It was mid-winter before the inhabitants of the Dell were visited by their friend, Lyle Derwent, now grown a rich and important personage. Olive rather regretted his apparent neglect, for it grieved her to suspect a change in any one whom she regarded. Christal only mocked the while, at least in outside show. Miss Rothesay did not see with what eagerness the girl listened to every sound, nor how every morning, fair and foul, she would restlessly start to walk up the Harbury road and meet the daily post.

It was during one of these absences of hers that Lyle made his appearance. Olive was sitting in her painting-room, arranging the contents of her desk. She was just musing, for the hundredth time, over her father's letter, considering whether or not she should destroy it, lest any unforeseen chance—her own death, for instance—might bring the awful secret to Christars knowledge. Lyle's entrance startled her, and she hastily thrust the letter within the desk. Consequently her manner was rather fluttered, and her greeting scarcely so cordial as she would have wished it to be. The infection apparently communicated itself to her visitor, for he sat down, looking agitated and uncomfortable.

“You are not angry with me for staying so long away, are you, Miss Rothesay?” said Lyle, when he had received her congratulations on his recent acquisitions. “You don't think this change in fortune will make any change in my heart towards you?”

Olive half smiled at his sentimental way of putting the matter, but it was the young man's peculiarity. So she frankly assured him that she had never doubted his regard towards her. At which poor Lyle fell into ecstasies of delight.

They had a long talk together about his prospects, in all of which Olive took a warm and lively interest. He told her of his new house and grounds; of his plan of life, which seemed very Arcadian and poetical indeed. But he was a simple-minded, warm-hearted youth, and Miss Rothesay listened with pleasure to all he said. It did her good to see that there was a little happiness to be found in the world.

“You have drawn the sweetest possible picture of rural felicity,” she said, smiling; “I earnestly hope you may realise it, my dear Lyle—But I suppose one must not call you so any more, since you are now Mr. Derwent, of Hollywood.”

“Oh, no; call me Lyle, nothing but Lyle. It sounds so sweet from your lips—it always did, even when I was a little boy.”

“I am afraid I have treated you quite like a boy until now. But you must not mind it, for the sake of old times.”

“Do you remember them still?” asked Lyle, a tone of deeper earnestness stealing through his affectations of sentiment. “Do you remember how I was your little knight, and used to say I loved you better than all the world?”

“I do indeed. It was an amusing rehearsal of what you will begin to enact in reality some of these days. You will make a most poetical lover.”

“Do you think so? O Miss Rothesay, do you really think so?” And then his eagerness subsided into vivid blushes, which really caused Olive pain. She began to fear that, unwittingly, she had been playing on some tender string, and that there was more earnest feeling in Lyle than she had ever dreamed of. She would not for the world have jested thus, had she thought there was any real attachment in the case. So, a good deal touched and interested, she began to talk to him in her own quiet, affectionate way.

“You must not mistake me, Lyle; you must not think I am laughing at you. But I did not know that you had ever considered these things. Though there is plenty of time—as you are only just twenty-one. Tell me candidly—you know you may—do you think you were ever seriously in love?”

“It is very strange for you to ask me these questions.”

“Then do not answer them. Forgive me, I only spoke from the desire I have to see you happy: you, who are so mingled with many recollections; you, poor Sara's brother, and my own little favourite in olden time.” And speaking in a subdued and tender voice, Olive held out her hand to Lyle.

He snatched it eagerly. “How I love to hear you speak thus! Oh, if I could but tell you all.”

“You may, indeed,” said Olive, gently. “I am sure, my dear Lyle, you can trust me. Tell me the whole story.”

—“The story of a dream I had, all my boyhood through, of a beautiful, noble creature, whom I reverenced, admired, and at last have dared to love,” Lyle answered, in much agitation.

Olive felt quite sorry for him. “I did not expect this,” she said. “You poetic dreamers have so many light fancies. My poor Lyle, is it indeed so? You, whom I should have thought would choose a new idol every month, have you all this while been seriously and heartily in love, and with one girl only? Are you quite sure it was but one?” And she half smiled.

He seemed now more confused than ever. “One cannot but speak truth to you,” he murmured. “You make me tell you everything, whether I will or no. And if I did not, you might hear it from some one else, and that would make me very miserable.”

“Well, what was it?”

“That though I never loved but this my beautiful lady, once,—only once, for a very little while, I assure you,—I was half disposed to like some one else whom you know.”

Olive thought a minute, and then said, very seriously, “Was it Christal Manners?”

“It was. She led me into it, and then she teased me out of it. But indeed it was not love—only a mere passing fancy.”

“Did you tell her of your feelings?”

“Only in some foolish verses, which she laughed at.”

“You should not have done that. It is very wicked to make any pretence about love.”

“O! dearest Miss Rothesay, you are not angry with me? Whatever my folly, you must know well that there is but one woman in the world whom I ever truly loved—whom I do love, most passionately! It is yourself.”

