CHAPTER III.
“You sought to prove how I could love,
And my disdain is my reply.”
Tennyson.
Linnæa’s first waking thoughts carried with them the conviction that life was different—why was it? Ah, she remembered! Last night’s scene came back to her with a rush of feeling that brought the warm colour to her face. Then came the colder and more prosaic feelings which so often come with the morning. Gwendoline would soon be like the others—she would go over to the popular opinion, and Linnæa would be thrust upon her own companionship as before. These thoughts were passing through her mind when she heard a tap at the door, and a voice called, “May I come in?”
Linnæa opened the door, and there stood Gwendoline, her arms full of knick-knacks of all sorts.
“You are only dressing! I have been dressed for an hour. I awoke early and thought I would rise and deck my cubicle; but I haven’t room for half the things I brought. As you haven’t many things in yours, I thought perhaps you might like a few. Would you care for them?”
“Very much indeed! It was very kind of you to think of me!”
“Oh, not at all, if you will let me help you to put them up, for that is the best fun! Here is rather a pretty picture we might hang opposite the bed. It has no frame, but I suppose you won’t mind. This is a bracket which you might find convenient within reach of your bed; I brought a pair, but will only need one. I did wish I had had it up last night. I lay awake a long time during the night, and rose to get my bon-bon box. First of all I could find no matches to light my candle, then I searched my trunk in the dark for my box. I only found it after sticking my fingers in a box of ointment and nearly swallowing some pills. This morning, as you may imagine, my trunk was a sight to behold. The ointment has spoiled a pair of new gloves, and I found a pill reposing restfully in the toe of my slipper. Lisette, my maid, never forgets to pack anything; but she puts things in the most unlikely places. I possess two bon-bon boxes—one she has filled with sweets, the other with pills.”
Linnæa scarcely knew her cubicle when Gwendoline’s things were arranged in it. She could not have believed that a few knick-knacks would make such a difference.
“Now there is one thing more I want you to let me do.”
“What is that?”
“Let me dress your hair for you. Why do you take it back so tightly from your face? It is such a pretty colour, and, I believe, might be quite wavy if you would allow it.”
“I never thought of it. It never seemed to me that it mattered how my hair looked.”
“Oh, but that isn’t right; you should make it as nice as you can. Lisette says I have a talent for hairdressing; I have dressed mine myself for more than a year, for Lisette confesses she cannot do it so well as I can. Come now, and we shall see what can be done with yours.”
There was indeed a wonderful improvement in Linnæa when she went downstairs that morning; all the girls noticed it, and a few complimented her on the improvement of her hair. A few of them guessed who had done it, and understood that Gwendoline was proceeding with the work she had taken in hand, but no remarks were passed on that subject; for had not that been forbidden by Gwendoline?—and already Gwendoline’s will was law in that small community.
That night Gwendoline and Linnæa again walked up to bed together and parted at Linnæa’s door. Linnæa’s heart beat quickly as they neared her door. Would Gwendoline kiss her to-night? If so, the kiss should be returned. She would at least make an effort to keep this sweet friendship which had entered into her barren life so suddenly.
“Let me come in for a minute,” said Gwendoline. “We are to be friends, are we not?” she said, slipping her arm round Linnæa’s waist, and looking at her with her large, lustrous eyes.
“I hope so, indeed,” Linnæa answered, her voice husky with emotion.
“Very well, dear. Good night.”
She was gone, and Linnæa had kissed her—the first schoolgirl she had ever kissed.
What a happy girl she was that night. There was no doubt about it now; she had a friend at last—and such a friend—the loveliest, richest, most courted girl in the school.
At the end of a week it was quite a noticeable friendship. Teachers saw it and remarked to each other on this strange freak of the new pupil in attaching herself to the girl who had kept herself so solitary hitherto. This view of it was wonderful, but equally so was it that Linnæa should return the affection; and that she did so in thorough earnest, no one could doubt. Her usually dull face lighted up when her eyes fell on Gwendoline—but indeed, her face was never so dull now, as it had once been; her very step was more elastic, and her voice had a different tone.
And what of Gwendoline?
She had fulfilled her vow, and awakened the love which had hitherto been slumbering in that lonely heart.
The girls said inwardly it was a splendid piece of acting; anyone watching Gwendoline would have said the love was as much on her side as Linnæa’s. Her attitude towards Linnæa was such that, if the girls had not known it to be assumed, some of them would have been intensely jealous. Gwendoline Rivers, with her beauty and independence of character, had taken the school by storm, and a few would have given a good deal to have got half of the attention lavished upon Linnæa. Great were the talks which took place with reference to it, when they thought themselves fairly out of the hearing of both girls.
