TALES & SKETCHES.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 766, 5 November 1886, Page 6

TALES & SKETCHES.

[NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.]

OLIVERS BRIDE.

A NOVEL, BY MRS OLIPHANT.

CHAPTER I.

‘ I have not been always what I ought tohave been,’ he said ; * you must understand!'', that, Grace. I can’t let you take me without telling you, though it's against myself. I have not been the man that your husband ought to be, that is the truth.’ She smiled upon him with all the tenderness of which her eyes were capable, which was saying much, and pressed the hands which held hers. They had just, after manydifficulties and embarrassments and delay, said to each other all that people say when, from being strangers, they become one and ! conclude to part no more. They were standing together in all the joyful agitation and excitement which accompany this explanation—their hearts beating high, their faces illuminated by the radiance of the delignt which is always a surprise to the true lover even when to others it has been most certain and evident. Their friends had known forweeks that this was what it was coming to rbut he was pale with the ineffable discovery that she loved him, and she all enveloped in the very bloom of a blush, for pure wonder of" the extraordinary certainty that he loved her. She looked at him and smiled, theirclasped hands changing their action for themoment, she pressing his in token of utmost confidence as his hitherto had pressed her 3. ‘ I do not mean only that I do not deserve you, which is what any man would say,’ he resumed, after the unspoken yet unmistakeable answer she had made him. * The best man on earth might say so : and very true. No man is good enough for you ; but I mean more than that.’ ‘ You mean flattery,’ she said, ‘ which I" would not listen to for a moment if it werenot sweeter to listen to than anything else in the world. You don’t suppose I believe that; but so long as you do ’ Her hands unloosed and melted in his-; agairti and he resumed the pressure which became almost painful, so close it was and earnest.

« Dear,’ he said, with his voice trembling, ‘ you must not think I mean that only. That would be so were I a better man. I mean that I am not worthy to touch your dear hand or the hem of your garment. Oh, listen ; I have not been a good man, Grace.’’ She released one of her hands and put it up softly and touched his lips. * All that ha 3 been is done with,’ she said, ‘for both of us—everything has become new ’

‘ Ah,’ he said, ‘if you are content with this, it is so : it shall ever be so.. Yet I would not accept that peace of God without telling you —without letting you know ’ *No more, she said, ‘or I might t,ave to confess, too.’ _ • ‘ You !’ he cried, seizing her in his arms in a kind of rage. ‘ Oh, never name yourself in such a confession. You don’t know, you can’t imagine— ’ Again she stopped his mouth. *No more, no more ; we. are both content in what is, and happy in what is to come.’

‘ Happy is too mild a word, It is not big enough, nor strong enough for mp.’ She smiled with the-woman s'soft superiority to the man’s rapture which makes her glad. Superiority yet inferiority, admiring, yet half disdaining, the tide that.carries him away—all for her, as if she was worth that 1 Proud of him for the warmth of passion of which she is not capable, at which sHe shakes her head, not even he able to transport her to such a height of emotion as that to which she, pnly she, no other, can transport him. She began to adopt the position of a mentor to him on the moment, as soon fes it had been acknowledged that she was his love, and was to be his wife, It had been a long wooing, much interrupted, supposed to be hopeless; They had loved each other as boy and girl seven or eight years before. It is Jo be hoped that noone will be wounded by the fact that Grace Goodhart was twenty-five ; not an innocent angel of eighteen, but a woman who had her own opinions of the world. He was five years older. When she was seventeen and he twenty-two there had been passages between them which he had perhaps forgotten, but she had never forgot. At that period they were both poor. She an orphan girl in the house of her uncle, who was verykind to her, but announced everywhere that he did not intend to leave her his fortune; he, a young man without any very definiteintentions in life, or energy to a way for himself. They had parted then without anything said, for Oliver was a gentleman, and would not spoil the future of the girl whom he could not ask to marry him. He had gone away into the world, and he had* forgotten Grace. But there is nothing that a girl’s mind is more apt to fix upon than the vague conclusion which is no end, of sucli an episode. There is in it something more delicate than an engagement which hold£*the imagination as fast as any betrothal. He has not spoken she thinks for honor’s sake. He has gone away, like a true knight, to gain honor and fortune, and so win her. She

is consciously waiting for him all the long „ ear s perhaps, till he comes back, following him with her heart, with her eyes as far as she can ever open to all that is to be heard of him,’ collectiug diligently every scrap of information. She had not been without her Hittle successes in that time; others had seen that she was sweet as well as Oliver Wentworth ; and she was so light-hearted .and cheerful that not one could say it was ■for Oliver’s sake, or for any reason but be•cause she did not choose, that she would Slave no one in her sphere.

