WHAT OLIVE HEARD.
Mr. Dane had closed his office at four o'clock. Nobody cared why he did
so, and when he informed his book-keeper that she could go home, she
never stopped to wonder why, but wiped her pens, straightened her desk,
got into her wrappings and went, with her mind fixed on a certain
picture that needed much that these two vacation hours could give.
It was snowing very hard, great blinding flakes that came whirling
defiantly into your eyes, nose, and mouth; almost preventing a necessary
amount of sight and breath: and they had collected to such depth, that
walking was a matter of much labor, and only a few plucky pedestrians
were out to enliven the quiet shrouded streets. Olive plunged rapidly
along with her head down and seemed more engrossed with her own
thoughts, than with any contemplation of the weather, for she whisked
the impudent flakes aside and seemed to be looking down at something
that was neither of earth, earthy, or of snow, snowy, but quite beyond
the realm of either. She was scowling much the same as usual only in
something of a puzzled way, that had less of the impatient dissatisfied
tinge to it than was customary. In fact she was thinking of that last
talk she had had with her mother, before Mr. Congreve went back to
Virginia, when she had resolved in a vague hasty way, that she was going
to do differently; and really, how little good, or change, had come from
the resolution. She didn't think, to begin with, that she was any worse
than the rest, or that she needed changing any more, but rather any
thing, than be like Mr. Congreve! So she summed up all she knew of him,
resolved on what was disagreeable, and began to model herself
accordingly. So to begin with she was no longer so hasty or bitter, in
speech I mean, for her inner-self was not touched, she only kept it all
to herself now, instead of speaking it out as formerly, but if she
thought herself changed there, she was the only one deceived, for our
inner minds do not always require the aid of language to photograph
themselves before the world. Next, instead of staying with the girls out
of store hours, and running the risk of losing her temper, she held
herself sternly aloof, always in the security of her own room, and at
the end of a week was apt to say to herself with some satisfaction:
"There, I surely have done well; haven't been mad with any one this
week, which is more than the other girls can say;" and there never came
any thought that the sisters were hurt over her manner, for, indeed, she
had worked herself up to the bitter belief, that they did not want her,
she was so ugly, and so unlike them in all ways.
Now what puzzled her was the girls. Here she had worked (yes, she
thought she had worked), she certainly ought to be improved, and yet
they seemed to think no more of her than before. Way down in Olive's
heart, was a longing,--choked and starved, that was beginning to assert
itself. When home held mother and father and everything that could make
a girl contented, she had not felt, or rather, listened to it; she
compelled herself to be without it; but now, when they were left alone,
when their daily life and happiness was so utterly dependent upon each
other, she began to realize how she was out of the loving circle that
bound her sisters together, and what a gulf of her own make, seemed to
lie between them. She stood beside it in frequent contemplation, but
never recognized her own handiwork, so she eyed it bitterly, and thought
them cruelly unkind.
This was what she was thinking about as she plunged through the storm,
looking like an animated snow-figure, so powdered was she; and regarding
herself for a moment, Olive went round to the back door, so as to
dispose of her ladened garments and brush off her shoes This done, she
went into the kitchen, where a warm atmosphere still lingered, and,
preferring to be alone, sat down there, with her feet in the oven and
her chin in her hands, and once more fell into a brown study. Only a few
minutes later, Kittie came into the dining-room for something, and on
going back, failed to close the door, so that the murmur of voices came
quite distinctly out to the quiet kitchen. A discussion was warmly in
progress, and in a minute Olive started out of her reverie at hearing
her name spoken.
"What's the use? Olive knows, or ought to know better." It was
Ernestine's voice.
"But, mama says," interposed Bea, mildly persuasive, "that we don't try
hard enough; we give up too soon."
"Bother," cried Kat, "would she have us always playing the 'gentle
sister, meek and mild,' and go whining about Olive as though her company
was a great honor. I'm sure we had a season of always begging her to go
with us, and didn't she snap us up like a rat-trap?"
"She--well--she's very odd you know," said Bea, wondering if her quiver
of defense would outlast the arrows of complaint.
"Yes, odd, as an odd shoe," laughed Kat with a yawn.
"What did mama say to you, Bea?" asked Ernestine.
