IN CONFIDENCE.
Olive's door was locked.
Jean saw her go in, and heard the bolt slide swiftly across after the
door shut, and just the glimpse that the little girl had of her sister's
face, showed tears on the sallow cheeks, and hanging to the lashes.
Olive was bitterly opposed to having any one know that she cried, and
above all things to have any one see her employed in that manner; she
herself, could not have told why perhaps, except that she did not want
it. All of her feelings were so carefully hidden, and herself so wrapped
in a cloak of reserve, that the surface was as delicately sensitive, as
gossamer, and at every touch that left its impress, she retired farther
within herself, and left less room for touch of any kind. Now, when she
caught a glimpse of Jean's face, she shut the door sharper than was
necessary, and going over to the window, sat down and stared moodily off
into the yard, where the scarlet tops of the maples nodded to a golden,
glowing sky. Surprised and curious, Jean lingered a moment, with her
hand on the bannister, surveying the door thoughtfully, then limped
carefully across, and knocked softly.
"Who is it?" came tartly from within.
"Me, Olive. Are you sick?"
"No."
Jean turned away a little hurt. "Why need Olive speak so shortly?" she
wondered, with the usual after-thought "Bea, never does, or the others."
Olive listened to the little crutch going slowly down stairs, and waited
until everything was quiet, then she went over to a small trunk and sat
down before it, lifted the lid, and supporting her chin in her hand,
looked steadily into it, all the moody bitterness in her eyes changing
slowly to a sadness that was almost despair.
"Oh, I don't see why it is!" she cried suddenly, laying her head down on
the trunk's sharp edge, and breaking into a passionate sobbing, all the
stronger for having been long denied. "I surely try, but, they are
unkind; they are, I know." And then the thick sobs broke vehemently
forth, and echoed out into the quiet hall; but Olive was alone upstairs,
and she knew it; besides, I doubt if she could have controlled herself
now, even had the whole of the amazed family confronted her. Poor,
sensitive, unfortunate Olive; was it her fault wholly, that her sisters
seemed able to be happy, quite regardless of her, and that she seemed to
fill no place in home except as "that queer, homely Olive," as she had
once heard herself called? This afternoon, the girls had all dressed
gayly, and gone for a ride behind "Prince" with Mr. Phillips. He had
said, "all the girls," when asking for them, but Olive so seldom joined
in any of their little gayeties outside of home, that it really seemed
strange and out of place for her to go with them; so she waited, when
the time came to dress, wondering, and half hoping that one of them
would express a little desire that she should go. Such a thought,
however, occurred to no one; for so many times had she flatly refused to
go, that they had all gradually ceased asking, supposing that she would
do as she pleased. Once, to be sure, Bea did run up to the arbor, seeing
her there, with the question on her lips, but Olive saw her coming, and
fearing that the new desire and expectation would show in her face, bent
her eyes to her book, quite unconscious of the heavy scowl on her brow;
so, after one glance, Bea withdrew in a hurry, remembering frequent
complaints for disturbance. At the hasty disappearance, Olive looked up
with a bitter little smile, that would have instantly disclosed to an
observer, how she was construing the act, and how she was hurt in spite
of herself.
"There! she was afraid she'd have to ask me something about it, if she
came in, so she got out in a hurry. But they needn't worry; I'll not
force myself in; I'm queer, and ugly, and had better stay by myself;"
and with that, Olive shut her lips fiercely tight, and did not once
lift her eyes, when, a little while later, they all went laughing down
the walk, never heeding her or once regretting her absence. It often
happened so now, and Olive missed the coaxings with which they had once
tried to draw her out, never once dreaming that she had done away with
them herself, by shortly, tersely, and repeatedly asking, to "be let
alone."
No, this never occurred to her, as she sat there crying bitterly, but
her broken words revealed the track of her thoughts.
