Chapter Eight.The Kindest and Most Comforting Way.Maggie was once more alone. She stood quite still for nearly half a minute in the centre of her room. Her hands were clasped tightly together. The expression of her face and her attitude showed such intense feeling as to be almost theatrical. This was no acting, however; it was Maggie’s nature to throw herself into attitudes before spectators or alone. She required some vent for all her passionate excitement, and what her girl-friends called Miss Oliphant’s poses may have afforded her a certain measure of relief.After standing still for these few seconds, she ran to the door and drew the bolt; then, sinking down once more in her easy-chair, she took up the letter which Rosalind Merton had brought her, and began to read the contents. Four sides of a sheet of paper were covered with small, close writing, the neat somewhat cramped hand which at that time characterised the men of St. Hilda’s College.Maggie’s eyes seemed to fly over the writing; they absorbed the sense, they took the full meaning out of each word. At last all was known to her, burnt in, indeed, upon her brain.She crushed the letter suddenly in one of her hands, then raised it to her lips and kissed it; then fiercely, as though she hated it, tossed it into the fire. After this she sat quiet, her hands folded meekly, her head slightly bent. The colour gradually left her cheeks. She looked dead tired and languid. After a time she arose, and, walking very slowly across her room, sat down by her bureau, and drew a sheet of paper before her. As she did so her eyes fell for a moment on the Greek play which had fascinated her an hour ago. She found herself again murmuring some lines fromPrometheus Vinctus:—“O divine ether, and swift-winged winds—”She interrupted herself with a petulant movement. “Folly!” she murmured, pushing the book aside. “Even glorious, great thoughts like those don’t satisfy me. Whoever supposed they would? What was I given a heart for? Why does it beat so fiercely, and long, and love? and why is it wrong—wrong of me to love? Oh, Annabel Lee! oh, darling! if only your wretched Maggie Oliphant had never known you!”Maggie dashed some heavy tears from her eyes, then, taking up her pen, she began to write.“Heath Hall,—“St. Benet’s.—“Dear Mr Hammond—“I should prefer that you did not in future give letters for me to any of my friends here. I do not wish to receive them through the medium of any of my fellow-students. Please understand this. When you have anything to say to me, you can write in the ordinary course of post. I am not ashamed of any slight correspondence we may have together; but I refuse to countenance, or to be in any sense a party to, what may even seem underhand.“I shall try to be at the Marshalls’ on Sunday afternoon, but I have nothing to say in reply to your letter. My views are unalterable.“Yours sincerely,—“Margaret Oliphant.”Maggie did not read the letter after she had written it. She put it into an envelope and directed it. Hers was a large and bold hand, and the address was swiftly written—“Geoffrey Hammond, Esq,“St. Hilda’s,“Kingsdene.”She stamped her letter and, late as it was, took it down herself, and deposited it in the post-bag.The next morning, when the students strolled in to breakfast, many pairs of eyes were raised with a new curiosity to watch Priscilla Peel. Even Maggie, as she drank her coffee, and munched a piece of dry toast, for she was a very poor eater, could not help flashing a keen and interested glance at the young girl as she came into the room.Prissie was the reverse of fashionable in her attire; her neat brown cashmere dress had been made by Aunt Raby. The hemming, the stitching, the gathering, the frilling, which went to make up this useful garment were neat, were even exquisite; but then, Aunt Raby was not gifted with a stylish cut. Prissie’s hair was smoothly parted, but the thick plait on the back of the neck was by no means artistically coiled. The girl’s plain pale face was not set off by the severity of her toilet; there was no touch of spring or brightness anywhere, no look or note which should belong to one so young, unless it was the extreme thinness of her figure.The curious eyes of the students were raised when she appeared, and one or two laughed and turned their heads away. They had heard of her exploit of the night before. Miss Day and Miss Marsh had repeated this good story. It had impressed them at the time, but they did not tell it to others in an impressive way, and the girls, who had not seen Prissie, but had only heard the tale, spoke of her to one another as an “insufferable little prig.”“Isn’t it too absurd,” said Rosalind Merton, sidling up to Maggie, and casting some disdainful glances at poor Priscilla, “the conceit of some people! Of all forms of conceit, preserve me from the priggish style.”“I don’t understand you,” said Maggie, raising her eyes and speaking in her lazy voice. “Are there any prigs about? I don’t see them. Oh, Miss Peel,”—she jumped up hastily—“won’t you sit here by me? I have been reserving this place for you, for I have been so anxious to know if you would do me a kindness. Please sit down, and I’ll tell you what it is. You needn’t wait, Rosalind. What I have got to say is only for Miss Peel’s ears.”Rosalind retired in dudgeon to the other end of the room, and, if the laughing and muttering continued, they now only reached Maggie and Priscilla in the form of very distant murmurs.“How pale you look,” said Maggie, turning to the girl, “and how cold you are! Yes, I am quite sure you are bitterly cold. Now you shall have a good breakfast. Let me help you. Please, do. I’ll go to the side-table, and bring you something so tempting; wait and see.”“You mustn’t trouble, really,” began Prissie Miss Oliphant flashed a brilliant smile at her; Prissie found her words arrested, and, in spite of herself, her coldness began to thaw. Maggie ran over to the side-table, and Priscilla kept repeating under her breath—“She’s not true—she’s beautiful, but she’s false; she has the kindest, sweetest, most comforting way in the world, but she only does it for the sake of an aesthetic pleasure. I ought not to let her. I ought not to speak to her. I ought to go away, and have nothing to do with her proffers of goodwill, and yet somehow or other I can’t resist her.”Maggie came back with some delicately carved chicken and ham, and a hot cup of delicious coffee.“Is not this nice?” she said; “now eat it all up, and speak to me afterwards. Oh, how dreadfully cold you do look!”“I feel cold—in spirit as well as physically,” retorted Priscilla.“Well, let breakfast warm you—and—and—a small dose of the tonic of sympathy, if I may dare to offer it.”Priscilla turned her eyes full upon Miss Oliphant.“Do you mean it?” she said, in a choked kind of voice. “Is that quite true what you said just now?”“True? What a queer child! Of course it is true. What do you take me for? Why should not I sympathise with you?”“I want you to,” said Prissie. Tears filled her eyes; she turned her head away. Maggie gave her hand a squeeze.“Now eat your breakfast,” she said. “I shall glance through my letters while you are busy.”She leant back in her chair, and opened several envelopes. Priscilla ate her chicken and ham, drank her coffee, and felt the benefit of the double tonic which had been administered in so timely a fashion. It was one of Miss Oliphant’s peculiarities to inspire in those she wanted to fascinate absolute and almost unreasoning faith for the time being. Doubts would and might return in her absence, but in the sunshine of her particularly genial manner they found it hard to live.After breakfast the girls were leaving the room together, when Miss Heath, the Principal of the Hall in which they resided, came into the room. She was a tall, stately woman of about thirty-five, and had seen very little of Priscilla since her arrival, but now she stopped to give both girls a special greeting. Her manners were very frank and pleasant.“My dear,” she said to Prissie, “I have been anxious to cultivate your acquaintance. Will you come and have tea with me in my room this afternoon? And, Maggie, dear, will you come with Miss Peel?”She laid her hand on Maggie’s shoulder as she spoke, looked swiftly into the young girl’s face, then turned with a glance of great interest to Priscilla.“You will both come,” she said. “That is right. I won’t ask anyone else. We shall have a cosy time together, and Miss Peel can tell me all about her studies, and aims, and ambitions.”