By one sweet ray.”
Next evening the girls were gathered as usual in the small schoolroom. They were allowed an hour to themselves after preparation and before prayers. This was their own hour, and many and various were the occupations and recreations indulged in then. There was a tiny room adjoining the schoolroom, where now and then a studious pupil would go at this hour to continue study. To-night it was occupied by Linnæa alone. Throughout the day her set, white face had kept all at a distance; no one dared address her, indeed, no one had anything to say that would soften the blow of yesterday’s revelation, no excuse to offer, no explanation to make.
The face which had been changing into something almost attractive during the last week, had again undergone a complete change—but was it back to the old indifference? No—something had been aroused that would never again lie dormant—if she could not love, then she would hate, and the glitter in her eyes showed only too plainly that hatred had taken the place of dawning love.
Gwendoline was not of their number that night. She too was changed; so much changed as to be almost unrecognisable. She, the queen of the school, whose will was law, and whose opinion was sought upon every question, had been to-day the quietest and most subdued of them all.
Things had not turned out as the girls had anticipated. They had expected that in a little while Gwendoline would call upon them to acknowledge how well she had succeeded in her undertaking—as she had indeed been successful, far above the expectations of any of them. They had had vague ideas that Linnæa would then be gradually allowed to drop, would sink back into her old insignificance, and would be again a figure in the background, as she had been before the advent of Gwendoline.
As they sat at their various occupations—less talkative than usual—Gwendoline entered.
After glancing round the room as if to satisfy herself as to which girls were present, she said—
“Girls, I have something to say to you if you will listen.”
Immediate silence followed. What was she about to say? Would it be about Linnæa? They knew Linnæa was in the adjoining room and the dividing door was half open; would it not be better to tell Gwendoline? But, after all, what could she say that would be worse than Linnæa had already heard? Before anyone had spoken, Gwendoline began.
“You all heard my foolish vow ten days ago. Perhaps you think I have been acting all this time and have only been drawing Linnæa on to make my poor, mean triumph; but I have not. Oh, no, I have not! Almost from the first night I saw her I have loved her, and I love her now passionately. I wanted you to know it, so that you might forget my silly words. I did not know how much I loved her until her love was removed—and justly—it was right she should know it had been begun under false pretences.”