And then came that strange reversal of 'everything when the old uncle died without any will, and Grace, who it was always sup. mossed must go out; governessmg at lus death, was found to be Ids heiress. She was his next of kin ; there was nobody even to decide it with, to fight for a share ; and instead •of being a little dependent orphan, she was an heiress and a very good match. Sow it was that Oliver Wentworth came ’back then, was a question that many P eo P ® asked ; but, however it was, it was not with mercenary thought on his port. Whether bis sister was equally disinterested, who would take no denial, but insisted on his "visit, need not, perhaps, be inquired. He came rather against his will, knowing no reason why Trix should be so urgent; and "there he met Grace Goodhart, whom he had not seen for so many years, again, lo tier it was disappointing that he came back very .much as he had gone away, without having achieved either honor or fortune. But success is not dealt out in *he same measure to every man j and if he had failed, how anuch more reason for consoling him ! He had only failed in degree. He had not won either honor or fortune ; but he was able to earn his daily bread, and perhaps hers. And when he saw her again his heart bad gone back with a bound to his first love, ■although in the meantime that love had been forgotten. She was aware, more or less, of all this. She was even aware, more or dess, •of what he had wanted to tell her. She had ..followed him too closely with her heart not to be aware that he had not always kept himself unspotted from the world. This had cost her many a secret tear in the years which were past, but had not altered her mind towards him. There are. women who can cease to love when they, discover that a man is unworthy ; indeed, it is one of the commonplaces both of fact and fiction, that love cannot exist without respect. It would be very well for the good people, and very ill for those who are not good if this were generally so. There are many, many women, perhaps the majority, who ate not so highminded, and who love those they love—God help them!—whether they are worthy of love ■or not. Grace was one of these women. She heard somehow —wno can tell how, being intent to hear everything she could pick up about him—that he had not kept rthe perfect way, She had heard that he had gone wrong, and perhaps heard no more for a year or two, and in her secret retirement wept and prayed, but no outward :sign ; and then had heard more comforting news, and then again had been plunged into the anguish of those who know that their beloved are in misery and trouble, yet •cannot lift a finger to help them. When he appeared again within her ken, she .knew it was a_ man soiled with much contact of the world that met her, and not the pure hearted boy of old. But he was still Oliver Wentworth, aDd that was everything. And when in honor and honesty he would have told her how unworthy he was iher heart had leapt up towards him in that glory and delight of approbation which is perhaps the highest ecstacy of a woman. His confession, which she would not allow •him to make, was virtue and excellence to her. She was more proud of him because he wanted to tell her that he was a sinner, and acknowledge his unworthiness, than if he had been the mo3t unsullied and excellence of men.