“Thank you,” said Maggie, “I’ll answer for Miss Peel. We’ll both come; we shall be delighted.”Miss Heath nodded to the pair, and walked swiftly down the long hall to the dons’ special entrance, where she disappeared.“Is not she charming?” whispered Maggie. “Did I not tell you you would fall in love with Dorothea?”“But I have not,” said Priscilla, colouring. “And I don’t know whether she is charming or not.”Maggie checked a petulant exclamation, which was rising to her lips. She was conscious of a curious desire to win her queer young companion’s goodwill and sympathy.“Never mind,” she said, “the moment of victory is only delayed. You will tell a very different story after you have had tea with Dorothea this evening. Now, let us come and look at the notice-boards, and see what the day’s programme is. By the way, are you going to attend any lectures this morning?”“Yes, two,” said Prissie—“one on Middle History, from eleven to twelve, and I have a French lecture afterwards.”“Well, I am not doing anything this morning. I wish you were not. We might have taken a long walk together. Don’t you love long walks?”“Oh, yes; but there is no time for anything of that sort here—nor—” Priscilla hesitated. “I don’t think there’s space for a very long walk here,” she added. The colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke, and her eyes looked wistful.Maggie laughed.“Whatareyour ideas with regard to space, Miss Peel? The whole of Kingsdene-shire lies before us. We are untrammelled, and can go where we please. Is not that a sufficiently broad area for our roamings?”“But there is no sea,” said Priscilla. “We should never have time to walk from here to the sea, and nothing—nothing else seems worth while.”“Oh, you have lived by the sea?”“Yes, all my life. When I was a little girl, my home was near Whitby, in Yorkshire, and lately I have lived close to Lyme—two extreme points of England, you will say; but no matter, the sea is the same. To walk for miles on the top of the cliffs, that means exercise.”“Ah,” said Maggie, with a sigh, “I understand you—I know what you mean.”She spoke quickly, as she always did under the least touch of excitement. “Such a walk means, more than exercise; it means thought, aspiration. Your brain seems to expand then, and ideas come. Of course you don’t care for poor flat Kingsdene-shire.”Priscilla turned and stared at Miss Oliphant. Maggie laughed; she raised her hand to her forehead.“I must not talk any more,” she said, turning pale, and shrinking into herself. “Forgive my rhapsodies. You’ll understand what they are worth when you know me better. Oh, by the way, will you come with me to Kingsdene on Sunday? We can go to the three o’clock service at the chapel, and afterwards have tea with some friends of mine—the Marshalls—they’d be delighted to see you.”“What chapel is the service at?” inquired Priscilla.“What chapel? Is there a second? Come with me, and you will never ask that question again. Get under the shade of St. Hilda’s—see once those fretted roofs, and those painted windows. Listen but once to that angel choir, and then dare to ask me what chapel I mean, when I invite you to come and taste of heaven beforehand.”“Thank you,” said Priscilla, “I’ll come. I cannot be expected to know about things before I have heard of them, can I? But I am very much obliged to you, and I shall be delighted to come.”
Maggie was once more alone. She stood quite still for nearly half a minute in the centre of her room. Her hands were clasped tightly together. The expression of her face and her attitude showed such intense feeling as to be almost theatrical. This was no acting, however; it was Maggie’s nature to throw herself into attitudes before spectators or alone. She required some vent for all her passionate excitement, and what her girl-friends called Miss Oliphant’s poses may have afforded her a certain measure of relief.
After standing still for these few seconds, she ran to the door and drew the bolt; then, sinking down once more in her easy-chair, she took up the letter which Rosalind Merton had brought her, and began to read the contents. Four sides of a sheet of paper were covered with small, close writing, the neat somewhat cramped hand which at that time characterised the men of St. Hilda’s College.
Maggie’s eyes seemed to fly over the writing; they absorbed the sense, they took the full meaning out of each word. At last all was known to her, burnt in, indeed, upon her brain.
She crushed the letter suddenly in one of her hands, then raised it to her lips and kissed it; then fiercely, as though she hated it, tossed it into the fire. After this she sat quiet, her hands folded meekly, her head slightly bent. The colour gradually left her cheeks. She looked dead tired and languid. After a time she arose, and, walking very slowly across her room, sat down by her bureau, and drew a sheet of paper before her. As she did so her eyes fell for a moment on the Greek play which had fascinated her an hour ago. She found herself again murmuring some lines fromPrometheus Vinctus:—
“O divine ether, and swift-winged winds—”
She interrupted herself with a petulant movement. “Folly!” she murmured, pushing the book aside. “Even glorious, great thoughts like those don’t satisfy me. Whoever supposed they would? What was I given a heart for? Why does it beat so fiercely, and long, and love? and why is it wrong—wrong of me to love? Oh, Annabel Lee! oh, darling! if only your wretched Maggie Oliphant had never known you!”
Maggie dashed some heavy tears from her eyes, then, taking up her pen, she began to write.
“Heath Hall,—“St. Benet’s.—“Dear Mr Hammond—“I should prefer that you did not in future give letters for me to any of my friends here. I do not wish to receive them through the medium of any of my fellow-students. Please understand this. When you have anything to say to me, you can write in the ordinary course of post. I am not ashamed of any slight correspondence we may have together; but I refuse to countenance, or to be in any sense a party to, what may even seem underhand.“I shall try to be at the Marshalls’ on Sunday afternoon, but I have nothing to say in reply to your letter. My views are unalterable.“Yours sincerely,—“Margaret Oliphant.”
“Heath Hall,—“St. Benet’s.—“Dear Mr Hammond—“I should prefer that you did not in future give letters for me to any of my friends here. I do not wish to receive them through the medium of any of my fellow-students. Please understand this. When you have anything to say to me, you can write in the ordinary course of post. I am not ashamed of any slight correspondence we may have together; but I refuse to countenance, or to be in any sense a party to, what may even seem underhand.“I shall try to be at the Marshalls’ on Sunday afternoon, but I have nothing to say in reply to your letter. My views are unalterable.“Yours sincerely,—“Margaret Oliphant.”
Maggie did not read the letter after she had written it. She put it into an envelope and directed it. Hers was a large and bold hand, and the address was swiftly written—
“Geoffrey Hammond, Esq,“St. Hilda’s,“Kingsdene.”
“Geoffrey Hammond, Esq,“St. Hilda’s,“Kingsdene.”
She stamped her letter and, late as it was, took it down herself, and deposited it in the post-bag.
The next morning, when the students strolled in to breakfast, many pairs of eyes were raised with a new curiosity to watch Priscilla Peel. Even Maggie, as she drank her coffee, and munched a piece of dry toast, for she was a very poor eater, could not help flashing a keen and interested glance at the young girl as she came into the room.
Prissie was the reverse of fashionable in her attire; her neat brown cashmere dress had been made by Aunt Raby. The hemming, the stitching, the gathering, the frilling, which went to make up this useful garment were neat, were even exquisite; but then, Aunt Raby was not gifted with a stylish cut. Prissie’s hair was smoothly parted, but the thick plait on the back of the neck was by no means artistically coiled. The girl’s plain pale face was not set off by the severity of her toilet; there was no touch of spring or brightness anywhere, no look or note which should belong to one so young, unless it was the extreme thinness of her figure.
The curious eyes of the students were raised when she appeared, and one or two laughed and turned their heads away. They had heard of her exploit of the night before. Miss Day and Miss Marsh had repeated this good story. It had impressed them at the time, but they did not tell it to others in an impressive way, and the girls, who had not seen Prissie, but had only heard the tale, spoke of her to one another as an “insufferable little prig.”
