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[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER
VOL. XX.—NO. 998.] FEBRUARY 11, 1899. [PRICE ONE PENNY.]
LINNÆA;
THE STORY OF A FRIENDSHIP.
[Illustration: “‘I DESPISE YOU!’”]
_All rights reserved._]
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._)
SELF-CULTURE FOR GIRLS.