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[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER
VOL. XX.—NO. 999.] FEBRUARY 18, 1899. [PRICE ONE PENNY.]
LINNÆA; THE STORY OF A FRIENDSHIP.
[Illustration: “‘GIRLS, I HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY TO YOU IF YOU WILL
LISTEN.’”]
_All rights reserved._]
CHAPTER IV.
“Life with its narrow round
Day after day
Widened and perfected
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.”
Was that tears they saw—the haughty Gwendoline in tears?
Yes, tears had begun to trickle down her cheeks, and it was in a broken
voice she continued appealingly—
“She would not believe me now, although I were to tell her I loved her.
Could none of you make her believe? I cannot bear her to hate me like
this!”
Before anyone could speak, the door between the rooms was opened and
a figure appeared. It was Linnæa. Her face was radiant and her arms
outstretched. Gwendoline looked up, saw her, ran to her, and was
clasped in the welcoming arms.
Onlookers were forgotten in that close embrace—words were needless at
that moment.
Linnæa drew Gwendoline into the little room, and one of the girls
considerately closed the door. For a few moments neither spoke, but
each held the other as if at any moment someone might come to separate
them. By-and-by Gwendoline said, in a voice quite unlike her usual
clear tones—
“Why don’t you hate me instead of treating me like this? You told me
you hated and despised me, and I deserve that you should.”
“That was before I knew you loved me at all, dear. What do I care
how it was begun, so that you love me now! That is enough for me. Do
you know,” she continued, after a pause, “I said I hated you, and I
thought so; but now I am not sure that I did all the time. I hated
myself, hated the other girls, hated even the teachers; but I am almost
convinced I have never hated you!”
Two months passed after that—two happy months for Linnæa and
Gwendoline, happy in their mutual friendship—and the summer vacation
drew near.
About this time the dream Linnæa had dreamt the first night she saw
Gwendoline came true. Her parents wrote to her that if she wished she
might come home next autumn, but if she preferred to remain at school
another year she might do so. Then Linnæa—she who had looked forward
all her life to the time when she would be allowed to go home—wrote
and told them she would stay another year.
And the Linnæa that went to India at the end of that time was very
different from the one that would have gone had the hidden love in her
nature not been called forth by Gwendoline. Sometimes her schoolfellows
and teachers had hard work to believe she could be the same person. She
would never be what the world calls beautiful, but there was a sweet,
refined expression about the face which now attracted, where formerly
it had repelled.
Linnæa, as I say, was improved beyond recognition; but Gwendoline also
was altered, and entirely for the better. Her will—strong as ever—was
exerted in a quieter and less arbitrary manner than formerly. Her
influence was still as great over those with whom she came in contact;
but she had had a lesson she would not easily forget, and the girl who
had been in danger of growing up a heartless and cruel flirt, ambitious
to draw men to her feet and wreck their happiness, developed into a
pure and noble woman whose powers of fascination were only used to
influence others for good, and to induce those of weaker will to follow
in her footsteps.
The rare friendship, begun in such an extraordinary way, did not end
with school life, but continued, beautifying and enriching the lives of
both throughout well-nigh fifty years.
FRANCES LEAMINGTON.
A DREAM OF FAIR SERVICE.
BY C. A. MACIRONE.