brothers, made one of the family at Trewavas.

Utterly alone, but self-possessed, and wilful as an imp, she arrived in Cornwall at ten years of age, having come from Smyrna in a sading vessel. She was put on board by the English Consul, with letters and credentials for Lady Trewavas. The letter was from her nephew, Mr. Varcoe, who, at the point of death, implored Ms aunt to take pity on his Uttle chdd. Lady Trewavas might have hesitated, but the letter and the child reached her together ; and the friendless and beautiful little creature, who with folded arms and flashing eyes stood dauntless before her, seemed to have no relative on earth but herself. Her father's letter made no mention of her mother ; but it was easy to see, by Olive's blue-black hair and dark skin, that she must have been of Eastern blood ; and, though she might have been a wife, it was more probable that she was a slave.

Mr. Varcoe, all his life long, had been a strange, eccentric man, 'everything by turns, and nothing long.' Accident caused him to study astronomy ; thence he diverged to astro logy ; and in pursuit of this science, he travelled to the East, and never returned to England. He pretended to have penetrated deep secrets, and learned weighty things ; but they certainly never benefited his fortune, for at his death the small remnant of his once large property made only a scanty pittance for his child. Thinking pitifully of his poverty, ancl remembering, with ever fresh and yearning affection, the sorrows, the love, and the short life of her only sister, Mr. Varcoe's mother, Lady Trewavas took Olive, and gave her a home. The two grandsons, whom the untimely death of their parents had left entirely to her care, had no sister ; hence this little Eastern chdd became their petted playmate But as Olive grew older Lady Trewavas became uneasy at this companionship.

She had no wish to see Olive the wife of either of her cousins; hence she cleverly managed, after her fifteenth birthday, to keep them much apart. But her maternal instinct soon told her, that John might see this fascinating cousin without danger ; therefore she allowed him to come and go as he would at Trewavas, but his elder brother she kept as much as possible from home. His education, his Continental tour, his amusements, all had insured his absence ; and during his brief visits Lady Trewavas fondly hoped that he regarded the wayward wilful fairy of the household only as a sister. And we have seen how the old lady knew how to manœuvre. She could send Olive Varcoe on a visit, when Sir Hilton's stay was expected to be long, and she could fill her house with safer attractions. Sir Hdton had known Eleanor Maristowe about two years ; that is, he had seen her at intervals during that time, and every succeeding interview had strengthened the impres sion which her face had made.

Her coldness and reserve wounded his pride, and made him only the more earnestly resolve to win her. Longing to see him safely married, Lady Trewavas had, without , his knowledge, warmly aided his wooing. Long before his last return home, she had invited Eleanor to Trewavas, and secured Olive's absence by pro curing for her a judicious invitation to London. AU this was well ; but, in constantly having Eleanor for her guest, she had forgotten John. Thinking only of Sri Hdton, she had asked her to Trewavas as often during his absence as his presence ; and the result was, that simple, kindly John loved her with all the strength of his soul. And his life was wrecked ; there was no hope left for him now but to hide his pain, and never touch the happiness of others with the shadow of his own grief.

One of the silvery beaches that gemmed the Bay of Trewavas fringed also a little creek, so sheltered from the winds that hawthorn bushes and wild roses grew in every cranny of the cliff, and the clear waves crept in with a gentle lap, lulling into dreams of happiness even the hot heart of the careworn and the worldly. The beach itself was almost inaccessible ; walled in by cliff's, it could only be reached seawards, except by some adventurous cUmber, who cared neither for danger nor fatigue. On this warm spring day the sands glistened white in the sun, and no sign of life, either on sea or land, broke the beautiful loneliness of the scene. But soon a little boat put out from Trewavas, and a single rower with stout arms pulled steaddy towards this solitary beach. The rower was John Trewavas, who, impelled by that instinct of suffering which teaches man and animal alike to seek solitary places, had now set his face towards those lonely sands ; but when he was about to spring ashore, hoping to find solitude and peace, he was startled to see the tiny figure of Olive Varcoe seated on a rock.