"They never let Ernestine stay home! Indeed not, and there's the
greatest commotion raised if she speaks of such a thing. She's pretty
and graceful, and loves to dress up like a doll, while I'm ugly, and
awkward, and always do things wrong, and disgrace them, I suppose. I
don't see what I'm crying for, I'm sure. I can be happy without them as
well as they without me!" and Olive raised her head defiantly, and flung
the tears from her lashes, for having cried; the burden seemed lighter,
and the little hurt and loneliness less hard. "I've plenty to think of
besides them, and I might as well go to work." So out of the trunk came
a box, and Olive's tears were as quickly gone as they had come. This box
held a collection of sketches, many of them originals, some of them
copies, but all bearing marks of a strong talent, rude and somewhat
hasty as yet, but capable of much, when the young artist should have
studied, and brought a few happy ideas to color the faces and scenes
that grew from under her fingers. Now they clearly betrayed the unhappy
spirit that prompted them, for there was not one glad sunshiny picture
among them; instead, there were several faces of women, in various
attitudes of defiance or despair, with a stern relentless sorrow
darkening their eyes, and hardening their lips; then there was an old
boat over-turned in the shadow of a half-broken tree, and various
sketches of home scenery from the different windows of the house. Olive
had selected one, somewhat larger than the rest, and had gone to work
rapidly, pressing her lips tightly in the earnestness of her work and
thoughts, and the room was perfectly silent for a long time. Presently
she stopped abruptly, and balancing her pencil on her finger, looked out
of the window with a troubled longing in her eyes.
"I wonder if I ever can," she murmured slowly. "How hard it is to be
patient, and wait, it's three months yet until I am sixteen, and they
never will let me I know, because it's too dangerous for a girl. I'm
sorry I am one anyhow; it makes everything go wrong. Now, there's my
money, I'm glad I've got it to give to papa. Dear papa, I don't believe
he or mama cares because I'm so ugly; I'll give it to him to-night, and
then while I'm waiting, I'll work and earn some more, so as to have
enough;" and, after ending this slightly enigmatical speech with an
abrupt nod, Olive looked a little brighter and fell to work so rapidly,
that she shaded a dimple until it looked like a bullet-hole in the cheek
of her fair subject.
Nothing further was heard for over an hour, then there came chattering
voices, the slam of the gate, much laughter, and much spattering and
crunching of gravel, that announced a race up the walk, between the
festive twins, for though Kat's disabled arm swung gracefully in a
sling, she had, after the first day or two, returned to all her romping
with undiminished ardor, thereby keeping the family in constant terror,
lest the necessary appendage be forever disabled. Jean had reported to
Bea, the fact that Olive had locked her door and was crying, and with
her conscience reproving her, Bea ran hastily up stairs, and knocked at
the door. "Olive, may I come in?"
"What for?"
"Well, just to talk a little," Bea replied, knowing better than to give
Jean's report.
Olive unlocked the door, after having first surveyed her face to see
that no tears were visible.
"Come in, if you want to; I'm drawing," and Bea accepted the ungracious
invitation, thinking to herself, as Olive straightway took her seat and
pencil, and returned to work--
"Now Olive's in one of her moods, I wonder if I can say anything," for
though not yet seventeen, Bea was womanly and thoughtful, and Mrs.
Dering had sometimes talked with her, about the unfortunate
peculiarities of this sister's disposition, and asked her help in being
patient, and trying to overcome it.
"We had a delightful time," began Bea, anxious to work aright. "'Prince'
was such a dear old fellow and Mr. Phillips so kind. I'm so sorry you
didn't go, Olive."
Nothing but pride kept Olive's face from brightening a little at this;
she turned away, made a fierce dab at her subject's nose, and thought
grimly:--"It's all very well to be sorry now, when the thing's all over;
I wonder if she thinks that I believe she's sorry, anyhow."
"We went around by the river, and way up on the hill," continued Bea,
after waiting a reasonable length of time for an answer. "Mr. Phillips
says we may ride often."
"Did he?"
"Yes, wasn't it kind? you know Mrs. Phillips and the girls are going
away and 'Prince' will need exercising."
"Of course."
"Hasn't mama come home yet?"
"I don't know."
"Perhaps Mrs. Dane is worse."
No answer.
"It's almost supper time, I should think she would be here," and with
that, Bea got up, somewhat discouraged with the one-sided conversation;
but paused again at Olive's side.