"She said that Olive's greatest fault was being so nasty and sensitive,
and that because she was rather plain and--"
"She isn't," interrupted Kittie, with much energy. "I think she has
beautiful eyes, if she just wouldn't scowl so much, and when she laughs
her mouth and teeth are just as pretty, only she never laughs more'n
once a month, so people don't know it. Not one of us has such lovely
thick hair as she has, and if she just would wave or crimp it a little
bit in front, I think--well, I think she would be real pretty." And
overcome with this valuable earnest defence, Kittie sat down and looked
complacent.
"When I see Olive Dering crimping her hair, and laughing instead of
scowling, I will look for the end of the world," said Ernestine, with
some asperity, as she walked over to the glass and surveyed her own
hair, which Kittie had intimated was inferior to Olive's. "She can't do
it, she was made to frown and stay by herself and she better do it."
"You don't mean it, Ernestine, you know you don't," said Bea, in a tone
of calm conviction, and beginning to feel that the duties of elder
sister imposed a warmer defense of this abused one, upon her. "I want to
tell you how I feel, though it may be nothing as you all do. I really
believe Olive thinks we do not want her, because, for so long time
lately, we have just let her alone, and she always goes----"
"None of us ever receive a special invitation to join this circle,"
interrupted Kat, briskly. "Why should she?"
"I don't know, but she is so strange," answered Bea, rather helplessly,
but not giving up. "And because she is so, we have sort a' stayed
together and let her alone. When we used to try to get her to go with
us, I think she always refused, because she thought she was ugly, and we
did not try long enough to overcome this feeling, and now she imagines
we don't want her."
"Stuff," persisted Kat, "I wouldn't act that way if I was as ugly as a
wilted pumpkin and cross-eyed. What's the use?"
"None," promptly responded Beatrice. "But if you were like her, very
likely you'd feel as she does."
"Catch me," laughed Kat, jumping up and making a scornful spin on her
heel. "What do you say, Kittie?"
"I had my say a minute ago," answered Kittie, who was evidently thinking
out something over the flames.
"I wonder what makes her hate Uncle Ridley so?" was Ernestine's query,
as she turned from the glass, having satisfied herself that Kittie was
certainly wrong about Olive's hair.
"I never could imagine," answered Bea, with evident curiosity.
"She won't call him, uncle, and the dress he sent her is in mama's room,
and Olive says, she'll never wear it."
"May be she would give it me," suggested Kat. "I think hers was prettier
than any of the rest."
"Well, I don't," said Ernestine, taking exceptions to this remark also.
"Why hers is black?"
"I'm perfectly aware of that, also, that yours is purple, Bea's brown,
mine and Kittie's grey; tell me something I don't know," said Kat
flippantly. "I wish ours were black, it's so stylish."
That black was more stylish than purple, was an idea quite beneath
Ernestine's notice, so she went back to her former query.
"I would like to know, anyhow, what makes Olive dislike him so." For
Mrs. Dering had not thought it necessary that the girls should know of
their father's final appeal, and Mr. Congreve's reception thereof; so
they were all equally curious, and so, nobody being able to give an
answer, Kat ventured an assertion.
"She hates him just because it's a part of her religion to hate
everybody, and, to go around with her fist doubled up ready to fight. I
believe she'd hate us with a little trying."
"Kat," cried Beatrice, with some severity. "You must not speak so, it is
wrong, and you don't mean it Why, if any one else was to say such things
about Olive, you'd pretty near fight."
"To be sure I would," said Kat with ready inconsistency. "I truly think
Olive is a trump, and I'd cheerfully knock anybody down who said she
wasn't. I don't know what we would have done without her in the trouble,
and I do wish she wasn't so odd, and stayed away from us so."
"She makes me think of a chestnut burr," said Kittie resorting to
figurative comparisons. "There's lots of good in her, but she won't let
any one get at it. If we try, she shuts up and gets prickly. I never
thought much about it, until here lately, and then she was so splendid,
and knew how to do everything; and, I begin to think that there is ever
so much more to her than we think, even if she is queer, and don't seem
to like us much."
"Well, I wouldn't worry so about her," interposed Ernestine, as though
the subject wearied her. "She evidently don't like us excessively, or
care about being with us, so leave her alone. Bea, come let's try our
duet."