“Isn’t it too absurd,” said Rosalind Merton, sidling up to Maggie, and casting some disdainful glances at poor Priscilla, “the conceit of some people! Of all forms of conceit, preserve me from the priggish style.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Maggie, raising her eyes and speaking in her lazy voice. “Are there any prigs about? I don’t see them. Oh, Miss Peel,”—she jumped up hastily—“won’t you sit here by me? I have been reserving this place for you, for I have been so anxious to know if you would do me a kindness. Please sit down, and I’ll tell you what it is. You needn’t wait, Rosalind. What I have got to say is only for Miss Peel’s ears.”
Rosalind retired in dudgeon to the other end of the room, and, if the laughing and muttering continued, they now only reached Maggie and Priscilla in the form of very distant murmurs.
“How pale you look,” said Maggie, turning to the girl, “and how cold you are! Yes, I am quite sure you are bitterly cold. Now you shall have a good breakfast. Let me help you. Please, do. I’ll go to the side-table, and bring you something so tempting; wait and see.”
“You mustn’t trouble, really,” began Prissie Miss Oliphant flashed a brilliant smile at her; Prissie found her words arrested, and, in spite of herself, her coldness began to thaw. Maggie ran over to the side-table, and Priscilla kept repeating under her breath—
“She’s not true—she’s beautiful, but she’s false; she has the kindest, sweetest, most comforting way in the world, but she only does it for the sake of an aesthetic pleasure. I ought not to let her. I ought not to speak to her. I ought to go away, and have nothing to do with her proffers of goodwill, and yet somehow or other I can’t resist her.”
Maggie came back with some delicately carved chicken and ham, and a hot cup of delicious coffee.
“Is not this nice?” she said; “now eat it all up, and speak to me afterwards. Oh, how dreadfully cold you do look!”
“I feel cold—in spirit as well as physically,” retorted Priscilla.
“Well, let breakfast warm you—and—and—a small dose of the tonic of sympathy, if I may dare to offer it.”
Priscilla turned her eyes full upon Miss Oliphant.
“Do you mean it?” she said, in a choked kind of voice. “Is that quite true what you said just now?”
“True? What a queer child! Of course it is true. What do you take me for? Why should not I sympathise with you?”
“I want you to,” said Prissie. Tears filled her eyes; she turned her head away. Maggie gave her hand a squeeze.
“Now eat your breakfast,” she said. “I shall glance through my letters while you are busy.”
She leant back in her chair, and opened several envelopes. Priscilla ate her chicken and ham, drank her coffee, and felt the benefit of the double tonic which had been administered in so timely a fashion. It was one of Miss Oliphant’s peculiarities to inspire in those she wanted to fascinate absolute and almost unreasoning faith for the time being. Doubts would and might return in her absence, but in the sunshine of her particularly genial manner they found it hard to live.
After breakfast the girls were leaving the room together, when Miss Heath, the Principal of the Hall in which they resided, came into the room. She was a tall, stately woman of about thirty-five, and had seen very little of Priscilla since her arrival, but now she stopped to give both girls a special greeting. Her manners were very frank and pleasant.
“My dear,” she said to Prissie, “I have been anxious to cultivate your acquaintance. Will you come and have tea with me in my room this afternoon? And, Maggie, dear, will you come with Miss Peel?”
She laid her hand on Maggie’s shoulder as she spoke, looked swiftly into the young girl’s face, then turned with a glance of great interest to Priscilla.
“You will both come,” she said. “That is right. I won’t ask anyone else. We shall have a cosy time together, and Miss Peel can tell me all about her studies, and aims, and ambitions.”
“Thank you,” said Maggie, “I’ll answer for Miss Peel. We’ll both come; we shall be delighted.”
Miss Heath nodded to the pair, and walked swiftly down the long hall to the dons’ special entrance, where she disappeared.
“Is not she charming?” whispered Maggie. “Did I not tell you you would fall in love with Dorothea?”
“But I have not,” said Priscilla, colouring. “And I don’t know whether she is charming or not.”
Maggie checked a petulant exclamation, which was rising to her lips. She was conscious of a curious desire to win her queer young companion’s goodwill and sympathy.
“Never mind,” she said, “the moment of victory is only delayed. You will tell a very different story after you have had tea with Dorothea this evening. Now, let us come and look at the notice-boards, and see what the day’s programme is. By the way, are you going to attend any lectures this morning?”
“Yes, two,” said Prissie—“one on Middle History, from eleven to twelve, and I have a French lecture afterwards.”
“Well, I am not doing anything this morning. I wish you were not. We might have taken a long walk together. Don’t you love long walks?”
“Oh, yes; but there is no time for anything of that sort here—nor—” Priscilla hesitated. “I don’t think there’s space for a very long walk here,” she added. The colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke, and her eyes looked wistful.
Maggie laughed.
“Whatareyour ideas with regard to space, Miss Peel? The whole of Kingsdene-shire lies before us. We are untrammelled, and can go where we please. Is not that a sufficiently broad area for our roamings?”
“But there is no sea,” said Priscilla. “We should never have time to walk from here to the sea, and nothing—nothing else seems worth while.”
“Oh, you have lived by the sea?”
“Yes, all my life. When I was a little girl, my home was near Whitby, in Yorkshire, and lately I have lived close to Lyme—two extreme points of England, you will say; but no matter, the sea is the same. To walk for miles on the top of the cliffs, that means exercise.”
“Ah,” said Maggie, with a sigh, “I understand you—I know what you mean.”
She spoke quickly, as she always did under the least touch of excitement. “Such a walk means, more than exercise; it means thought, aspiration. Your brain seems to expand then, and ideas come. Of course you don’t care for poor flat Kingsdene-shire.”
Priscilla turned and stared at Miss Oliphant. Maggie laughed; she raised her hand to her forehead.
“I must not talk any more,” she said, turning pale, and shrinking into herself. “Forgive my rhapsodies. You’ll understand what they are worth when you know me better. Oh, by the way, will you come with me to Kingsdene on Sunday? We can go to the three o’clock service at the chapel, and afterwards have tea with some friends of mine—the Marshalls—they’d be delighted to see you.”
“What chapel is the service at?” inquired Priscilla.
“What chapel? Is there a second? Come with me, and you will never ask that question again. Get under the shade of St. Hilda’s—see once those fretted roofs, and those painted windows. Listen but once to that angel choir, and then dare to ask me what chapel I mean, when I invite you to come and taste of heaven beforehand.”
“Thank you,” said Priscilla, “I’ll come. I cannot be expected to know about things before I have heard of them, can I? But I am very much obliged to you, and I shall be delighted to come.”