One evening six or seven were together in the small schoolroom after preparation hours were over, and their conversation turned upon this ever-interesting topic.
“I never saw anything like it in my life. Linnæa March simply worships her.”
“It is most amusing to see Gwendoline single her out whenever she comes into the room; you would really think, to watch her, it must be real and not put on.”
“Well, for my part, I think it is a very mean proceeding to pretend to be so fond of the girl, all to show what she can do; and very probably when she has led her far enough she will cast her off!”
“Oh, she may never find out that it isn’t genuine! Do you think she would mind very much if she did? We all thought she had no feelings of that kind. I wonder if we have been mistaken?”
“I am beginning to think——”
At this moment the schoolroom door opened and Linnæa March entered. But was it Linnæa? She had never looked like this before. She was transformed from the dull, uninteresting girl, who had lived amongst them for seven years—unknowing and unknown—to a trembling, excited, and passionate being, almost terrible in her rage and indignation.
Before she spoke she seemed to force back the tumult of angry words that rushed to her lips. She paused a moment in the doorway, and then said, in a voice, calm though piercing—
“Girls, I have heard what you said. It may have been mean of me, but I heard what Janet said about—Gwendoline—pretending to love me—and—I could not help it—I listened until now.”
The girls were dumb. What could they say to this injured and justly indignant girl? They could not retract what they had said; alas, it was all too true! One and all pitied her; and yet, pity was scarcely the word—they almost feared her. Yes—feared Linnæa March, whom before they had scarcely noticed. But, as she stood there in her anger, she might have struck them, and they would not have been surprised. She stood for a moment, then turned and shut the door.
Not a word was spoken until the sound of her footsteps had died away. Then they faced the situation.
Would it come to Miss Elder’s ears? What would Gwendoline say? If Linnæa’s anger were so terrible when roused, what would Gwendoline’s be, who had seldom, or never, been crossed in her life? What would Linnæa say or do when she met Gwendoline?
These were some of the questions that presented themselves to the girls’ minds. They did not know whether they wanted to witness the meeting or not.
“I don’t care,” said one, “it serves her right, she had no business doing such a mean thing, and it was right she should be found out. She would not have kept it up much longer in any case, she would soon have tired of paying her such attention after she had gained her object.”
“But she will blame us for it—she will say we ought to have been more careful how we talked about it.”
“Ought we to tell Gwendoline what she has heard, do you think?”
“I think it would be better.”
“She will very likely be down soon. She is studying hard to-night; she seems determined to come out high in the exam. I shouldn’t wonder if she beats even you, Edith.”
“Do you notice how much better Linnæa March learns her lessons since Gwendoline came?”
“Yes. Gwendoline helped her with them, and she takes ever so much more interest in them now.”
“All in the plan, I suppose—really I am very sorry for Linnæa.”
“Did you think she could ever have looked as she did to-night? I always thought her rather soft and stupid, but I can tell you there was no softness about her then. I almost admired her as she stood, so proud and angry.”
The girls were not to have an opportunity of preparing Gwendoline for her meeting with Linnæa, for, as Linnæa went up to her room, she met Gwendoline coming down from hers.
Gwendoline’s face lit up as she saw Linnæa, and she advanced towards her to put her arm round her waist.
Linnæa drew herself back with a sudden twitch, and turned on her with a face almost livid with anger.
“Go!—don’t touch me!—don’t dare to come near me!”
“Linnæa! what is it?”
“I have found you out! Do you need to ask any more? I know the reason of all your pretence of affection and friendship. Oh, it was mean! mean!”
“But Linnæa——”
“No, I will hear no excuses; let me go. Perhaps to-morrow I may be able to look on you with a little less hatred. The others have been kind to me compared to you; they, at least, let me alone; you have drawn me on with your false pretences, all to show your dangerous powers of fascination. I despise you! O that I might never see you again!”
Gwendoline walked away in the direction of the small schoolroom, her head bowed. She entered the room, and, sitting down near the door, began to read a book she had in her hand.
The girls noticed at once that something was wrong. Her face was white and drawn and she did not, as usual, make some bright remark on entering the room; but they did not guess that she had already met Linnæa.
“Have you a headache, Gwen?” said Edith Barclay.
“Yes, I have a headache; and I want you to tell Miss Elder I have gone to bed, as I mean to go in a minute or two.”
“You are studying too hard,” said another, “you won’t keep your position as beauty of the school, if you carry on in this style. I declare you look quite ill!”
