“I see you do not remember me, Miss Rothesay. Of course I could not expect it. But I have not forgotten you.”
Olive, though still doubtful, instinctively offered him her hand. The tall youth took it eagerly, and as he looked down upon her, something in his expression reminded her of a face she had herself once looked down upon--her little knight of the garden at Oldchurch. In the impulse of the moment she called him again by his old name--“Lyle! Lyle Derwent!”
“Yes, it is indeed I!” cried the young man. “Oh, Miss Rothesay, you can't tell how glad I am to meet you again.”
“I am glad, too.” And Olive regarded him with that half-mournful curiosity with which we trace the lineaments of some long-forgotten face, belonging to that olden time, between which and now a whole lifetime seems to have intervened.
“Is that little Lyle Derwent?” cried Mrs. Rothesay, catching the name. “How very strange! Come hither, my dear boy! Alas, I cannot see you. Let me put my hand on your head.”
But she could not reach it, he was grown so tall. She seemed startled to think how time had flown.
“He is quite a man now, mamma,” said Olive; “you know we have not seen him for many years”----
Lyle added, blushing deeper than before--“The last time--I remember it well--was in the garden, one Sunday in spring--nine years ago.”
“Nine years ago! Is it then nine years since my Angus died?” murmured the widow; and a grave silence spread itself over them all. In the midst of it Christal and Charley, seeing this meeting was not likely to produce the “fun” they expected, took the opportunity of escaping.
Then came the questions, which after so long a period one shrinks from asking, afraid of answer. Olive learnt that old Mr. Derwent had ceased to scold, and poor Bob played his mischievous pranks no more. Both lay quiet in Oldchurch churchyard. Worldly losses, too, had chanced, until the sole survivor of the family found himself very poor.
“I should not even have gone to college,” said Lyle, “but for the kindness of my brother-in-law, Harold Gwynne.”
Olive started. “Oh, true--I forgot all about that. Then he has been a good brother to you?” added she, with a feeling of pleasure and interest.
“He has indeed. When my father died, I had not a relative in the world, save a rich old uncle who wanted to put me in his counting-house; but Harold stood between us, and saved me from a calling I hated. And when my uncle turned me off, he took me home. Yes! I am not ashamed to say that I owe everything in the world to my brother Harold. I feel this the more, because he was not quite happy in his marriage. She did not suit him--my sister Sara.”