Chapter Nine.A New Like.The Vice-Principal’s room at Heath Hall was double the size of those occupied by the students. Miss Heath had, of course, a separate sleeping apartment. Her delightful sitting-room, therefore, had not the curtained-off effect which took slightly from the charm of the students’ rooms. In summer Miss Heath’s room was beautiful, for the two deep bay-windows—one facing west, the other south—looked out upon smoothly kept lawns and flower-beds, upon tall elm trees, and also upon a distant peep of the river, for which Kingsdene was famous, and some of the spires and towers of the old churches. In winter, too, however—and winter had almost come now—the Vice-Principal’s room had a unique effect, and Priscilla never forgot the first time she saw it. The young girl stepped across the threshold of a new life on this first evening. She would always remember it.It was getting dark, and curtains were drawn round the cosy bays, and the firelight blazed cheerfully.Prissie was a little before rather than behind her time, and there was no one in the room to greet her when she entered. She felt so overmastered by shyness, however, that this was almost a relief, and she sank down into one of the many comfortable chairs with a feeling of thankfulness, and looked around her.The next moment a servant entered with a lamp, covered with a gold silk shade. She placed it on a table near the fire, and lit a few candles, which stood on carved brackets round the walls. Then Prissie saw what made her forget Miss Heath, and her shyness, and all else—a great bank of flowers, which stretched across one complete angle of the room. There were some roses, some chrysanthemums, some geraniums. They were cunningly arranged in pots, but had the effect at a little distance of a gay, tropical garden. Prissie rushed to them, knelt down by a tall, white, Japanese chrysanthemum, and buried her face in its long, wavy petals.Prissie had never seen such flowers, and she loved all flowers. Her heart swelled with a kind of wonder; and when, the next moment, she felt a light and very soft kiss on her forehead she was scarcely surprised.“My dear child,” said Miss Heath, “I am so sorry I was not in the room when you came in; but, never mind, my flowers gave you welcome.”“Yes,” said Prissie, standing up pale, and with a luminous light in her eyes.“You love flowers?” said Miss Heath, giving her a keen glance.“Oh, yes; but I did not know—I could not guess—that any flower could be as beautiful as this,” and she touched the great white chrysanthemum with her finger.“Yes, and there are some flowers even more wonderful. Have you ever seen orchids?”“No.”“Then you have something to live for. Orchids are ordinary flowers spiritualised. They have a glamour over them. We have good orchid shows sometimes at Kingsdene. I will take you to the next.”The servant brought in tea, and Miss Heath placed Prissie in a comfortable chair, where she was neither oppressed by lamplight nor firelight.“A shy little soul like this will love the shade,” she said to herself. “For all her plainness this is no ordinary girl, and I mean to draw her out presently. What a brow she has, and what a light came into her eyes when she looked at my white chrysanthemum.”There came a tap at the door, and Maggie Oliphant entered, looking fresh and bright. She gave Prissie an affectionate glance and nod, and then began to busy herself, helping Miss Heath with the tea. During the meal a little pleasant murmur of conversation was kept up. Miss Heath and Maggie exchanged ideas. They even entered upon one or two delicate little skirmishes, each cleverly arguing a slight point on which they appeared to differ. Maggie could make smart repartees, and Miss Heath could parry her graceful young adversary’s home-thrusts with excellent effect.They talked of one or two books which were then under discussion; they said a little about music, and a word or two with regard to the pictures which were just then causing talk among the art critics in London. It was all new to Prissie, this “light, airy, nothing” kind of talk. It was not study; could it be classed under the head of recreation?Prissie was accustomed to classify everything, but she did not know under what head to put this pleasant conversation. She was bewildered, puzzled. She listened without losing a word. She forgot herself absolutely.Miss Heath, however, who knew Maggie Oliphant, but did not know Prissie, was observant of the silent young stranger through all the delights of her pleasant talk. Almost imperceptibly she got Prissie to say a word or two. She paused when she saw a question in Prissie’s eyes, and her timid and gentle words were listened to with deference. By slow degrees Maggie was the silent one, and Priscilla and Miss Heath held the field between them.“No, I have never been properly educated,” Prissie was saying. “I have never gone to a high school. I don’t do things in the regular fashion. I was so afraid I should not be able to pass the entrance examination for St. Benet’s. I was delighted when I found that I had done so.”“You passed the examination creditably,” said Miss Heath. “I have looked through your papers. Your answers were not stereotyped. They were much better; they were thoughtful. Whoever has educated you, you have been well taught. You can think.”“Oh, yes, my dear friend, Mr Hayes, always said that was the first thing.”“Ah, that accounts for it,” replied Miss Heath. “You have had the advantage of listening to a cultivated man’s conversation. You ought to do very well here. What do you mean to take up?”“Oh, everything. I can’t know too much.”Miss Heath laughed, and looked at Maggie. Maggie was lying back in her easy-chair, her head resting luxuriously against a dark velvet cushion. She was tapping the floor slightly with her small foot; her eyes were fixed on Prissie. When Miss Heath laughed, Maggie echoed the sound, but both laughs were in the sweetest sympathy.“You must not overwork yourself, my dear,” said Miss Heath. “That would be a very false beginning. I think—I am sure—that you have an earnest and ardent nature, but you must avoid an extreme which will only end in disaster.”Prissie frowned.“What do you mean?” she said. “I have come here to study. It has been done with such, such difficulty. It would be cruel to waste a moment. I mustn’t; it wouldn’t be right. You can’t mean what you say.”Miss Heath was silent. She thought it kinder to look away from Prissie. After a moment she said, in a voice which she on purpose made intensely quiet and matter-of-fact—“Many girls come to St. Benet’s, Miss Peel, who are, I fancy, circumstanced like you. Their friends find it difficult to send them here, but they make the sacrifice, sometimes in one way, sometimes in another—and the girls come. They know it is their duty to study; they have an ulterior motive, which underlies everything else. They know by-and-by they must pay back.”“Oh, yes,” said Priscilla, starting forward, and a flush coming into her face. “I know that—that is what it is for. To pay back worthily—to give back a thousandfold what you have received. Those girls can’t be idle, can they?” she added in a gentle, piteous sort of way.“My dear, there have been several such girls at St. Benet’s, and none of them has been idle; they have been best and first among our students. Many of them have done more than well—many of them have brought fame to St. Benet’s. They are in the world now, and earning honourable livelihoods as teachers, or in other departments where cultivated women can alone take the field. These girls are all paying back a thousandfold those who have helped them.”“Yes,” said Prissie.“You would like to follow their example?”“Oh, yes; please tell me about them.”“Some of them were like you, and thought they would take up everything—everything I mean in the scholastic line. They filled their days with lectures, and studied into the short hours of the night. Maggie, dear, please tell Miss Peel about Good-night and Good-morning.”“They were such a funny pair,” said Maggie. “They had rooms next to each other in our corridor, Miss Peel. They were both studying for a tripos, and during the term before the examination one went to bed at four, and one got up at four. Mary Joliffe used to go into Susan Martin’s room and say good-morning to her. Susan used to raise such a white face and say, ‘Good-night, my dear.’ Well, poor things, neither of them got a tripos; they worked too hard.”“The simple English of all this,” said Miss Heath, “is that the successful girl here is the girl who takes advantage of the whole life mapped out for her, who divides her time between play and work, who joins the clubs, and enters heartily into the social life of the place. Yes,” she added, looking suddenly full at Priscilla, “these last words of mine may seem strange to you, dear. Believe me, however, they are true. But I know,” she added with a sigh, “that it takes rather an old person to believe in the education ofplay.”Priscilla looked unconvinced.“I must do what you wish,” she said, “for, of course, you ought to know.”“What a lame kind of assent, my love! Maggie, you will have to gently lure this young person into the paths of frivolity. I promise you, my dear, that you shall be a very cultivated woman some day; but I only promise this if you will take advantage of all sides of the pleasant life here. Now tell me what are your particular tastes? What branch of study do you like best?”“I love Latin and Greek better than anything else in the world.”“Do you truly?” said Maggie, suddenly starting forward. “Then in one thing we have a great sympathy. What have you read? Do tell me.”Miss Heath stepped discreetly into the background. The two girls conversed for a long time together.