Olive looked up in blank astonishment. She almost thought that sentiment had driven him crazy. But he went on with an earnestness that could not be mistaken, though it was mingled with some extravagance.

“All the good that is in me I learned from you when I was a little boy. I thought you an angel even then, and used to dream about you for hours. When I grew older, I made you an idol. All the poetry I ever wrote was about you—your golden hair, and your sweet eyes. You seemed to me then, and you seem now, the most beautiful creature in the whole world.”

“Lyle, you are mocking me,” said Olive, sadly.

“Mocking you! It is very cruel to tell me so,” and he turned away with an expression of deep pain.

Olive began to wake from the bewilderment into which his words had thrown her. But she could not realise the possibility of Lyle Derwent's loving her, his senior by some years, many years older than he in heart; pale, worn, deformed. For the sense of personal defect which had haunted her throughout her life was present still. But when she looked again at Lyle, she regretted having spoken to him so harshly.

“Forgive me,” she said. “All this is so strange; you cannot really mean it. It is utterly impossible that you can love me. I am old, compared with you; I have no beauty, nay, even more than that”—— here she paused, and her colour sensitively rose.

“I know what you would say,” quickly added the young man. “But I think nothing of it—nothing! To me you are, as I said, like an angel. I have come here to-day to tell you so; to ask you to share my riches, and teach me to deserve them. Dearest Miss Rothesay, be not only my friend, but—my wife?”

There was no doubting him now. The strong passion within gave him dignity and manhood. Olive scarcely recognised in the earnest wooer before her, the poesy-raving, blushing, sentimental Lyle. Great pain came over her. She had never dreamed of one trial—that of being loved by another as hopelessly as she herself loved.

“You do not answer, Miss Rothesay? What does your silence mean? That I have presumed too much! You think me a boy; a foolish, romantic boy; but I can love you, for all that, with my whole heart and soul.”

“Oh, Lyle, why talk to me in this way? You do not know how deeply it grieves me.”

“It grieves you—you do not love me, then? Well,” he added, sighing, “I could hardly expect it at once; but you will grant me time, you will let me try to prove myself worthy of you—you will give me hope?”

Olive shook her head mournfully. “Lyle, dear Lyle, forget all this. It is a mere dream; it will pass, I know it will. You will choose some young girl who is suited for you, and to whom you will make a good and happy husband.”

Lyle turned very pale. “That means to say that you think me unworthy to be yours.”

“No—no—I did not say you were unworthy; you are dear to me, you always were, though not in that way. It goes to my very heart to inflict even a momentary pain; but I cannot, cannot marry you!”

Much agitated, Olive hid her face. Lyle moved away to the other end of the room. Perhaps, with manhood's love was also dawning manhood's pride.

“There must be some reason for this,” he said at last. “If I am dear to you, though ever so little, a stronger love for me might come in time. Will it be so?”

“No, never!”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“Perhaps I am too late,” he continued, bitterly. “You may already love some one else. Tell me, I have a right to know.”

She blushed crimson, and then arose, not without dignity. “I think, Lyle, you go too far; we will cease this conversation.”

“Forgive me, forgive me!” cried Lyle, melted at once, and humbled too. “I will ask no more—I do not wish to hear. It is misery enough for me to know that you can never be mine, that I must not love you any more!”

“But you may regard me tenderly still. You may learn to feel for me as a sister—an elder sister. That is the fittest relation between us. You yourself will think so, in time.” And Olive truly believed what she said. Perhaps she judged him rightly: that this passion was indeed only a boyish romance, such as most men have in their youth, which fades painlessly in the realities of after years. But now, at least, it was most deep and sincere.

As Miss Rothesay spoke, once more as in his childish days Lyle threw himself at her feet, taking both her hands, and looking up in her face with the wildest adoration.

“I must—must worship you still; I always shall! You are so good—so pure; I look up to you as to some saint. I was mad to think of you in any other way. But you will not forget me; you will guide and counsel me always. Only, if you should be taken away from me—if you should marry”——

“I shall never marry,” said Olive, uttering the words she had uttered many a time, but never more solemnly than now.

Lyle regarded her for a long and breathless space, and then laying his head on her knees, he wept like a child.

That moment, at the suddenly-opened door there stood Christal Manners! Like a vision, she came—and passed. Lyle never saw her at all. But Olive did; and when the young man had departed, amidst all her own agitation, there flashed before her, as it were an omen of some woe to come—that livid face, lit with its eyes of fire.

Not long had Olive to ponder, for the door once more opened, and Christal came in. Her hair had all fallen down, her eyes had the same intense glare, her bonnet and shawl were still hanging on her arm. She flung them aside, and stood in the doorway.

“Miss Rothesay, I wish to speak with you; and that no one may interrupt us, I will do this.” She bolted and locked the door, and then clenched her fingers over the key, as if it had been a living thing for her to crush.

Olive sat utterly confounded. For in her sister she saw two likenesses; one, of the woman who had once shrieked after her the name of “Rothesay,”—the other, that of her own father in his rare moments of passion, as she had seen him the night he had called her by that opprobrious word which had planted the sense of personal humiliation in her heart for life.