"Oh! what a lovely face," she exclaimed, bending over the artist's
shoulder. "Where did you get it, Olive?"
"Made it up."
"Well, I really envy you such a talent; I have none at all. Why do you
make her look so sad?"
"That's the way she looked to my mind and I drew her so. Perhaps it's
because she has no sisters," answered Olive, spoiling the meaning
conveyed in the words by the sarcasm that crept into the voice, and Bea
drew back, hurt and half inclined to be angry; but with her, a tender
heart always went ahead of a quiet temper and ruled, so she walked to
the door, saying as she went out: "You better put up your things;
supper's nearly ready."
After tea Olive whispered something to Mr. Dering, and to everyone's
curiosity, they went off together to the library. This was only a small
room, but very cozy, with a dark green carpet on the floor, the chairs
of various shapes, with the previous covering worn threadbare, neatly
covered with green cloth, a cover of like shade on the table, and one
side of the wall well packed with books; for Mr. Dering having never
been wealthy, had only by care, and much time, collected the books which
now formed a faultless, small library. It was Ernestine's idea, having
the room green, and bestowing upon it the important sounding name of
"library," for it suited her fancy by sounding stylish, and pleased her
artistic eye by being all of one shade; so after much patient drilling,
she got them all to call it "library," excepting Olive, for that sister,
disapproving of Ernestine's notions in general, did not like to yield to
this one, and insisted on calling it "study."
Well, in here came Mr. Dering, Olive following with a light, saying, as
she placed it on the table:
"Papa, this is to be a secret."
"Oh! oh! and you expect me to keep it?"
"Of course, at least a part of it," and Olive looked so serious, as she
came and stood by his chair, that he became attentive in an instant,
saying heartily:--"Well, go on dear, I'm listening, and promise to keep
the secret."
Olive hesitated an instant, but she always hated to show any feeling,
especially of embarrassment, so pitched into her subject abruptly, with
her eyes down. "You know, papa, that we know that you have been troubled
with the hard times, and wanted to help you."
"Yes, Olive, and I can never forget the way that my girls and their dear
mother anticipated, and have done to help me."
"No," Olive answered, almost impatiently. "We have done nothing; it most
all falls on mama; she helps us with the work, and as for 'Prince,' of
course, we loved him, but we girls are able to walk, it's only mama, who
is denied; so all the help it is, she gives, not we."
"Then we should love her all the more, dear," said Mr. Dering; and the
tenderness and love that shone in his face would have gladdened the
heart of the wife of thirty years, had she seen it.
"I don't think we can ever love her enough," answered Olive heartily;
then hesitated again, while her hand went slowly into her pocket, and
came slowly out again.
"Hold your hand, papa."
He did so, and after placing a little roll in it, and closing his
fingers over it, she said hurriedly: "It is only a little, papa; just
thirty dollars that I have saved, but I want you to take it, and----"
"But Olive, my dear child----"
"Don't, please;" she interrupted hastily. "I know what you want to say,
but it's not denying me anything, and what if it was? I want you to have
it. You never gave us our allowance to buy our clothes with, and as for
fancy things, I don't care for them; I don't care to go out as the other
girls do, and I do not need it for anything. I only wish it was more."
There may have been many reasons why Mr. Dering said nothing as he drew
her on to his knee, and kissed her tenderly, but the right one would not
have been hard to guess had any one seen his eyes full of tears. Olive's
heart was beating happily, and she went on quite gayly: "And another
thing, papa; now don't say anything until I finish; I want to have all
my own way to-night. You know, sometime ago I helped Mr. Hess with some
writing, and he said that if I would draw his little girl's head, he
would teach me how to keep books; well, he did, you know, and now I want
you to dismiss him, and let me be your book-keeper. It would help you,
and oh, I should love to so much; it seems as if I wasn't a bit of use
the way I live now, with nothing in particular to do."
"Why, my dear little girl," cried Mr. Dering, as she paused for breath.
"Do you think they could spare you to me all day, down in that dusty old
store?"
"Oh, yes, indeed!" and into Olive's brightened eyes crept a little of
the old bitterness, as she recalled the afternoon.