The Vice-Principal’s room at Heath Hall was double the size of those occupied by the students. Miss Heath had, of course, a separate sleeping apartment. Her delightful sitting-room, therefore, had not the curtained-off effect which took slightly from the charm of the students’ rooms. In summer Miss Heath’s room was beautiful, for the two deep bay-windows—one facing west, the other south—looked out upon smoothly kept lawns and flower-beds, upon tall elm trees, and also upon a distant peep of the river, for which Kingsdene was famous, and some of the spires and towers of the old churches. In winter, too, however—and winter had almost come now—the Vice-Principal’s room had a unique effect, and Priscilla never forgot the first time she saw it. The young girl stepped across the threshold of a new life on this first evening. She would always remember it.
It was getting dark, and curtains were drawn round the cosy bays, and the firelight blazed cheerfully.
Prissie was a little before rather than behind her time, and there was no one in the room to greet her when she entered. She felt so overmastered by shyness, however, that this was almost a relief, and she sank down into one of the many comfortable chairs with a feeling of thankfulness, and looked around her.
The next moment a servant entered with a lamp, covered with a gold silk shade. She placed it on a table near the fire, and lit a few candles, which stood on carved brackets round the walls. Then Prissie saw what made her forget Miss Heath, and her shyness, and all else—a great bank of flowers, which stretched across one complete angle of the room. There were some roses, some chrysanthemums, some geraniums. They were cunningly arranged in pots, but had the effect at a little distance of a gay, tropical garden. Prissie rushed to them, knelt down by a tall, white, Japanese chrysanthemum, and buried her face in its long, wavy petals.
Prissie had never seen such flowers, and she loved all flowers. Her heart swelled with a kind of wonder; and when, the next moment, she felt a light and very soft kiss on her forehead she was scarcely surprised.
“My dear child,” said Miss Heath, “I am so sorry I was not in the room when you came in; but, never mind, my flowers gave you welcome.”
“Yes,” said Prissie, standing up pale, and with a luminous light in her eyes.
“You love flowers?” said Miss Heath, giving her a keen glance.
“Oh, yes; but I did not know—I could not guess—that any flower could be as beautiful as this,” and she touched the great white chrysanthemum with her finger.
“Yes, and there are some flowers even more wonderful. Have you ever seen orchids?”
“No.”
“Then you have something to live for. Orchids are ordinary flowers spiritualised. They have a glamour over them. We have good orchid shows sometimes at Kingsdene. I will take you to the next.”
The servant brought in tea, and Miss Heath placed Prissie in a comfortable chair, where she was neither oppressed by lamplight nor firelight.
“A shy little soul like this will love the shade,” she said to herself. “For all her plainness this is no ordinary girl, and I mean to draw her out presently. What a brow she has, and what a light came into her eyes when she looked at my white chrysanthemum.”
There came a tap at the door, and Maggie Oliphant entered, looking fresh and bright. She gave Prissie an affectionate glance and nod, and then began to busy herself, helping Miss Heath with the tea. During the meal a little pleasant murmur of conversation was kept up. Miss Heath and Maggie exchanged ideas. They even entered upon one or two delicate little skirmishes, each cleverly arguing a slight point on which they appeared to differ. Maggie could make smart repartees, and Miss Heath could parry her graceful young adversary’s home-thrusts with excellent effect.
They talked of one or two books which were then under discussion; they said a little about music, and a word or two with regard to the pictures which were just then causing talk among the art critics in London. It was all new to Prissie, this “light, airy, nothing” kind of talk. It was not study; could it be classed under the head of recreation?
Prissie was accustomed to classify everything, but she did not know under what head to put this pleasant conversation. She was bewildered, puzzled. She listened without losing a word. She forgot herself absolutely.
Miss Heath, however, who knew Maggie Oliphant, but did not know Prissie, was observant of the silent young stranger through all the delights of her pleasant talk. Almost imperceptibly she got Prissie to say a word or two. She paused when she saw a question in Prissie’s eyes, and her timid and gentle words were listened to with deference. By slow degrees Maggie was the silent one, and Priscilla and Miss Heath held the field between them.
“No, I have never been properly educated,” Prissie was saying. “I have never gone to a high school. I don’t do things in the regular fashion. I was so afraid I should not be able to pass the entrance examination for St. Benet’s. I was delighted when I found that I had done so.”
“You passed the examination creditably,” said Miss Heath. “I have looked through your papers. Your answers were not stereotyped. They were much better; they were thoughtful. Whoever has educated you, you have been well taught. You can think.”
“Oh, yes, my dear friend, Mr Hayes, always said that was the first thing.”
“Ah, that accounts for it,” replied Miss Heath. “You have had the advantage of listening to a cultivated man’s conversation. You ought to do very well here. What do you mean to take up?”
“Oh, everything. I can’t know too much.”
Miss Heath laughed, and looked at Maggie. Maggie was lying back in her easy-chair, her head resting luxuriously against a dark velvet cushion. She was tapping the floor slightly with her small foot; her eyes were fixed on Prissie. When Miss Heath laughed, Maggie echoed the sound, but both laughs were in the sweetest sympathy.
“You must not overwork yourself, my dear,” said Miss Heath. “That would be a very false beginning. I think—I am sure—that you have an earnest and ardent nature, but you must avoid an extreme which will only end in disaster.”
Prissie frowned.
“What do you mean?” she said. “I have come here to study. It has been done with such, such difficulty. It would be cruel to waste a moment. I mustn’t; it wouldn’t be right. You can’t mean what you say.”
Miss Heath was silent. She thought it kinder to look away from Prissie. After a moment she said, in a voice which she on purpose made intensely quiet and matter-of-fact—
“Many girls come to St. Benet’s, Miss Peel, who are, I fancy, circumstanced like you. Their friends find it difficult to send them here, but they make the sacrifice, sometimes in one way, sometimes in another—and the girls come. They know it is their duty to study; they have an ulterior motive, which underlies everything else. They know by-and-by they must pay back.”
“Oh, yes,” said Priscilla, starting forward, and a flush coming into her face. “I know that—that is what it is for. To pay back worthily—to give back a thousandfold what you have received. Those girls can’t be idle, can they?” she added in a gentle, piteous sort of way.
“My dear, there have been several such girls at St. Benet’s, and none of them has been idle; they have been best and first among our students. Many of them have done more than well—many of them have brought fame to St. Benet’s. They are in the world now, and earning honourable livelihoods as teachers, or in other departments where cultivated women can alone take the field. These girls are all paying back a thousandfold those who have helped them.”
“Yes,” said Prissie.
“You would like to follow their example?”
“Oh, yes; please tell me about them.”
“Some of them were like you, and thought they would take up everything—everything I mean in the scholastic line. They filled their days with lectures, and studied into the short hours of the night. Maggie, dear, please tell Miss Peel about Good-night and Good-morning.”
“They were such a funny pair,” said Maggie. “They had rooms next to each other in our corridor, Miss Peel. They were both studying for a tripos, and during the term before the examination one went to bed at four, and one got up at four. Mary Joliffe used to go into Susan Martin’s room and say good-morning to her. Susan used to raise such a white face and say, ‘Good-night, my dear.’ Well, poor things, neither of them got a tripos; they worked too hard.”
“The simple English of all this,” said Miss Heath, “is that the successful girl here is the girl who takes advantage of the whole life mapped out for her, who divides her time between play and work, who joins the clubs, and enters heartily into the social life of the place. Yes,” she added, looking suddenly full at Priscilla, “these last words of mine may seem strange to you, dear. Believe me, however, they are true. But I know,” she added with a sigh, “that it takes rather an old person to believe in the education ofplay.”
Priscilla looked unconvinced.
“I must do what you wish,” she said, “for, of course, you ought to know.”
“What a lame kind of assent, my love! Maggie, you will have to gently lure this young person into the paths of frivolity. I promise you, my dear, that you shall be a very cultivated woman some day; but I only promise this if you will take advantage of all sides of the pleasant life here. Now tell me what are your particular tastes? What branch of study do you like best?”
