As the summer advanced, Olive Rothesay and her new friend, sanctioned
by the elders of both families, took long walks together, read, and
practised. Not that Olive practised, for she had no voice, and little
knowledge of music; but she listened to Sara's performances for hours,
with patience, if not with delight. And when they talked--oh, what talks
those were!
Now, reader, be not alarmed lest we should indulge you with the same. Go
back into your own _repertoire_ of early friendships, and that will suit
us quite as well Still, we may just say that these young friends flitted
like bees over every subject under heaven, and at last alighted on the
subject most interesting at their age--love.
It is curious to note how the heart first puts out its tendrils and
stretches them forth toward the yet unknown good which is to be in
after-life its happiness and its strength. What folly of parents to
repress these blind seekings after such knowledge--this yearning which
nature teaches, and which in itself involves nothing wrong. Girls _will_
think of love, whether or no! How much better, then, that they should be
taught to think of it rightly, as the one deep feeling of life. Not,
on the one hand, to be repressed by ridicule; nor, on the other, to be
forced by romance into a precocious growth; but to be entered upon, when
fate brings the time, rationally, earnestly, and sacredly.
Olive Rothesay found, with considerable pain, that Miss Derwent and she
did not at all agree in their notions of love. Olive had always felt
half-frightened at the subject, and never approached it save with great
awe and timidity; but Sara did not seem to mind it in the least. She
talked of a score of “flirtations” at quadrille parties--showed her
friend half-a-dozen complimentary billets-doux which she had received,
and all with the greatest unconcern. By degrees this indifference
vanished under the influence of Olive's more earnest nature; and at
last, when they were sitting together one night, listening to the fierce
howling of the wind, a little secret came out.
“I don't like that equinoctial gale,” said Sara, shyly. “I used to hear
so much of its horrors from a friend I have--at sea.”
“Indeed. Who was that?”
“Only Charles Geddes. Did I never speak of him? Very likely not--because
I was so vexed at his leaving college and running off to sea. It was
a foolish thing. But don't mention him to papa or the boys.” And Sara
blushed--a real, good, honest blush.
Olive did the same--perhaps from sympathy. She continued very thoughtful
for a long time; longer even than Sara. They were not many days in
making out between them the charming secret for which in their hearts
they had been longing. Both were thirsting to taste--or at least to see
each other taste--of that enchanting love-stream, the stream of life or
of death, at whose verge they had now arrived.
And so, it somehow chanced that, however the conversation began, it
usually glided into the subject of Charles Geddes. Sara acknowledged
that he and she had always liked one another very much, though she
allowed that he was fonder of her than she was of him; that, when they
parted, he had seemed much agitated--and she had cried--but they were
mere boy and girl then. It was nothing--nothing at all.
Olive did not think so; and, contrasting all this with similar
circumstances in her pet poems and novels, she wove a very nice romance
round Charles Geddes and her beloved Sara, whom she now began to look
upon with greater interest and reverence than ever. This did not prevent
her reading Sara a great many lectures on constancy, and giving her own
opinions on what true love ought to be--opinions which were a little
too ethereal for Miss Derwent's comprehension, but which she liked very
much, nevertheless.
Olive took quite an affectionate interest in her friend's lover--for
lover she had decided that he must be. Not a day passed that she did not
eagerly consult the _Times'_ “shipping intelligence;” and when at last
she saw the name of Charles Geddes' vessel, as “arrived,” her heart
beat, and tears sprang to her eyes. When she showed it to Sara, Olive
could hardly speak for joy. Little simpleton! she counted her friend's
happiness as if it were her own. She kept the secret even from her
mother; that is, in the only manner Olive would conceal aught from any
one so beloved, by saying, “Please, mamma, do not ask me anything.” And
Mrs. Rothesay, who, always guided by some one, was now in a fair way
to be entirely guided by her daughter, made no inquiries, but depended
entirely upon Olive's wisdom and tenderness.
Charles Geddes came to Oldchurch. It was quite a new life for Olive--a
changed life, too; for now the daily rambles with her friend were less
frequent. Instead of which, she used to sit at her window, and watch
Sara and Charles taking long strolls in the garden, arm-in-arm, looking
so happy, that it was beautiful to see them.
Who can describe the' strange, half-defined thoughts which often brought
tears to the young girl's eyes as she watched them thus! It was no
jealousy of Sara's deserting her for Charles, still less was it envy;
but it was a vague longing--a desiring of love for love's own sake. Not
as regarded any individual object, for Olive had never seen any one in
whom she felt or fancied the slightest interest. Yet, as she looked on
these two young creatures, apparently so bound up in each other, she
thought how sweet such a tie must be, and how dearly she herself could
love some one. And her yearning was always _to love_ rather than _to be
loved_.