Wentworth's sister had always been ■Grace’s friend. She was older than either of them, married, and full in the current of her own life. When Oliver came back to her ■after all was settled, and made what he believed was a revelation to her of his love and happiness, Mrs Ford laughed in his face, .even while she shared his raptures. IDo you think I don’t know all that, she said, < there never was anything so stupid as a man.in love. Why, I have known it for the last eight years, and always looked forward to this day.’ Which, perhaps, was not quite true and yet was true in a way. For Trix had all along loved Grace for loving her brother, and had seen that with such a wife Oliver must become all that could be ■desired; yet she had thought.it best policy, on the whole, till into her fortune, to keep them out of each other’s way. «Yes, s he said very gravely, pulling his ■moustache, ‘ for eight years she has always been the first woman in the world to me. At which his sister, which was very unbe •coming, continued to laugh. ‘The first, perhaps, dear Noll,’ she said, ‘ but we can tdenv can we, that there have been a few •others —secondary ? But you may be sure so far as I am concerned, Grace shall never know a word of that.’ . Oliver did not take the matter so lightly. From his rapture of content he dropped into -cr'reat gravity and walked about the room pulling at his moustache, which was a Custom he had when he was thinking. On the contrary,’ he said, I should ha.’e liked tier to know before she took .the last step •that—that I haven't been a, good fellow, 'Trix * « Oliver I shouldn’t like to hear any one •else say so. Charley says (this was her Jmsband) that you’ve always bee* a good ifellow in spite of—‘ln spite of what?’ - ... » ‘ Well in spite of—little indiscretions, maid Tri*, looking her brother in the face, though she colored as she did so in spite of 6 ‘ - That means ’he said, and walked up :and, down and pulled his moustache more and more. It was a long time before he added ‘ There is nothing that makes a man 30 ashamed of himself, Trix, as to feel ‘■bat a woman like Grace—if there is anyone lute ‘ Oh, nobody, of course !’ said his sister. •1 He gave her a look half angry, half tender. < You are a good woman too ; and to think that two girls like you should take a fellow at yoi!nr own estimate, and pretend to think * that he is a good fellow enough after all :as

lif that is all that her—her husband ought to foe.* «Well, Noll, 5 said Mrs Ford, *it is better not to go into details. Very likely we should not understand them if you did, though I am no girl, nor is she a baby either for the matter of that; but whatever you hav« been or done, the fact is that you are just Oliver Wentworth when all is said ; and as Oliver Weutworth is the man Grace has been fond of almost since she was a child, and who has been my brother ever since he was born— —’

‘Strange !’ he cried with, a curious outburst, half laugh half groan, ‘to think she should have kept thinking of me all this time, while I ’ ‘ Have been in love with her, and considered her all the time the first woman in the world. You told me so just now.’ ‘ Yes, 5 he said, ‘ that’s not a lie, though you may think it so. I did feel that —when I thought of ’ and here he paused and gave his sister a guilty look. * When you thought of her at all; you needn’t be ashamed, Noll. That’s the man’s way of putting it. We women all know that; but now that she is before your eyes and you cannot help thinking of her—now it has come all right.’ Trix too gave a laugh which was half crying ; and then she dried her eyes and came solemnly up to him with a very serious face and caught him by the arms and looked into his eyes. ‘ Oliver, now that all that’s over, and you’re an older man and understand that life won’t go like that; and now that you are going to marry Grace, the woman you have always loved—Oliver : for the love of God, no more of it now.’ He gazed at her for a moment with a flash of something like fury in his eyes, and then flung her from him with tierce indignation, ‘ Do you think I am a brute beaat without understanding,’ he cried, CHAPTER 11. For a week or more after their betrothal these two lovers were very happy. To be sure there was a great deal of remark and some remonstrance addressed to Grace about the antecedents of the man she was about to marry. Various people spoke to her, and some even wrote, which is a strong step, asking her if she was aware that Oliver Wentworth had been supposed to be ‘ wild 5 or ‘ gay,’ or something else of the same meaning. It .is generally supposed that a village or a small town is the place for gossip, but I think society is made up of a succession of villages, and that there is no place, not even London itself—that wilderness, that great Babylon—in which people are not discussed by their Christian names, and everything that can be discussed, with perhaps "a little more, is not known about them. Ironborough was a very large town, but the Wentworths and the Goodharts had both been settled there for several generations, and they were known to everybody. And not only was it known universally and much talked of that Oliver Wentworth had been ‘ wild ’ and that hs was poor, and consequently that he must be marrying solely for money ; but it also raised a great ferment in the place that he should intend, instead of settling down (‘and thankful for that ’) in Grace’s charming house, which her old uncle, a man very learned in the art of making himself comfortable, had made so perfect, to carry off his wife to London with him, and live there—for the advantage of his work forsooth ! as if his work would be of any such consequence in the manage, or as if he would ever earn enough to pay the house rent. Oliver was like so many other young men, a barrister with very little to do. He had managed to keep himself going by a few briefs and a little literature, as soon as he had fully convinced himself by the process of spending everything else that he could lay his hands upon, that a man must live upon what he can make. He was not of so fine a fibre as some heroes who feel themselves humiliated by their future wife’s fortune, and whom the possible suspicion of interested motives pursues everywhere ; but at the same time he was not disposed to be his wife’s dependent, and he knew the world well enough to be aware that with the backing of her wealth he would probably make a great deal more of his profession than it had hitherto teen possible him for to do. As for Grace herself, she talked of his profession, and of his work, and of the necessity for living where it would be most convenient for him, as if her entire future depended upon that, and Oliver’s work was to be the support of the new household. A girl without a penny, whose marriage was about to promote her to the delightful charge of a house of her own, and whose every new bonnet was to come from the earnings of her husband, could not have been more completely absorbed in consideration of all that was necessary for his perfect convenience in his work. She bewildered even Mrs Ford by the way she took up this idea. ‘ I honor you for what you say, and I. love you for it, Grace — ; but still you know Oliver’s is not what you would call very lucrative is it ? and he could do his writing anywhere, you know ?’ ‘ Indeed, I don’t know anything of the kind,’ said Grace indignantly. ‘He has to be constantly in the House when it is sitting. He has to know everything that is going on. Would you think your husband was well treated if he was made to manage his work, say from the seaside or a country house, for your sake and the children’s, instead of being on the spot ? You know you would not, Trix.’