Olive had sat perfectly still, and heard all this, quite unconscious
that her feet were getting chilly in the cold oven, or that, perhaps,
she should have notified them of her presence. She had a vague feeling,
as of one trying hard to solve a problem, and pausing suddenly in her
vain efforts, to listen to some one solving it for her. But surely they
could not be right! Olive left her seat noiselessly, and went up the
back stairs to her room. It was bitterly cold there, but she wrapped her
shawl about her, and sat down by the window, where the fast falling
snow was almost hidden in a heavy wrap of early twilight. Olive did not
often pray. To be sure she said her prayers every night, as properly and
methodical as clockwork, and was very particular about always kneeling
down, as though position could atone for any lacking earnestness; for
she was just as apt to be thinking of her account-book, or Mr. Dane's
last order, as of anything, in the hurried words that slid over her
lips. Yes, she prayed in this way once in every twenty-four hours, but
there never came to her any of those sudden, passionate appeals for help
or strength, when the whole heart leaps to the lips, or pleads dumbly,
in its great need. Notwithstanding all teachings to the point, it never
really occurred to her that God had as quick and sympathetic an ear for
a little prayer of few words over some trivial worry, given silently in
the busy kitchen, or on the crowded street, as He had for those when she
knelt down at night, and absently asked for her daily bread, and to
forgive as she was forgiven, and then get properly into bed and
refrained from speaking again, lest she spoilt the effect. At any rate,
the first prayer that had ever sprung to her lips, with the suddenness
of utter helplessness, came from them now, as she sat there, trying to
think and battle with hasty conclusions that would spring up:
"Oh God, please don't let me try to think it out alone, because I will
get it all wrong if I do. If it is my fault, make me feel it and know
how to act, and don't let me be so odd, or whatever it is that makes me
feel as I do."
With the earnestness of the request, came a quiet feeling that she felt
to be her answer, and all the time she sat there, which was until the
supper-bell rang, she felt more contented than ever before with her
thoughts. Not that God immediately took away her faults, and left her
placid and quiet, with nothing to battle against, because He does not do
that way; it can never be said to us: "Well done, good and faithful
servant," if we've done nothing; and the battling with our faults and
worries is just as much our work, as the successful doing of some great
deed that may bring both God's pleasure and an earthly halo.
When Mrs. Dering came home on Friday evening, she was quick to note a
change of some kind, not but what every one seemed the same at a quick
observation, but, there was a something. Now don't think that any thing
so unnatural and improbable had happened, as Olive being bereft of all
faults, and suddenly clothed in the guise of a household angel, because
there hadn't, there never does; but she had thought much, and Olive had
a mind capable of more deep reasoning thought than most girls of
fifteen; she stopped fighting herself with weapons solely of her own
make, but sent many a little wordless prayer for a different feeling,
and then she found that it came more easily, and more completely
triumphed over its enemy. To-night she had a little ribbon tied in her
hair, only a small thing, but something unusual for Olive, and Mrs.
Dering noticed that the bow at her throat was just of the same shade,
also something unusual. Now over just this little thing, Olive had stood
in silence, while two feelings within her held an argument:
"What's the use," said one; "you're as ugly as fate, and the girls will
laugh; besides if you go in the sitting-room after supper, they will say
you just did it to make them say something."
"No such thing," retorted the other, "You've no right to think such
things, when they've given you no reason. Go on right down stairs, you
know they want you, they said they did." And so she had gone down
immediately,--perhaps she took a little pleasure in defying
herself,--and though the girls saw the ribbons the moment she came in,
no one said anything, for there came a feeling to each, that she would
not want them spoken of.
Mrs. Dering noticed also that when they were gathered in the
sitting-room after supper, that instead of sitting off in the far corner
of the lounge as usual, she had joined the circle about the table, and
was busy on some worsted work.
Ernestine was rocking idly with her pretty feet displayed on the fender,
and her prettier hands clasped above her head, in an attitude both
graceful and becoming. She was surveying the group about the table,
where all hands were busy, and all tongues going merrily, and more than
once her eyes went from Olive's ribbon's to Olive's face, so changed
under the effect of a smile. They were talking of father now, with their
voices lowered a little, and looking up frequently to the large
portrait, as if expecting him to answer, and she wondered a little, what
could be the matter with Olive, that she talked so much more than usual.
"A penny for your thoughts Ernestine," said Bea, in a pause that came
presently.
"I was just thinking how hard it was to be disappointed," answered
Ernestine, as pathetically as though the whole world had grieved her in
some way.
"What's your disappointment! tell us," cried Kittie with interest; and
everybody looked up expectant at the young lady who "had a
disappointment."