One morning, when Olive had not seen Sara for a day or two, she
was hastily summoned to their usual trysting-place, a spot by the
river-side, where the two gardens met, and where an over-arching
thorn-tree made a complete bower. Therein Sara stood, looking so pale
and serious, that Olive remarked it.
“Has anything happened?”
“Nothing--that is, nothing amiss. But oh, Olive, what do you think?
Charles put this letter into my hand last night. I have scarcely
slept--I feel so agitated--so frightened.”
And in truth she looked so. Was there ever a very young girl who did
not, on receiving her first love-letter?
It was an era in Olive's life, too. She even trembled, as by her
friend's earnest desire she read the missive. It was boyish, indeed, and
full of the ultra-romantic devotion of boyish love; but it was sincere,
and it touched Olive deeply. She finished it, and leaned against the
thorn-tree, pale and agitated as Sara herself.
“Well, Olive?” said the latter.
Olive threw her arms round her friend's neck and kissed her, feeling
almost ready to cry.
“And now, dear, tell me what I must do,” said Sara, earnestly; for
of late she had really begun to look up to Olive, so great was the
influence of the more thoughtful and higher nature.
“Do! Why, if you love him, you must tell him so, and give him your whole
life-long faith and affection.”
“Really, Olive, how grave you are! I had no idea of making it such a
serious matter. But, poor Charles!--to think that he should love me so
very much!”
“Oh, Sara, Sara!” murmured Olive, “how happy you ought to be!”
The time that followed was a strange period in Olive's life. It was one
of considerable excitement, too; she might as well have been in love
herself, so deeply did she sympathise with Sara and with Charles. With
the latter, even more than with her friend; for there was something in
the sincere, reserved, and yet passionate nature of the young sailor,
that answered to her own. If he had been her brother, she could not have
felt more warmly interested in Charles Geddes and his wooing. And
he liked her very much, for Sara's sake first, and then for her own,
regarding her also with that gentle compassion which the strong and bold
delight to show to the weak. He often called her “his faithful little
friend;” and truly she stood his friend in every conceivable way, by
soothing Sara's only parent--a most irascible papa--to consent to the
engagement, and also by lecturing the gay and coquettish Sara herself
into as much good behaviour as could be expected from an affianced
damsel of seventeen.
Charles Geddes went to sea again. Poor little Olive, in her warm
sympathies, suffered almost as much as the young man's own betrothed,
who, after looking doleful for a week, consoled herself by entering,
heart and soul, into the gaieties of the gayest Christmas that ever
was spent by the society of Oldchurch. Everywhere Miss Derwent was the
belle, and continually did her friend need to remind her of the promise
which Olive herself regarded as such a sacred, solemn thing.
The love-adventure in which she had borne a part had stirred strange
depths in the nature of the young girl. She was awakening slowly to the
great mystery of woman's life. And when, by degrees, Sara's amusements
somewhat alienated their continual intercourse, Olive was thrown
back upon her own thoughts more and more. She felt a vague sadness--a
something wanting in her heart, which not even her mother's love could
supply.
Mrs. Rothesay saw how dull and pensive she was at times, and with a
tender unselfishness contrived that, by Sara Derwent's intervention,
Olive should see a little more society; in a very quiet way, though; for
her own now delicate health and Captain Rothesay's will, prevented any
regular introduction of their daughter into the world. And sometimes
Mrs. Rothesay, pondering on Olive's future, felt-glad of this.
“Poor child! she is not made for the world, or the world for her. Better
that she should lead her own quiet life, where she will suffer no pain,
and be wounded by no neglect.”
Yet, nevertheless, it was with a vague pleasure that Mrs. Rothesay
dressed Olive for her first ball--a birthday treat--coaxed by Sara
Derwent out of her formidable papa, and looked forward to by both girls
for many weeks.
No one would have believed that the young creature, on whom Mrs.
Rothesay gazed with a tenderness, not unmingled with admiration, had
been the poor infant from which she once turned with a sensation of
pain, almost amounting to disgust. But, learning to love, one learns
also to admire. Besides, Olive's defect was less apparent as she grew
up, and the extreme sweetness of her countenance almost atoned for her
bad figure. Yet, as the mother fastened her white dress, and arranged
the golden curls so as to fall in a shower on her neck and bosom, she
sighed heavily.
Olive did not notice it; she was too much occupied in tying up a rare
bouquet--a birthday gift for Sara.
“Well, are you quite satisfied with my dress, dearest mamma?”