“I think we ought to tell you something, Gwendoline,” Janet Hillyards said, summoning up courage to confess the havoc they had just played.
“What is it?” asked Gwendoline, with a vague idea of the confession about to be made.
“We were talking—talking about the joke you were playing upon Linnæa—and—and she overheard us.”
“I know. I met her just now.”
Gwendoline kept her head down, and continued to look at the book in her hand; but the words had no meaning for her, if, indeed, she saw them at all.
The girls were speechless. Where was the anger and the indignation they had expected to meet with when the knowledge of their carelessness came to Gwendoline’s ears? Was this white, subdued, quiet-looking girl the proud and haughty Gwendoline, whose wrath they had been afraid to encounter? Surely they were dreaming, and had reversed the two—Gwendoline for Linnæa, and Linnæa for Gwendoline; there must be some mistake. They heard the timepiece mark the seconds as they passed, and not one could break the silence. Tick—tick—tick—tick—someone must speak. Each one looked at another; who was it to be?
Gwendoline rose. “Will you do as I asked, and tell Miss Elder? I am going up now.” The spell was broken, and Janet Hillyards found her voice.
“Will you forgive me, Gwen? It was my fault—I began it. I never thought of her being near.”
Surely Gwendoline would speak to them now; she could not mean to cut them all for this mistake they had made. Surely their friendship was of more value to her than Linnæa March’s. They would much rather she would scold them roundly, and be done with it.
“There is no question of my forgiving you. The fault was mine, and I must suffer for it. I blame no one but myself.”
She was gone, and the girls were free to talk it over—this strange and unexpected development of affairs. To say they were astonished would be to put the case very mildly. They were perfectly thunderstruck. It had been food for surprise that Linnæa should betray a capacity for wounded pride and anger they had not dreamed her capable of, but that the quick-tempered Gwendoline should receive fiery and contemptuous words from Linnæa—for of this they had little doubt—and also the information of their neglect of her command, with such meekness and evident sorrow and regret, was beyond their comprehension.
If it were regret for the feelings she had stirred and not returned, why did she do it at all? She had done it with her eyes open—had only attained the object she had desired; the only thing for her to regret seemed to them to be that her designs should have been made known to Linnæa: and she had as much as said it was not this that troubled her. Altogether it was too deep for them, and they gave it up. And the two girls who had caused this unusual excitement, what of them? Linnæa lay on her bed in a passion of tears. Rage, wounded pride, love, and hate, all strove for the mastery. What had she done, she moaned, that everyone should be against her? Was it not enough that she should be naturally unattractive, but this cruel siren must go out of her way to find a refined system of torture for her? How was she to live in the school with this girl she had loved, and who had so basely deceived her?
And Gwendoline?
She sat on a chair by her bed, her head laid on the pillow, hot tears chasing one another down her cheeks.
“Oh, Linnæa, Linnæa,” she moaned, “if you only knew how I love you; but you will never know now, you would never believe me, and I don’t deserve you should! Would she believe if someone were to tell her? No—why should she? She would think it some trumped-up story told to keep her quiet.”
She could see no way to undo the evil she had wrought. Linnæa could never trust her now, would have no more to do with her.
The facts of the case were these. Gwendoline had tried to attract Linnæa, as we all know, at first to fulfil her vow. From the second day she had felt drawn to her for her own sake. Linnæa was totally different with Gwendoline from what she was with anyone else. She seemed to get out of herself, and to forget the reserve and awkwardness which characterised her when with others. The girls did not even see this, for the presence of a third person was enough to stifle any show of demonstrativeness on the part of Linnæa. If they had seen it they would not have wondered so much, for Linnæa with Gwendoline was attractive and lovable.
Thus insensibly Gwendoline had come to love Linnæa with as great ardour as she was loved in return. We need not then be astonished at her feelings now. Gwendoline’s character was a strong one, but—surrounded by luxury all her life, with scarcely a wish ungratified—there had been little as yet to develop it. She had never cared very greatly for any of her companions; a great many had taken a violent fancy to her, and she had come to regard it as a matter of course that she should be courted and made much of. Her love for Linnæa was the first which had touched her heart, and it was none the less strong on that account. She had tried to forget the way in which the friendship had been begun and many a time had she hoped that Linnæa would not hear of it. Surely the girls must see, she thought, that it was genuine now; and yet, she could not forget having called upon them all to witness the conquest she was about to make, and the remembrance brought a flush of shame to her face.
Now, what she had dreaded had taken place, and in the most untoward way—in such a way that it was almost impossible for Linnæa now to learn the truth.
(To be concluded. )