"Why, I want to study with great masters and be a splendid wonderful
singer, with the whole world at my feet, and sending me elegant
presents," said Ernestine, who always liked to tell her little
grievances or wants, and receive condolence or help.
"What a modest desire," laughed Kat. "Hasn't some one else got a
disappointment, because they can't sit on a gold throne and eat sauce
made of pearls with a gold spoon?"
"I've got one," said Bea, with her head over her sewing. "I'd like to
have mama stay home and be easy, and I'd like to have lots of pretty
clothes and some real lace."
"Well, I've got one," announced Kat briskly. "I don't like being poor. I
hate pots and kettles worse than mad dogs. I would like a wheel-barrow
full of butter-scotch every day and a pair of slippers with blue tops
and French heels. I haven't got any talent, so I needn't worry about
never being able to bring it out; it would scare me to death if I had
one, because talented people are always expected to do something big.
That's all, and I don't know really where the disappointment is, but I
guess it's the butter-scotch and slippers. What's yours Kittie?"
"I don't know," answered Kittie, with a sigh and a glance at her hands.
"I guess mine's having to wash dishes, and not having black eyes, and
not being able to travel all over the world."
"Well, I've got one too," said Olive, to every one's intense surprise,
as they did not suppose that she was paying any attention to what they
were saying, much less to join them. "I'd like to be as beautiful as the
loveliest portrait ever seen, and be able to paint the grandest pictures
in the world."
Everyone was silent with astonishment. For Olive to express two wishes,
and such exaggerated ones, before them all, was something no one could
fully appreciate who had not heard her repeatedly ridicule the same when
uttered by the others.
Mrs. Dering had been sewing and listening with a smile, but now she
glanced up, met Olive's eyes, and the smile brightened warmly, and there
was something in it that made Olive's heart feel happy and glad that she
had made her little speech, though she had hesitated before doing so.
"I don't suppose anybody cares to hear about my disappointments," said
Mrs. Dering, not looking as if she had any.
"Yes, we do; I was just going to ask," exclaimed Kittie, moving closer.
"I know you've got heaps, and they're not about clothes and
butter-scotch, and eyes, and doing great things either. Now tell us
all."
"I don't see why I should have heaps," began Mrs. Dering, with a laugh.
"Is it because I am so old, or do I look as though I had been weighted
down with them?"
"Why, no indeed; but didn't you ever have any, really?"
"Yes, indeed, my dear girls, many; that at the time, perhaps seemed very
hard and bitter; but I came through them, and have seen some happy,
happy days where their shadow never fell. I tell you what would be a
very bitter disappointment to me now, and that would be to have my
girls grow to womanhood, and each be discontented with her lot. I would
feel as though all my love and labor had been in vain. It is my constant
regret that I cannot give you each a complete and finished education,
and supply home with all the comforts we love; but when I look at you
now, all working so bravely, and receiving with so little complaint your
rigid discipline, it makes me happy indeed, because I see in you, a
womanly strength and character, that a life of ease, comfort, and few
self-denials, could never have brought out clearly, and I know that God
has chosen this way to make our girls the dear noble women we want them.
I would that He had seen best to leave father with us, but He did not,
so we must just feel that He still loves, and is interested in us, and
have just as much thought for His approval as when _he_ was with us.
Now, about your disappointments;" and there she paused to glance around,
but each young face was warm with interest, so she went on with her
cheery smile:
"Here Ernestine, to begin with, wants to conquer the world with song,
and receive elegant presents. Dearie, to conquer the world, the great,
many-faced world, one's head and heart must be capable and willing to
assume any and every guise; to stoop to every form of policy that
secures the fickle smile; to bend to all its freaks, until it is
subject to yours; and after you had done this, after you had spent your
life's sweetest and purest years in studying the art of deceit and
triumph, and had brought the beautiful wicked world to your feet, would
you be quite happy? Could you ever be again the fresh, untouched, pure
hearted creature that you are now? I'm afraid not, dear; and your
warmest, greatest longing, would come back to home and girlhood, when
you only knew the world's wickedness by hearsay, when you owed it
nothing, and never heard its grasping cry for pay for its homage.