“Not quite;” and Mrs. Rothesay fetched a small mantle of white fur,
which she laid round Olive's shoulders. “Wear this, dear; you will
look better then--see.” She led her to the mirror, and Olive saw the
reflection of her own figure, so effectually disguised, that the head,
with its delicate and spiritual beauty, seemed lifting itself out of a
white cloud.
“'Tis a pretty little mantle, but why must I wear it, mamma?--the night
is not cold.” So little did she think of herself, and so slight had
been her intercourse with the world, that the defect in her shape rarely
crossed her mind. But the mother, so beautiful herself, and to whom
beauty was still of such importance, was struck with bitter pain. She
would not even console herself by the reflection, with which many a one
had lately comforted her, that Olive's slight deformity was becoming
less perceptible, and that she might, in a great measure, outgrow it
in time. Still it was there. As Mrs. Rothesay looked at the swan-like
curves of her own figure, and then at her daughter's, she would almost
have resigned her own once-cherished, but now disregarded, beauty, could
she have bestowed that gift upon her beloved child.
Without speaking, lest Olive should guess her thoughts, she laid the
mantle aside, only she whispered in bidding adieu, “Dear, if you see
other girls prettier, or more admired, more noticed than yourself, never
mind! Olive is mamma's own pet--always.”
Oh, blessed adversity! oh, sweetness, taught by suffering! How
marvellous was the change wrought in Sybilla's heart.
Olive had never in her life before been at a “private ball,” with
chalked floors, rout seats, and a regular band. She was quite dazzled
by the transformation thus effected in the Derwents' large, rarely-used,
dining-room, where she had had many a merry game with little Robert and
Lyle. It was perfect fairyland. The young damsels of Oldchurch--haughty
boarding-school belles, whom she had always rather feared, when Sara's
hospitality brought her in contact with them--were now grown into
perfect court beauties. She was quite alarmed by their dignity, and they
scarcely noticed poor little Olive at all. Sara, sweeping across the
room, appeared to the eyes of her little friend a perfect queen of
beauty. But the vision came and vanished. Never was there a belle so
much in request as the lively Sara.
Only once, Olive looked at her, and remembered the sailor-boy, who was,
perhaps, tossing in some awful night-storm, or lying on the lonely deck,
in the midst of the wide Atlantic. And she thought, that when her time
came to love and be loved, she would not take everything quite so easily
as Sara.
“How pleasant quadrilles must be!” said Olive, as she sat with her
favourite Lyle, watching the dancers. Lyle had crept to her, sliding his
hand in hers, and looking up to her with a most adoring gaze, as indeed
he often did. He had even communicated his intention of marrying her
when he grew a man--a determination which greatly excited the ridicule
of his elder brother.
“I like far better to sit here quietly with you,” murmured the faithful
little cavalier.
“Thank you, Lyle; still, they all look so merry, I almost wish some one
had asked me to dance.”
“You dance, Miss Rothesay! What fun! Why nobody would ever dance with
you,” cried rude Bob.
Lyle looked imploringly at his brother: “Hush! you naughty boy! Please,
Miss Rothesay, I will dance with you at any time, that is, if you think
I am tall enough.”
“Oh, quite; I am so small myself,” answered Olive, laughing; for
she took quite a pride in patronising him, as girls of sixteen often
affectionately patronise boys some five or six years their junior. “You
know, you are to grow up to be my little husband.”
“Your husband!” repeated Bob, mischievously. “Don't be too sure of
getting one at all. What do you think I overheard those girls there say?
That you looked just like an old maid; and, indeed, no one would ever
care to marry you, because you were”--
Here Lyle, blushing crimson, stopped his brother's mouth with his little
hand; whereat Bob flew into such a passion, that he quite forgot Olive,
and all he was about to say, in the excitement of a pugilistic
combat with his unlucky _cadet_ In the midst of which the two
belligerents--poor, untaught, motherless lads--were hurried off to bed.
Their companionship lost, Olive was left very much to her own devices
for amusement. Some few young people that she knew came and talked
to her for a little while, but they all went back to their singing,
dancing, or flirting; and Olive, who seemed to have no gift nor share
in either, was left alone. She did not feel this much at first, being
occupied in her thoughts and observations on the rest. She took great
interest in noticing all around. Her warm heart throbbed in sympathy
with many an idle, passing flirtation, which she in her simplicity
mistook for a real “attachment.” It seemed as if every one loved, or
was loved, except herself. She thought this, blushing as if it were
unmaidenliness, when it was only nature speaking in her heart.
Poor Olive! perhaps it was ill for her that Sara's “love affair” had
aroused prematurely these blind gropings after life's great mystery, so
often
Too early seen unknown, and known too late.
“What! tired of dancing already?” cried Sara, flitting to the corner
where Olive sat.
“I have not danced once yet,” Olive answered, rather piteously.