"And I'm to pay you----"
"Nothing of course, papa."
"No, my dear, I cannot consent to that."
"Please; I want to help you now. You may pay me when you are not
troubled any more about business."
"Ah, yes; when!" said Mr. Dering sadly to himself.
"Papa," Olive put an arm about his neck. "Is it so bad as that? I'm not
sixteen yet, but oh, I feel so much older, I can understand if you tell
me."
It really seemed so, as he looked into that grave, serious face, so
unlike a merry, careless girl; and while a sigh crossed his lips, his
eyes looked trustingly into hers.
"Yes, dear, I think you can. You deserve, and I am happy to give you, my
confidence; besides, I want to show you how you have helped me
to-night. I am troubled very seriously, I have a note of six thousand to
meet within sixty days, or the store goes, I see no way of raising it.
There is four thousand in the bank in mama's name, but I do not want to
touch it, because if anything should happen to me, you would not have
one cent left in the world. Still, if one or two ways which I have in
mind now, do not yield me something, I shall be obliged to take it, so
as to save part of my business, and replace it as soon as possible.
Thank God, the home is safe; it can never be taken from you, and never
would I consider it my duty to rob my wife and children of home and
happiness, to liquidate my debts. I owe my creditors a duty which I will
work to fulfill, while I live; but, I owe my family a greater one; so
Olive dear, the old home is always safe. To-night I am more thankful to
hold thirty dollars, than two months ago, I would have been to hold a
hundred, and only to-day I told Mr. Hess that I would have to do without
him, and that I would try the book-keeping myself."
He paused here, and the joy that mastered trouble in Olive's face, found
vent as she laid her head on his shoulder and cried heartily, "Oh papa I
am so glad, so glad!"
"You know more now, dear, than mama," continued Mr. Dering, appreciating
the caress, knowing how rare they were for any body from Olive. "I see
she is just as careful of home expenses as though she knew it all, and
I do not want to give her the added trouble until I see that I cannot
fight my way through, and that it must be known."
"Papa, isn't there some other way that I can help you?"
"My noble little girl, no, the load is already too heavy for your young
shoulders; but, I do so warmly appreciate your womanly interest, and
your desire to help is precious indeed, while you see how great a help
it is to me."
Olive was smiling happily, even while her heart was filled with anxiety
and many thoughts; so they sat there for some time in silence, then
there came a tap on the door, and a sepulchral voice through the
keyhole:
"If you don't want the whole family to come swarming over the transom,
you'd better come out and tell us what that tremendous secret is. Speak
quick, a single word."
"Shovels!" shouted Mr. Dering, implicitly obeying the threatening
command.
"Very good; you may live, providing you come out immediately and give me
a dime to buy some butter-scotch," returned the voice.
"The request betrays the speaker," laughed Mr. Dering as he stood up and
unlocked the door. "Clear out, you begging Kat; you always----"
"Hurrah," cried the beggar shrilly. "Can't tell us apart yet; there's
Kat on the stairs; now, whenever we demand it, you have to give us a
dime a piece; fine, you know."
"Yes; I know, you mercenary little monkeys; come in the sitting-room if
you want to hear our secret."
Kittie and Kat rushed promptly in, and Mr. Dering spoke, indicating
Olive by a wide flourish.
"Ladies and gentlemen--I suppose I must represent the gentlemen:--Let me
introduce you to my future book-keeper and business confidante."
Olive lifted her eyes, as he bowed again, and first saw her mother's
face so happy and pleased, then Ernestine's so full of something that
was almost ridicule, and in an instant, without looking farther, her own
darkened, and withdrawing her hand, she walked over to her accustomed
corner, thinking bitterly, while they all commented and applauded.
"There! now every one but mama, thinks I'm a fool, and they needn't be
saying, 'how splendid' and 'oh! Olive,' for didn't Ernestine look as if
she wanted to laugh, and as if she would be ashamed of me if I worked,
even in papa's store. But I don't care what any of them say or think,"
and having turned bitterly against all the girls, merely because of the
unconscious smile on Ernestine's astonished face, Olive crushed all the
joy from her own face, and nearly all from her heart.