"Bea wants pretty clothes, and regrets that mother must work. Quite
natural, dear, we all love pretty clothes, and I hope some time we can
have all we want, providing it does not become a chief and selfish
desire. Mother loves to work for her girls, and only regrets that it
must take her from them so much of the time, for the dearest light to a
mother's life, the brightest cloud that receives that life's setting
sun, is found in the circle of her children's faces. To go back to Bea,
she wants some real lace; I hope she may have it some time; it is a
beautiful and valuable addition to a lady's wardrobe. But I am quite
sure that the face of my Beatrice could never look lovelier over a garb
of rarest and most exquisite workmanship than it does to-night, over a
pretty linen band, with its womanly thoughtfulness and care."
Bea flushed joyfully, and bent lower over her sewing, while mother went
on, with a glance at Kat's expectant face:
"Next comes one of papa's 'boys' with such a hodgepodge of a
disappointment, that I can hardly make out which part of it grieves her,
or if any does. She don't like pots and kettles, but they often teach us
unromantic but necessary lessons that fans and perfumery never could. A
wheel-barrow per day of butter-scotch would soon leave her more than she
could manage or desire, and slippers with satin tops and high heels,
would only prove themselves useless and injurious. She also says she has
no talent, but she has a rare and valuable one, that of making the best
of all her little trials and grievances, of keeping her daily sunshine
free from clouds, and making home happy with her cheerful, happy heart."
Kittie gave her mother's hand a grateful squeeze, for praise given to
either of the twins was dear to the other; and Kat sank out of her sight
in her chair, quite overcome, and resolved heartily to cultivate her
talent to the uttermost.
"Now, our other 'boy,'" continued Mrs. Dering, smiling down into
Kittie's upturned face, "wants black eyes, don't like dish-washing, and
would like to travel. I wonder if she thinks I would give up these
brave, true, trusty blue eyes, for all the black ones in the universe.
They show what a warm, faithful heart lies within, a heart that shares
its twin's talent for making sunshine out of shadows, and home happy
with its laughter. A life without a dish-pan misses a good
disciplinarian, and, sometimes, a teacher of patience; it's like pots
and kettles--unpleasant but necessary, so the sooner we take hold, when
we have it to handle, and the better the grace with which we handle it,
just so much have we brought our rebellious likes and dislikes under
control, and made the best of our duty. While you are getting ready to
travel, dear, read the works of those who have travelled, have your mind
fresh and ready to more heartily enjoy what others have seen and made
immortal through the power of their pen, and if it is best that that
pleasure should be given you, it will come at the right time.
"Our Olive next. I wonder if she thinks that though her face was as
exquisitely beautiful as the rarest picture ever painted, that it could
be any more precious to our sight, than it is now; or if beauty of the
loveliest type would be taken in exchange for the strong, earnest
character and brave, true heart that is stamped in it. The most
beautiful face may sometimes, by nature's indelible portrayer, reveal
itself soulless in heart and mind; and the plainest face possess an
irresistible charm, if it is allowed to interpret the emotions of a
truly noble heart. I have no ambition that my little girl should paint
the grandest pictures in the world, but I hope before long to give her
instructions in the art that she loves, and then I want her to use to
the uttermost, the beautiful talent God has given her, and though it
should fall far short of being the grandest picture, I should be very
happy, and quite content."
Mrs. Dering began folding up her sewing as she finished, and the girls
did likewise, looking as though they had taken the little talk to heart
and were thinking over it. Olive went out for her account-books and her
face wore a happier look, than any one could remember seeing there
lately. Before they got through examining and comparing accounts, the
other girls said good-night and went up stairs, and when the last book
was pushed aside, Mrs. Dering put her arm around Olive, who sat on the
stool at her feet, and looked down at her with a smile.
"I like this, dear," she said, touching the ribbons. "And you have made
me so much happier to-night, by looking more happy, what is it dear?"
"Nothing, mama," answered Olive. "Only I came home early one day, when
the girls didn't know it, and I heard them talking about me. They said
how queer and odd I was, and how they felt hurt, because I always stayed
away from them, and some more things, and mama, I was so amazed. I
always thought they didn't want me, and I didn't know which way to
believe and I,--I just asked God to help me; and I guess He did. It's
terrible hard work, though I've only tried it a few days. I'm so ugly,
and I've got such a dreadful temper, and always want to think the wrong
way, but I notice that I really have been happier these few days; and
mama, to-night, you--" Olive paused and looked up shyly, she did not
often say such things and it cost something of a little effort to
begin--"you looked so happy and I couldn't help but feel that it was
because you were glad, and I really am going to try all the harder now."