“Come--shall I get you a partner?” said Sara, carelessly.
“No, no; every one is strange to me here. If you please, and if it would
not trouble you, Sara, I had much rather dance with you.”
Sara consented with a tolerably good grace; but there was a slight
shadow on her face, which somewhat pained her friend.
“Is she ashamed of me, I wonder?” thought Olive. “Perhaps, because I
am not beautiful. Yet, no one ever told me I was _very_ disagreeable to
look at. I will see.”
As they danced, she watched in the tall mirror Sara's graceful, floating
image, and the little pale figure that moved beside her. There _was_
a contrast! Olive, who inherited all her mother's love of beauty,
spiritualised by the refinement of a dawning artist-soul, felt keenly
the longing regret after physical perfection. She went through the dance
with less spirit, and in her heart there rung the idle echoes of some
old song she knew:
“I see the courtly ladies stand,
With their dark and shining hair;
And I coldly turn aside to weep--
Oh, would that I were fair!”
The quadrille ended, she hid herself in her old corner; and Sara, whose
good nature led her to perform this sacrifice to friendship, seemed
to smile more pleasantly and affectionately when it was over. At least
Olive thought so. She did not see her beautiful idol again for some
time; and feeling little interest in any other girl, and none at all in
the awkward Oldchurch “beaux,” she took consolation in her own harmless
fashion. This was hiding herself under the thick curtains, and looking
out of the window at the moon.
Sara's voice was heard close by, talking to a young girl whom Olive
knew. But Olive was too shy to join them. She greatly preferred her
friend the moon.
“I laughed to see you dancing with that little Olive Rothesay, Miss
Derwent. For my part, I hate dancing with girls--and as for _her_--But I
suppose you wanted to show the contrast.”
“Nay, that's ill-natured,” answered Sara, “She is a sweet little
creature, and my very particular friend.”
Here Olive, blushing and happy, doubted whether she ought not to come
out of the curtains. It was almost wrong to listen--only her beloved
Sara often said she had no secrets from Olive.
“Yes, I know she is your friend, and Mr. Charles Geddes' great friend
too; if I were you, I should be almost jealous.”
“Jealous of Olive--how very comical!” and the silver laugh was a little
scornful. “To think of Olive's stealing any girl's lover! She, who will
probably never have one in all her life--poor thing!”
“Of course not; nobody would fall in love with her! But there is a
waltz, I must run away. Will you come?”
“Presently--when I have looked in the other room for Olive?”
“Olive is here,” said a timid voice. “Oh, Sara, forgive me if I have
done wrong; but I can't keep anything from you. It would grieve me to
think I heard what you were saying, and never told you of it.”
Sara appeared confused, and with a quick impulse kissed and fondled her
little friend: “You are not vexed, or pained, Olive?”
“Oh, no--that is, not much; it would be very silly if I were. But,” she
added, doubtfully, “I wish you would tell me one thing, Sara--not that I
am proud, or vain; but still I should like to know. Why did you and Jane
Ormond say just now that nobody would ever love me?”
“Don't talk so, my little pet,” said Sara, looking pained and puzzled.
Yet, instinctively, her eye glanced to the mirror, where their two
reflections stood. So did Olive's.
“Yes, I know,” she murmured. “I am little, and plain, and in figure very
awkward--not graceful like you. Would that make people hate me, Sara?”
“Not hate you; but”----
“Well, go on--nay, I _will_ know all!” said Olive firmly; though
gradually a thought--long subdued--began to dawn painfully in her mind.
“I assure you, dear,” began Sara, hesitatingly, “it does not signify to
me, or to any of those who care for you; you are such a gentle little
creature, we forget it all in time. But perhaps with strangers,
especially with men, who think so much about beauty, this defect”----
She paused, laying her arm round Olive's shoulders--even affectionately,
as if she herself were much moved. But Olive, with a cheek that
whitened, and a lip that quivered more and more, looked resolutely at
her own shape imaged in the glass.
“I see as I never saw before--so little I thought of myself. Yes, it is
quite true--quite true.”
She spoke beneath her breath, and her eyes seemed fascinated into a
hard, cold gaze. Sara became almost frightened.
“Do not look so, my dear girl; I did not say that it was a positive
_deformity_.”
Olive faintly shuddered: “Ah, that is the word! I understand it all
now.”
She paused a moment, covering her face. But very soon she sat down, so
quiet and pale that Sara was deceived.
“You do not mind it, then, Olive--you are not angry with me?” she said
soothingly.
“Angry with you--how could I be?”
“Then you will come back with me, and we will have another dance.”
“Oh, no, no!” And the cheerful good-natured voice seemed to make Olive
shrink with pain. “Sara, dear Sara, let me go home!”