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; n.o.body 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 n.o.body 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 a.s.sure 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 gla.s.s.
"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!"
CHAPTER XIII.
"Well, my love, was the ball as pleasant as you expected?" said Mrs.
Rothesay, when Olive drew the curtains, and roused her invalid mother to the usual early breakfast, received from no hands but hers.
Olive answered quietly, "Every one said it was pleasant."
"But you," returned the mother, with an anxiety she could scarce disguise--"who talked to you?--who danced with you?"
"No one, except Sara."
"Poor child!" was the half involuntary sigh; and Mrs. Rothesay drew her daughter to her with deep tenderness.
It was a strange fate, that made the once slighted child almost the only thing in the world to which Sybilla Rothesay now clung. And yet, so rich, so full had grown the springs of maternal love, long hidden in her nature, that she would not have exchanged their sweetness to be again the petted, wilful, beautiful darling of society, as she was at Stirling. The neglected wife--the often-ailing mother--dependent on her daughter"s tenderness, was happier and nearer to heaven than she had ever been in her life.
Mrs. Rothesay regarded Olive earnestly. "You look as ill as if you had been up all night; and yet you came to bed tolerably early, and I thought you slept, you lay so quiet. Was it so, darling?"
"Not quite; I was thinking," said Olive, truthfully, though her face flushed, for she would fain have kept her bitter thoughts from her mother. Just then, Mrs. Rothesay started at the sound of the hall-bell.
"Is that your father come home? He said he might, today or to-morrow."
Olive went down-stairs. It was only a letter, to say Captain Rothesay would return that day, and would bring--most rare circ.u.mstance!--some guests to visit them. Olive seemed to shrink painfully at this news.
"What, my child, are you not pleased?--It will make the house less dull for you."
"No, no--I do not wish; oh, mamma! if I could only shut myself up, and never see any one but you"---- And Olive turned very pale. At last, resolutely trying to speak without any show of trouble, she continued--"I have found out something that I never knew--at least, never thought of before--that I am different from other girls. Oh, mother! am I really deformed?"
She spoke with much agitation. Mrs. Rothesay burst into tears.
"Oh, Olive! how wretched you make me, to talk thus. Unhappy mother that I am! Why should Heaven have punished me thus?"
"Punished you, mother?"
"Nay, my child--my poor, innocent child! I did not mean that," cried Mrs. Rothesay, embracing her with a pa.s.sionate revulsion of feeling.
But the word was said,--to linger for ever after on Olive"s mind. It brought back the look once written on her childish memory--grown faint, but never quite erased--her father"s first look. She understood it now.
Mrs. Rothesay continued weeping, and Olive had to cast aside all other feelings in the care of soothing her mother. She succeeded at last; but she learnt at the same time that on this one subject there must be silence between them for ever. It seemed, also, to her sensitive nature, as if every tear and every complaining word were a reproach to the mother that bore her. Henceforth her bitter thoughts must be wrestled with alone.
She did so wrestle with them. She walked out into her favourite meadow--now lying in the silent, frost-bound mistiness of a January day.
It was where she had often been in summer with Sara, and Charles Geddes, and the little boys. Now everything seemed so wintry and lonely. What if her own future life were so--one long winter-day, wherein was neither beauty, gladness, nor love?