John was superstitious ; and as he looked on the tiny creature, dressed in red and black, who sat perched on the very pinnacle of a rock, it seemed to him that he saw a veritable witch. The very place whereon she sat had a supernatural air about it. No mere woman, he thought, would have climbed to such a seat. ' How did you get on this beach ? ' he asked, looking about for her boat. ' I flew down,' she replied. ' Olive, you cannot have descended this cliff ! ' exclaimed John, aghast with astonishment. ' But I did, though,' persisted Olive. ' Look at my hands.' She held forth her tiny hands, and showed them cut and torn, and streaked with blood. ' "The rocks are hard," ' she continued, ' "and the thorn will pierce the flesh," as some trumpery poet says.' ' Olive, you are certainly mad,' said John ; ' I would not have a spriit like yours for worlds.' 'Nor I one like yours,' she replied. ' I am tired, John ; take me in your boat, and row me home.' John threw down his oars, and jumped ashore to assist her ; but before he had time even to stretch out his hand, she had made a daring spring, and alighted on the sands at his feet.

Very pale, John caught her hastily up, and asked if she was hurt. ' I wish I was dashed into a thousand pieces ! ' she replied. ' I wish my wicked brains were on the sands ; that would be rare news for you to take back to Trewavas.' ' What can a man say to a woman when she talks Uke that ? ' said kindly John. ' Such words are childishness, Olive, — wdful, passionate childishness. You are looking dl. You are out of sorts to-day. Come home, and let Eleanor nurse you.' ' Eleanor ! ' she repeated, and the scorn, the anger, the hatred in that one word seemed to burn her lips, and flash fire into her eyes. She walked away, and stepped into the boat unaided. As John caught up his oars, and took his seat facing her, he saw she was deadly pale. In deep silence he rowed half across the silvery bay ; the scent of may and ldac reaching them in every breeze, the sea birds flashing by, and the song of the lark sounding high up in the clear heavens. ' How beautiful it is ! ' said John, pausing on his oars. ' To me, Trewavas is a Paradise.' ' And, like the other Paradise, there's a devil in it,' said Olive. ' Where ? ' asked simple John. ' I never saw a devri in it, Olive.' ' You can always see that individual if you look for him, John,' she replied.

She put her hand in the water as she spoke, and caught up a sea-anemone ; and in a moment she tore the beautiful Uving flower to pieces, and flung it again on the waves. ' Suppose it feels ! ' said John, watching her. ' Some people say it does.' ' What does that matter ? ' said Olive. ' Has anybody asked whether you and I feel 1 What do you think of it all, John?' ' What do I think of what ? ' asked John, dipping his oars in the water again, and flushing burning red. ' Don't row yet,' she said. ' The sea is a safer place to talk in than the land. You may speak out here, John.' 'I have nothing to say, Olive, except that I wish them every happiness,' said John. ' Nothing to say ! ' repeated Olive, ' when you know your feelings have been blindly, ruthlessly disregarded ; when you know Hilton and that girl ! ' 'You are insulting me, Olive,' interrupted John, 'when you suppose I can listen to such language as this.' Olive shrugged her shoulders as she replied, ' I am a fool to try to move a dish of skimmed milk.

Stoop, Issachar, and bear your burden ; but as for me, I am not a mule, stooping between two burdens, penury and cruelty. No ! I am a woman, and they will live to see what I can do.' ' Olive, you make me glad that Hilton does not love you,' said John, gravely, with disgust and anger visibly shining on his face. ' But he does love me,' said Olive, sinking her voice to sudden lowness, and gazing steadily at her cousin. ' There is the misery ; he does love me, only he has been so used to me, you see, that he cannot believe in his love, and he mistakes his fancy for that white Maypole ' ' Olive ! ' interrupted John. ' John ! ' she expostulated, ' you had better listen, and not interrupt me. I tell you this engagement has been made up by Lady Trewavas. Mrs. Maristowe knows that you love Eleanor, and she has been expecting to hear it dady from your lips ; she woulcl rather give her daughter to you than to Hilton, and Eleanor herself would be happier with you.