“I love Latin and Greek better than anything else in the world.”
“Do you truly?” said Maggie, suddenly starting forward. “Then in one thing we have a great sympathy. What have you read? Do tell me.”
Miss Heath stepped discreetly into the background. The two girls conversed for a long time together.
Chapter Ten.St. Hilda’s Chapel.“Here we are now,” said Maggie Oliphant, touching her young companion; “we are in good time; this is the outer chapel. Yes, I know all that you are thinking, but you need not speak: I did not want to speak the first time I came to St. Hilda’s. Just follow me quickly. I know this verger; he will put us into two stalls: then it will be perfect.”“Yes,” answered Priscilla. She spoke in an awed kind of voice. The cool effect of the dark oak, combined with the richness of the many shafts of coloured light coming from the magnificent windows, gave her own face a curious expression. Was it caused by emotion, or by the strange lights in the chapel?Maggie glanced at her, touched her hand for a moment, and then hurried forward to her seat.The girls were accommodated with stalls just above the choir; they could read out of the college prayer-books, and had a fine view of the church.The congregation streamed in, the choir followed; the doors between the chapel and ante-chapel were shut, the curtains were dropped, and the service began.There is no better musical service in England than that which Sunday after Sunday is conducted at St. Hilda’s Chapel at Kingsdene. The harmony and the richness of the sounds which fill that old chapel can scarcely be surpassed. The boys send up notes clear and sweet as nightingales’ into the fretted arches of the roof; the men’s deeper notes swell the music until it breaks on the ears in a full tide of perfect harmony; the great organ fills in the breaks and pauses. This splendid service of song seems to reach perfection. In its way earth cannot give anything more perfect.Maggie Oliphant did not come very often to St. Hilda’s. At one time she was a constant worshipper there; but that was a year ago, before something happened which changed her. Then Sunday after Sunday two lovely girls used to walk up the aisle side by side. The verger knew them, and reserved their favourite stalls for them. They used to kneel together, and listen to the service, and, what is more, take part in it.But a time came when one of the girls could never return to St. Hilda’s, and the other, people said, did not care to sit in the old seat without her. They said she missed her friend, and was more cut up than anyone else at the sudden death of one so fair and lovely.When Maggie took her place in the old stall to-day more than one person turned to look at her with interest.Maggie always made a picturesque effect; she wore a large hat, with a drooping plume of feathers; her dress was very rich and dark; her fair face shone in the midst of these surroundings like an exquisite flower.The service went on. During the prayers Maggie wept, but, when a great wave of song filled the vast building, she forgot all her sorrow; her voice rose with the other singers, clear, sweet, and high. Her soul seemed to go up on her voice, for all the sadness left her face; her eyes looked jubilant.Prissie had never been in any place like St. Hilda’s before. It had been one of her dreams to go to the cathedral at Exeter, but year after year this desire of hers had been put off and put off, and this was the first time in her life that she had ever listened to cathedral music. She was impressed, delighted, but not overpowered.“The organ is magnificent,” she said to herself, “but not grander than the sea. The sea accompanies all the service at the dear little old church at home.” People met, and talked to one another in the green quadrangle outside the chapel. Several other St. Benet’s girls had come to the afternoon service. Amongst them was Miss Day, and that fair, innocent-looking little girl, Rosalind Merton.Miss Day and Miss Merton were together. They were both stepping back to join Maggie and Prissie, when a tall, dark young man came hastily forward, bowed to Rosalind Merton, and, coming up to Maggie Oliphant, shook hands with her.“I saw you in chapel,” he said. “Are you coming to the Marshalls’ to tea?”“I am. Let me introduce to you my friend, Miss Peel. Miss Peel, this is Mr Hammond.”Hammond raised his hat to Prissie, said a courteous word to her, and then turned to speak again to Maggie.The three walked through the gates of the quadrangle, and turned up the narrow, picturesque High Street. It would soon be dusk; a wintry light was over everything. Rosalind Merton and Miss Day followed behind. Maggie, who was always absorbed with the present interest, did not heed or notice them, but Priscilla heard one or two ill-bred giggles.She turned her head with indignation, and received scornful glances from both girls. The four met for a moment at a certain corner. Maggie said something to Annie Day, and introduced Mr Hammond to her. As she did so, Rosalind took the opportunity to come up to Priscilla and whisper to her—“You’re not wanted, you know. You had much better come home with us.”“What do you mean?” replied Prissie in her matter-of-fact voice. “Miss Oliphant has asked me to go with her to the Marshalls’.”“Oh, well—if you care to be in the—” resumed Rosalind.Maggie suddenly flashed round on her.“Come, Miss Peel, we’ll be late,” she said. “Good-bye.” She nodded to Rosalind; her eyes were full of an angry fire; she took Prissie’s hand, and hurried down the street.The two girls walked away, still giggling; a deep colour mantled Maggie’s cheeks. She turned and began to talk desperately to Mr Hammond. Her tone was flippant; her silvery laughter floated in the air. Priscilla turned and gazed at her friend. She was seeing Maggie in yet another aspect. She felt bewildered.The three presently reached a pleasant house standing in its own grounds. They were shown into a large drawing-room, full of young people. Mrs Marshall, a pretty old lady, with white hair, came forward to receive them. Maggie was swept away amid fervent embraces and handshakes to the other end of the room. Mrs Marshall saw that Priscilla looked frightened; she took her under her wing, sat down by her on a sofa, and began to talk.Prissie answered in a sedate voice. Mrs Marshall had a very gentle manner. Prissie began to lose her shyness; she almost imagined that she was back again with Aunt Raby.“My dear, you will like us all very much,” the old lady said. “No life can be so absolutely delightful as that of a girl graduate at St. Benet’s. The freedom from care, the mixture of study with play, the pleasant social life, all combine to make young women both healthy and wise. Ah, my love, we leave out the middle of the old proverb. The girls at St. Benet’s are in that happy period of existence when they need give no thought to money-making.”“Some are,” said Prissie. She sighed, and the colour rushed into her cheeks. Mrs Marshall looked at her affectionately.“Helen,” she called to her grand-daughter who was standing near, “bring Miss Peel another cup of tea—and some cake, Helen—some of that nice cake you made yesterday. Now, my love, I insist. You don’t look at all strong. You really must eat plenty.”Helen Marshall supplied Prissie’s wants, was introduced to her, and, standing near, joined in the talk.“I am so glad you know Miss Oliphant,” said Mrs Marshall. “She will make a delightful friend for you.”“And isn’t she lovely?” said Helen Marshall. “I don’t think I know anyone with such a beautiful face. You ought to be very proud to have her as a friend. Aren’t you very proud?”“No,” said Prissie, “I don’t know that I am. I am not even sure that she is my friend.”“Of course she is—she wrote most affectionately of you to grandmother. You can’t think how nicely she spoke. We were glad, we were delighted, because Maggie—dear Maggie—has had no great friends lately. Now, if you have had your tea, Miss Peel, I’ll take you about the room, and introduce you to one or two people.”Priscilla rose from her seat at once, and the two girls began to move about the crowded drawing-room. Helen Marshall was very slight and graceful; she piloted Prissie here and there without disturbing anyone’s arrangements. At last the two girls found themselves in an immense conservatory, which opened into the drawing-room at one end.A great many of the guests were strolling about here. Priscilla’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the lovely flowers. She forgot herself, and made eager exclamations of ecstasy. Helen, who up to now had thought her a dull sort of girl, began to take an interest in her.“I’ll take you into our fern-house, which is just beyond here,” she said. “We have got such exquisite maidenhairs, and such a splendid Killarney fern. Come; you shall see.”The fern-house seemed to be deserted. Helen opened the door first, and ran forward. Prissie followed. The fern-house was not large; they had almost reached the end when a girl stood up suddenly, and confronted them. The girl was Maggie Oliphant. She was sitting there alone. Her face was absolutely colourless, and tears were lying wet on her eyelashes.Maggie made a swift remark, a passing jest, and hurried past the two into the outer conservatory.Priscilla could scarcely tell why, but at that moment she lost all interest in both ferns and flowers. The look of misery on Maggie’s face seemed to strike her own heart like a chill.“You look tired,” said Helen Marshall, who had not noticed Maggie’s tearful eyes.“Perhaps I am,” answered Prissie.They went back again into the drawing-room. Prissie still could see nothing but Miss Oliphant’s eyes, and the look of distress on her pale face.Helen suddenly made a remark.“Was there ever such a merry creature as Maggie?” she said. “Do look at her now.”Prissie raised her eyes. Miss Oliphant was the centre of a gay group, among whom Geoffrey Hammond stood. Her laugh rang out clear and joyous; her smile was like sunshine, her cheeks had roses in them, and her eyes were as bright as stars.
