A momentary hope struck Olive that it might be her father returning home. But he was a strict man; he never travelled on Sundays. Nevertheless, Olive listened mechanically to the wheels: they dashed rapidly on--came near--stopped. Yes, it must be her father.
She flew to the hall door to welcome him. There stood, not her father, but a little hard-featured old man, Mr. Wyld, the family lawyer. Olive drew back, sorely disappointed; for if in her gentle heart lingered one positive aversion, it was felt towards this man--partly on his own account, partly because his appearance seemed always the forewarning of evil in the little household. He never came but at his departure Captain Rothesay wore a frowning brow, and indulged in a hasty temper for days and days. No marvel was there in Olive's dislike; yet she regretted having shown it.
“Mr. Wyld, I thought it was my father. I am sorry that he is not at home to receive you.”
“Nay,--I did not come to see Captain Rothesay,” answered the lawyer, betraying some confusion and hesitation beneath his usual smooth manner. “The fact is, my dear young lady, I bring a letter for your mother.”
“No, not exactly; that is--. But can I see Mrs. Rothesay?”
“She is at church. She will be at home in half-an-hour, probably. Will you wait?”
Olive shrank from the touch of his hand, as he led her into the parlour.
“Your papa is at my house. But I think, Miss Rothesay, as your mother is not at home, you had better read the letter yourself.”
She took it. Slowly, silently, she read it through, twice; for the words seemed to dazzle and blaze before her eyes. Then she looked up helplessly. “I--I cannot understand.”
“I thought the doctor wrote plainly enough, and broke the matter cautiously, too,” muttered Mr. Wyld; adding aloud, “Upon my honour, my dear, I assure you your father is alive.”
“Alive! Oh, my poor father!” And then she sank down slowly where she stood, as if pressed by some heavy, invisible hand. Mr. Wyld thought she had fainted; but it was not so. In another moment she stood before him, nerved by this great woe to a firmness which was awful in its rigid composure.
He told her in a few words how Captain Rothesay had come to his house the night before; and, while waiting his return, had taken up the newspaper. “Suddenly, my clerk said, he let it fall with a cry, and was immediately seized with the fit from which he has not yet recovered. There is hope, the doctor thinks; but, in case of the worst, you must come to him at once.”