* Oh, well, perhaps that may be so ; but then my husband -’ faltered Trix, with a troubled look. She would have said : ‘ My husband is the breadwinner, and everything depends on him ;’ but she was daunted by the look in Grace’s eyes, and actually did not dare to suggest that Oliver would be in a very different position. Mr Wilbraham, the solicitor who managed Miss Goodhart’s affairs, interfered in the same way with similar results. She was in a position of almost unexampled freedom for so young a woman. She had neither guardians nor trustees. There was nobody in the world who had a right to dictate to her or even authoritatively to suggest what she ought to do for the reason that all she had, had come to her as it were inadvertently, accidentally, because her uncle, who always said he intended to leave her nothing, had died

without a will. Mr Wilbraham was the only man in the world who had any right to say a word, and he had no real right, only the right of an old friend who had known her all her life, and knew everything about her. He said, when the settlement was being discussed (in which respect Mr Wentworth’s behaviour was perfect, for all that he wished was to secure the wife the undisturbed enjoyment of what was her own), that he hoped Miss Goodhart meant to remain, when she was married, among her own friends.

«I don’t think you would like London, after Ironborough,’ he said, with perfect sincerity ; ‘ and to get a house like this in town would cost you a fortune, you know.’

4 It is not a question of liking,’ said Grace, with all the calm of faith ; ‘ of course, we must live where Mr Wentworth’s work requires him to live. He cannot carry on his profession in the country.’ , ‘ The country !’ said Mr Wilbraham, with a snarl which his politeness to an excellent client could only soften. ‘ Does he call this the country? and Mr Wentworths profession, if you will permit me to say so, has never, so far as I know ’ ‘lt is the country though, you know, sairt Grace, preserving her temper, though with a little difficulty, ‘ though not exactly what you could call fresh fields and pastures n6 And when he looked up at her, Mr Wilbraham made up his mind that it was best to say no more. A wilful woman will have her way. Perhaps, it was only the lavish and tender generosity of her nature, which would let no one see that she was conscious her position was different from that of the majority of women : but I think it went even a little further than this, and. that Grace had got herself to believe that Oliver s work was all in all. She talked to him about it, till he believed in it too, and they planned together the localities in which it would be best to look for a house, in a place which should be quiet so that he might not be disturbed, and yet near everything that he ought to frequent and see ; a place where they would have good air and space to breathe, and yet a place where his chambers, and his newspaper office, and the House should he easily accessible ; in short, just such an house as a rising barrister, who was at the same time a man of letters, ought to have. Grace, especially, was very anxious that it should not be too far away. * As for me, you know, it does not matter a bit—one place is just the same as another to me ; but she was so very much in earnest that he fell into her tone, and did not even venture to laugh at himself, which was a thing he had been very apt to do. And those consultations were very sweet. It is doubtful whether anything in life is so sweet as the talks and anticipations of two who have thus made up their minds to be one, while as yet life keeps its old shape, the shape which they feel they have outgrown, and all is anticipation. Everything loses a little when it is realised. No house, to give a small example, is ever so convenient, so delightful, so entirely adapted for happy habitation, as the one which these two reasonable people actually hoped to find To be Let in London. It was to have a hundred advantages which never come together ; it was to be exactly at the right distance from the turmoil of town ; it was to have rooms arranged in this and that way ; it was to be very capable of decoration, and yet to have a character of its own. Oliver’s library was to be the best room in the house, and yet the other sitting rooms were to be best rooms too. ‘ I will not endure to have you pushed into a dark corner as poor Mr Ford is,’ said Grace. ‘ The master of the house, on whom everything depends, should always have the best. To be sure poor Mr Ford does his work in his office, which is some excuse ; hut your study, Oliver, will tell for so much. You must let me furnish it out of my own head.’ He laughed a little, colored, and said, * Seeing you will probably furnish it out of your own purse, Grace At which she opened her eyes wide, and looked at him, then laughed too, a little,, but gravely, as if it were not a subject for a jest, and said, * Oh, I see what you mean. You mean me to be the accountant, and all that. Well, I am pretty good at arithmetic, Oliver ; and, of course, it might disturb your mind while you are busy, and I shall have nothing else to do.’ This was the way she took it, with a readiness of resource in parrying, all allusions to her own wealth which was infinite : though whether she succeeded in this by dint of much thought, or whether it was entirely spontaneous, the suggestion of the moment, no one could make out. The result upon Oliver, as I have said, was that he began to believe in himself, too. Instead of laughing at hi 3 brief business, which had been liis custom, he began to take himself and his work very seriously, and to think how he should apportion his time so as not to leave Grace too much alone, as, if he had ever found any difficulty in finding time for whatever he wished to do. ‘ It’s a pity,’ he said, ‘that this season is just the busiest time, both in chambers and in politics ; but I mu3t make leisure to take you about a little, Grace. To think of taking you about, and seeing everything again, fresh, through your dear eyes, is almost too delightful. Would the time were here !’ * It will come quite soon enough, Oliver. We have not even begun to look for the house, yet, and there is all the furnishing and everything to do. Don’t you think you had better go up to town and begin operations? We may not be able, you know, just at once, to light upon the right house.’ * Don’t you think you had better come with me, Grace?’ ‘ I ? Oh ! Why should I go with you ? Surely,’ she said, with a laugh and a blush, ‘ you can do that by yourself.’ * How could I do it by myself ? I am no longer myself. I am only half of myself. Come and I shall go : but I am not going to leave myself behind me, and stultify myself. I shall not be one-half but only a fifth or sixth of myself, for there is you, who are the best part of me, and then my heart, which is the next best, and my thoughts, which, along with my heart and you. really make up myself—at least all that is worth anything.’ ‘ What an intolerable number of seifs !’ she said ; though, perhaps, this was not very

clever, it pleased them in that state of mind in which we are all so easily pleased. She said no more, however, and drew away from him, while he jumped to his feet at the open ing of the door. The old butler came in with a letter on a tray. There was something sinister in the look of the letter. It was in a blue envelope, and was directed in a very common, unformed hand,' ‘ immediate' written on it in large letters. ‘ Please, sir, Mrs Ford’s man do say as they don’t know if it's anythink of importance ; but he ’as brought it seeing an immediate’s on it, in case it should be business, sir.’

The butler gave a demure glance at his mistress, who was still blushing a good deal, as she had done when she pushed away the chair.