Marry her, John. Save her from your brother, unless you wish her to be miserable.' It was pamful to see a great strong man like John Trewavas grow so ghastly pale, and sink down on his seat helpless as an infant ; but it was pleasant to mark how soon he rallied from the temptation laid before him, and sat up erect, with kindling cheek and eyes. ' Hilton loves her ! ' said he. ' Who will make Eleanor miserable ? ' ' I will,' replied Olive. There was poison and death in the soft, low accents of her voice, yet John looked upon her words as a childish threat. ' Try to be happy, Olive,' he said, kindly. The girl burst into tears, and covered her face with her small hands, sobbing violently. ' I shall never be happy,' she said. ' I am not tame, like you. Oh John ! Hdton has flirted with me — Hdton has caressed me — Hilton loves me !

How can I bear to see him taken away from me by a plot ? I am not blind. I know my aunt looks upon me as a dependent, and she would rather have Hdton die than marry me ; so she has thrust Eleanor Maristowe in his way expressly. She wants to see him safely married out of my reach, and she does not mind crushing your heart too, to do it. She knows that you are not in danger from my wicked fascinations, and our both being miserable counts for nothing.' There was some truth in these words, and again John's face flushed, and his lips trembled. ' Oh John, my dear cousin ! ' she continued, ' help me to break off this horrid engagement, and thank me for it, as Eleanor's husband, in a year's time.' The oar slipped out of John's hand, ancl when he recovered it his lips were so deadly white, they could scarcely form a word. ' You utterly deceive yourself, Olive,' he said ' My brother loves Eleanor Maristowe with all his heart.

I wdl not interfere between them to blight their happiness. Let us end this discussion.' ' Then you wdl not help me ? ' said Olive. ' No,' he reptlied. ' There are better men in the world than Hdton : try to love one of them, and be happy. Your secret is safe with me — you know that ; and as for myself, if I have had feelings and hopes, which I have buried now as deep as these shining sands beneath us, I expect you to respect them and be silent. No one has guessed the truth but yourself, and I will not have any other heart troubled with it but my own.' The kind, simple tones of his voice, that trembled, — the fervent, generous look he wore, touched Olive. ' John,' she said, ' you are too good for this low cunning world. I wish you would save me from being a devil. There are only two ways to do it now, since you won't help me to show your brother his own fooUsh fickle heart.' ' And what ways are those, Olive ? ' he asked. ' You can throw me overboard, ancl beat me down with an oar every time I rise and shriek for mercy,' she replied ; ' or you can row straight home, ancl tell Aunt Trewavas all I have said.

In that case she will thrust me out of this dear old place ; ancl flung forth into the world, I shall beg, starve, and steal, and I shall not have time and opportunity to become quite a devil.' As she spoke these bitter words, there came floating to wards them over the sea the sound of fresh young voices, singing a hymn in unison ; and winding up the soft green of the park, now disappearing, now flashing out between the trees, they saw a procession of Sunday-school children passing on to Trewavas church, which stood among the hills beyond. ' Hark ! ' said John, ' I would much rather listen to that childish hymn than hear you talk of devilry, Olive.' John broke into a whistle, and, bending steadily to Iris oars, it was not long ere the keel of the boat grated on Trewavas sands.

Chapter II

Eleanor Maristowe and her mother sat together in the morning room at Trewavas. There was a shadow between them, which kept mother ancl daughter silent ; one worked, and the other drew, without exchanging more than a word or two on commonplace subjects. At length, Mrs. Maris towe threw down her work, and sighed heavily. ' I cannot keep this up, Eleanor,' said she ; 'I must speak. I have been coming to Trewavas these two years, thinking it was John who liked you, not Sir Hilton.' 'John, mamma!' said Eleanor. 'I assure you he has never said a word of that sort to me in his life. And besides, it was always Sir Hilton whom I liked.' ' I am half sorry for it, Eleanor,' said her mother. ' Most mothers would be glad that a daughter should marry a rich man and a barOnet ; but I am a widow. I wanted to keep my chdd, not lose her.