“Here we are now,” said Maggie Oliphant, touching her young companion; “we are in good time; this is the outer chapel. Yes, I know all that you are thinking, but you need not speak: I did not want to speak the first time I came to St. Hilda’s. Just follow me quickly. I know this verger; he will put us into two stalls: then it will be perfect.”
“Yes,” answered Priscilla. She spoke in an awed kind of voice. The cool effect of the dark oak, combined with the richness of the many shafts of coloured light coming from the magnificent windows, gave her own face a curious expression. Was it caused by emotion, or by the strange lights in the chapel?
Maggie glanced at her, touched her hand for a moment, and then hurried forward to her seat.
The girls were accommodated with stalls just above the choir; they could read out of the college prayer-books, and had a fine view of the church.
The congregation streamed in, the choir followed; the doors between the chapel and ante-chapel were shut, the curtains were dropped, and the service began.
There is no better musical service in England than that which Sunday after Sunday is conducted at St. Hilda’s Chapel at Kingsdene. The harmony and the richness of the sounds which fill that old chapel can scarcely be surpassed. The boys send up notes clear and sweet as nightingales’ into the fretted arches of the roof; the men’s deeper notes swell the music until it breaks on the ears in a full tide of perfect harmony; the great organ fills in the breaks and pauses. This splendid service of song seems to reach perfection. In its way earth cannot give anything more perfect.
Maggie Oliphant did not come very often to St. Hilda’s. At one time she was a constant worshipper there; but that was a year ago, before something happened which changed her. Then Sunday after Sunday two lovely girls used to walk up the aisle side by side. The verger knew them, and reserved their favourite stalls for them. They used to kneel together, and listen to the service, and, what is more, take part in it.
But a time came when one of the girls could never return to St. Hilda’s, and the other, people said, did not care to sit in the old seat without her. They said she missed her friend, and was more cut up than anyone else at the sudden death of one so fair and lovely.
When Maggie took her place in the old stall to-day more than one person turned to look at her with interest.
Maggie always made a picturesque effect; she wore a large hat, with a drooping plume of feathers; her dress was very rich and dark; her fair face shone in the midst of these surroundings like an exquisite flower.
The service went on. During the prayers Maggie wept, but, when a great wave of song filled the vast building, she forgot all her sorrow; her voice rose with the other singers, clear, sweet, and high. Her soul seemed to go up on her voice, for all the sadness left her face; her eyes looked jubilant.
Prissie had never been in any place like St. Hilda’s before. It had been one of her dreams to go to the cathedral at Exeter, but year after year this desire of hers had been put off and put off, and this was the first time in her life that she had ever listened to cathedral music. She was impressed, delighted, but not overpowered.
“The organ is magnificent,” she said to herself, “but not grander than the sea. The sea accompanies all the service at the dear little old church at home.” People met, and talked to one another in the green quadrangle outside the chapel. Several other St. Benet’s girls had come to the afternoon service. Amongst them was Miss Day, and that fair, innocent-looking little girl, Rosalind Merton.
Miss Day and Miss Merton were together. They were both stepping back to join Maggie and Prissie, when a tall, dark young man came hastily forward, bowed to Rosalind Merton, and, coming up to Maggie Oliphant, shook hands with her.
“I saw you in chapel,” he said. “Are you coming to the Marshalls’ to tea?”
“I am. Let me introduce to you my friend, Miss Peel. Miss Peel, this is Mr Hammond.”
Hammond raised his hat to Prissie, said a courteous word to her, and then turned to speak again to Maggie.
The three walked through the gates of the quadrangle, and turned up the narrow, picturesque High Street. It would soon be dusk; a wintry light was over everything. Rosalind Merton and Miss Day followed behind. Maggie, who was always absorbed with the present interest, did not heed or notice them, but Priscilla heard one or two ill-bred giggles.
She turned her head with indignation, and received scornful glances from both girls. The four met for a moment at a certain corner. Maggie said something to Annie Day, and introduced Mr Hammond to her. As she did so, Rosalind took the opportunity to come up to Priscilla and whisper to her—
“You’re not wanted, you know. You had much better come home with us.”
“What do you mean?” replied Prissie in her matter-of-fact voice. “Miss Oliphant has asked me to go with her to the Marshalls’.”
“Oh, well—if you care to be in the—” resumed Rosalind.
Maggie suddenly flashed round on her.
“Come, Miss Peel, we’ll be late,” she said. “Good-bye.” She nodded to Rosalind; her eyes were full of an angry fire; she took Prissie’s hand, and hurried down the street.
The two girls walked away, still giggling; a deep colour mantled Maggie’s cheeks. She turned and began to talk desperately to Mr Hammond. Her tone was flippant; her silvery laughter floated in the air. Priscilla turned and gazed at her friend. She was seeing Maggie in yet another aspect. She felt bewildered.
The three presently reached a pleasant house standing in its own grounds. They were shown into a large drawing-room, full of young people. Mrs Marshall, a pretty old lady, with white hair, came forward to receive them. Maggie was swept away amid fervent embraces and handshakes to the other end of the room. Mrs Marshall saw that Priscilla looked frightened; she took her under her wing, sat down by her on a sofa, and began to talk.
Prissie answered in a sedate voice. Mrs Marshall had a very gentle manner. Prissie began to lose her shyness; she almost imagined that she was back again with Aunt Raby.
“My dear, you will like us all very much,” the old lady said. “No life can be so absolutely delightful as that of a girl graduate at St. Benet’s. The freedom from care, the mixture of study with play, the pleasant social life, all combine to make young women both healthy and wise. Ah, my love, we leave out the middle of the old proverb. The girls at St. Benet’s are in that happy period of existence when they need give no thought to money-making.”
“Some are,” said Prissie. She sighed, and the colour rushed into her cheeks. Mrs Marshall looked at her affectionately.
“Helen,” she called to her grand-daughter who was standing near, “bring Miss Peel another cup of tea—and some cake, Helen—some of that nice cake you made yesterday. Now, my love, I insist. You don’t look at all strong. You really must eat plenty.”
Helen Marshall supplied Prissie’s wants, was introduced to her, and, standing near, joined in the talk.
“I am so glad you know Miss Oliphant,” said Mrs Marshall. “She will make a delightful friend for you.”