‘ Thank you, Jenkins,’ said Oliver. He took the letter and looked at it before he opened it. He thought he had seen the handwriting before, but could not remember where. He felt a little afraid of it; he could not tell why. He turned it over in his hand and hesitated, aud would have liked to put it into his pocket and carry it away with him. for perusal afterwards. What could be so immediate as to require his attention now—a bill, perhaps ? He ran over the list of possibilities in that- way, and did not remember anything. ‘ What is it, Oliver,’ said Grace. * Haven’t you opened it ? Oh, but you must open it when it is marked immediate. It must be business, of course.’ ‘ I should think it’s a hoax,’ he said, slowly, * a circular, or something of that sort,’ and crushed it in his hand. Then, as she made a.little outcry—‘Well, I’ll open it to please you. All women, I perceive, believe in letters,’ he said, with a smile.

The joke was but a small one at the best —it seemed smaller and smaller as he opened the envelope and read what was written within. Grace had gone away to rearrange some flowers on the table to leave him at liberty. She bent over them, taking out some that were beginning to fade, pulling them a little till the moment should be over. It seemed t o run into two or three minutes, and Oliver did not say anything or even move. He would generally say ‘ Oh, it is So-and-so ’—some friend who had sent his congratulations. That was the chief subject of all their letters at the present time. They were letters which were handed from one to another with little notes of admiration. ‘ Poor fellow, he is as pleased as possible.’ ‘What a nice letter, Oliver. lam sure he musk be fond of you,’ and so forth and so forth. But he said nothing about this. To be sure, it was business. She turned round at last, not knowing what to do ; wondering, when your bridegroom does not tell you of a thing, wbat is your duty in the circumstances. To ask, or to hold your tongue ? Grace was not jealous, nor ready to take offence. And she was very anxious to do her duty. What ought she to do ? He folded up the letter, as he heard her move, and turned towards her, but without raising his eyes. His face was clouded and dark. He put it into his pocket, and they sat down again and began to talk, but not as before, though of the same subject.. At last he said, abruptly, * I think I will go up to town, Grace. You suggested it, you know,"' as if he had altogether forgotten all that he had said, which she had chidden him for, and loved him for, all that pleasant nonsense about himself. She was startled for a moment; then replied ouietly, ‘ Yes, Oliver, I do think it will be*the best way ’*j He continued hesitating—faltering. ‘lt is not for that only, my darling. This letter—l am afraid I may have to go—a —a friend of mine has got into trouble. I—can’t exactly tell what it is ; me to go.’ ‘ Oh, how sorry I am,’ said Grace. ‘ Dear Oliver, it is natural people should turn to you when they are in trouble. Who is he ? Do I know him ? Has he written to you about ’ ‘ I don’t suppose —he—knows anything about it. It is a friend I haven’t heard of for a long time. Mot one for you to know, but in great trouble. Dying the letter says.’ ‘ Oh, Oliver, go—go at once. Not for the world would I keep yoyi irom a dying mao. Don’t tell me any more than you wish, dear, but can I do anything—can I send anything. Is he—-oh, Oliver, forgive me—is he poor V * Forgive you ?’ he said. He held her close to him with a strain that was almost violent, as if he could not let her go. Then he said, ‘ No, my darling, you can do nothing. I may have helped to make things worse, and I am at the height of happiness while this poor creature —this poor soul ’ ‘ Oh, Oliver, go" and comfort him,’ she said. ' * Don’t lose a train ; don’t come back to say good-bye. Go-go.’ Then while he held her in his arms she said, smiling, ‘lt need not be a very long parting, I suppose ?' - ‘ Any parting is long that takes me from you. Grace.’ ‘ But it is for love’s sake. Good-bye. I'll do all I can do, Oliver. I’ll pray for you —and him.’

* God bless you, my dear love —not goodbye—till we meet again.’ And then the door closed, and he was gone. , The day had grown dark, surely, all at once. It was a day in early spring, and very cloudy. A mass of dark yapor had blown up over the sweet sky, and what a change it was all in a moment, from that pretty fooling about myself to this sudden parting. But, then, it was an errand of mercy on which he was going. God be with him ! And it could not be for long. Nothing, neither trouble nor suffering, nor death of friends, nor any created thing could separate them long. (To be continued.)