Christal walked up to her. “Now tell me—for I will know—what has passed between you and—him who just now went hence.”

“Lyle Derwent?”

“Yes. Repeat every word—every word!”

“Why so? You are not acting kindly towards me,” said Olive, trying to resume her wonted dignity, but still speaking in a placable, quiet tone. “My dear Christal, you are younger than I, and have scarcely a right to question me thus.”

“Right! When it comes to that, where is yours? How dare you suffer Lyle Derwent to kneel at your feet? How dare you, I say!”

“Christal—Christal! Hush!”

“I will not! I will speak. I wish every word were a dagger to stab you—wicked, wicked woman! who have come between me and my lover—for he is my lover, and I love him.”

“You love him?”

“You stole him from me—you bewitched him with your vile flatteries. How else could he have turned from me to you?”

And lifting her graceful, majestic height, she looked contemptuously on poor shrinking Olive—ay, as her father—the father of both—had done before. Olive remembered the time well. For a moment a sense of cruel wrong pressed down her compassion, but it rose again. Who was most injured, most unhappy—she, or the young creature who stood before her, shaken by the storm of rage.

She stretched out her hands entreatingly.—“Christal, do listen. Indeed, indeed, I am innocent. I shall never marry that poor boy—never! I have just told him so.”

“He has asked you, then?”—and the girl almost gnashed her teeth—“Then he has deceived me. No, I will not believe that. It is you who are deceiving me now. If he loved you, you were sure to love him.”

“What am I to do—how am I to convince you? How hard this is!”

“Hard! What, then, must it be to me? You did not think this passion was in me, did you? You judged me by that meek cold-blooded heart of yours. But mine is all burning—burning! Woe be to those who kindled the fire.”

She began to walk to and fro, sweeping past Olive with angry strides. She looked, from head to foot, her mother's child. Hate and love, melting and mingling together, flashed from her black, southern eyes. But in the close mouth there was an iron will, inherited with her northern blood. Suddenly she stopped, and confronted Olive.

“You consider me a mere girl. But I learned to be a woman early. I had need.”

“Poor child!—poor child!”

“How dare you pity me? You think I am dying for love, do you? But no! It is pride—only pride! Why did I not always scorn that pitiful boy? I did once, and he knows it. And afterwards, because there was no one else to care for, and I was lonely, and wanted a home—haughty, and wanted a position—I have humbled myself thus.”

“Then, Christal, if you never did really love him”——

“Who told you that? Not I!” she cried, her broken and contradictory speech revealing the chaos of her mind.

“I say, I did love him—more than you, with your cold prudence, could ever dream of! What could such an one as you know about love? Yet you have taken him from me.

“I tell you, no! Never till this day did he breathe one word of love to me. I can show you his letters.”

“Letters! He wrote to you, then, and I never knew it. Oh! how I hate you! I could kill you where you stand!”

She went to the open desk, and began searching there with trembling hands.

“What—what are you going to do?” cried Olive, with sudden terror.

“To take his letters, and read them. I do it in your presence, for I am no dishonourable thief. But I will know everything. You are in my power—you need not stir or shriek.”

But Olive did shriek, for she saw that Christal's hand already touched the one fatal letter. A hope there was that she might pass it by, unconscious that it contained her doom! But no! her eye had been attracted by her own name, mentioned in the postscript.

“More wicked devices against me!” cried the girl, passionately. “But I will find out this plot too,” and she began to unfold the paper.

“The letter—give me that letter. Oh, Christal! for the happiness of your whole life, I charge you—I implore you not to read it!” cried Olive, springing forward, and catching her arm. But Christal thrust her back with violence. “'Tis something you wish to hide from me; but I defy you! I will read!”

Nevertheless, in the confusion of her mind, she could not at once find the passage where she had seen her own name. She began, and read the letter all through, though without a change of countenance until she reached the end. Then the change was so awful, none could be like it, save that left by death on the human face. Her arms fell paralysed, and she staggered dizzily against the wall.

Trembling, Olive crept up and touched her; Christal recoiled, and stamped on the ground, crying:

“It is all a lie, a hideous lie! You have forged it—to shame me in the eyes of my lover.”

“Not so,” said Olive, most tenderly; “no one in the wide world knows this, but we two. No one ever shall know it! Oh, would that you had listened to me, then I should still have kept the secret, even from you! My sister—my poor sister!”

“Sister! And you are his child, his lawful child, while I—— But you shall not live to taunt me. I will kill you, that you may go to your father, and mine, and tell him that I cursed him in his grave!”

As she spoke, she wreathed her arms round Olive's slight frame, but the deadly embrace was such as never sister gave. With the marvellous strength of fury, she lifted her from the floor, and dashed her down again. In falling, Olive's forehead struck against the marble chimney-piece, and she lay stunned and insensible on the hearth.

Christal looked at her sister for a moment,—without pity or remorse, but in motionless horror. Then she unlocked the door and fled.