“And isn’t she lovely?” said Helen Marshall. “I don’t think I know anyone with such a beautiful face. You ought to be very proud to have her as a friend. Aren’t you very proud?”
“No,” said Prissie, “I don’t know that I am. I am not even sure that she is my friend.”
“Of course she is—she wrote most affectionately of you to grandmother. You can’t think how nicely she spoke. We were glad, we were delighted, because Maggie—dear Maggie—has had no great friends lately. Now, if you have had your tea, Miss Peel, I’ll take you about the room, and introduce you to one or two people.”
Priscilla rose from her seat at once, and the two girls began to move about the crowded drawing-room. Helen Marshall was very slight and graceful; she piloted Prissie here and there without disturbing anyone’s arrangements. At last the two girls found themselves in an immense conservatory, which opened into the drawing-room at one end.
A great many of the guests were strolling about here. Priscilla’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the lovely flowers. She forgot herself, and made eager exclamations of ecstasy. Helen, who up to now had thought her a dull sort of girl, began to take an interest in her.
“I’ll take you into our fern-house, which is just beyond here,” she said. “We have got such exquisite maidenhairs, and such a splendid Killarney fern. Come; you shall see.”
The fern-house seemed to be deserted. Helen opened the door first, and ran forward. Prissie followed. The fern-house was not large; they had almost reached the end when a girl stood up suddenly, and confronted them. The girl was Maggie Oliphant. She was sitting there alone. Her face was absolutely colourless, and tears were lying wet on her eyelashes.
Maggie made a swift remark, a passing jest, and hurried past the two into the outer conservatory.
Priscilla could scarcely tell why, but at that moment she lost all interest in both ferns and flowers. The look of misery on Maggie’s face seemed to strike her own heart like a chill.
“You look tired,” said Helen Marshall, who had not noticed Maggie’s tearful eyes.
“Perhaps I am,” answered Prissie.
They went back again into the drawing-room. Prissie still could see nothing but Miss Oliphant’s eyes, and the look of distress on her pale face.
Helen suddenly made a remark.
“Was there ever such a merry creature as Maggie?” she said. “Do look at her now.”
Prissie raised her eyes. Miss Oliphant was the centre of a gay group, among whom Geoffrey Hammond stood. Her laugh rang out clear and joyous; her smile was like sunshine, her cheeks had roses in them, and her eyes were as bright as stars.
Chapter Eleven.Conspirators.Annie Day and her friend Rosalind ceased to laugh as soon as they turned the corner. Annie now turned her eyes and fixed them on Rosalind, who blushed and looked uncomfortable.“Well,” said Annie, “you are a humbug, Rose! What a story you told me about Mr Hammond—how he looked at you, and was so anxious to make use of you. Oh, you know all you said. You told me a charming story about your position as ‘gooseberry.’ You expected a little fun for yourself, didn’t you, my friend? Well, it seems to me that if anyone is to have the fun, it is Priscilla Peel.”Rosalind had rather a nervous manner. She bit her lips now; her baby-blue eyes looked angry, her innocent face wore a frown. She dropped her hold of Annie Day’s arm.Miss Day was one of the most commonplace girls at Heath Hall. She had neither good looks nor talent; she had no refinement of nature, nor had she those rugged but sterling qualities of honesty and integrity of purpose which go far to cover a multitude of other defects.“I wish you wouldn’t speak to me in that way,” said Rosalind, with a little gasp. “I hate people to laugh at me, and I can’t stand sneers.”“Oh, no! you’re such a dear little innocent baby. Of course, I can quite understand. And does she suppose I’ll ruffle her pretty little feathers? No, not I. I’d rather invent a new cradle song for you, Rosie, dear.”“Don’t, don’t!” said Rosalind. “Look here, Annie, I must say something—yes, I must. IhateMaggie Oliphant!”“You hate Miss Oliphant?” Annie Day stood still, turned round, and stared at her companion. “When did this revolution take place, my dear? What about Rose and Maggie sitting side by side at dinner? And Rose creeping away all by herself to Maggie’s room, and angling for an invitation to cocoa, and trying hard, very hard, to become a member of the Dramatic Society, just because Maggie acts so splendidly. Has it not beenMaggie—Maggie—ever since the term began, until we girls, who were not in love with this quite too charming piece of perfection, absolutely hated the sound of her name? Oh, Rose, what a fickle baby you are. I am ashamed of you!”“Don’t!” said Rose, again. She linked her hand half timidly in Miss Day’s arm. Miss Day was almost a head and shoulders above the little, delicate, fairy-like creature. “I suppose I can’t help changing my mind,” she said. “Ididlove Maggie, of course I loved her—she fascinated me; but I don’t care for her—no, Ihateher now!”“How vehemently you pronounce that naughty word, my fair Rosalind. You must give me some reasons for this grievous change in your feelings.”“She snubbed me,” said Rosalind; “she made little of me. I offered to do her a kindness, and she repulsed me. Who cares to be made little of, and repulsed?”“Who, truly, Rosie?—not even an innocent baby. Now then, my love, let me whisper a little secret to you. I have never loved Miss Oliphant. I have never been a victim to her charms. Time was when she and Miss Lee—poor Annabel!—ruled the whole of our Hall. Those two girls carried everything before them. That was before your day, Rose. Then Miss Lee died. She caught a chill, and had a fever, and was dead in a couple of days. Yes, of course, it was shocking. They moved her to the hospital, and she died there. Oh, there was such excitement, and such grief—evenIwas sorry; for Annabel had a way about her, I can’t describe it, but shecouldfascinate you. It was awfully interesting to talk to her, and even to look at her was a real pleasure. We used not to think much about Maggie when Annabel was by; but now, what with Maggie and her mystery, and Maggie and her love affair, and Maggie and her handsome face, and her wealth, and her expectations, why she bids fair to be more popular even than the two were when they were together. Yes, little Rose, I don’t want her to be popular any more than you do. I think it’s a very unhealthy sign of any place to have all the girls sighing and groaning about one or two—dying to possess their autographs, and kissing their photographs, and framing them, and putting them up in their rooms. I hate that mawkish kind of nonsense,” continued Miss Day, looking very virtuous, “and I think Miss Heath ought to know about it, and put a stop to it. I do, really.”Rosalind was glad that the gathering darkness prevented her sharp companion from seeing the blush on her face; for amongst her own sacred possessions she kept an autograph letter of Maggie’s, and she had passionately kissed Maggie’s beautiful face as it looked at her out of a photograph, and, until the moment when all her feelings had undergone such a change, was secretly saving up her pence to buy a frame for it. Now she inquired eagerly—“What is the mystery about Miss Oliphant? So many people hint about it, I do wish you would tell me, Annie.”“If I told you, pet, it would cease to be a mystery.”“But you might say what you know.Do, Annie!”“Oh, it isn’t much—it’s really nothing; and yet— and yet—”“You know it isn’t nothing, Annie!”“Well, when Annabel died, people said that Maggie had more cause than anyone else to be sorry. I never could find out what that cause was; but the servants spread some reports. They said they had found Maggie and Annabel together; Annabel had fainted, and Maggie was in an awful state of misery—in quite an unnatural state, they said; she went into hysterics, and Miss Heath was sent for, and was a long time soothing her. There was no apparent reason for this, although, somehow or other, little whispers got abroad that the mystery of Annabel’s illness and Maggie’s distress was connected with Geoffrey Hammond. Of course, nothing was known, and nothing is known; but, certainly, the little whisper got into the air. Dear me, Rosalind, you need not eat me with your eyes. I am repeating mere conjectures, and it is highly probable that not the slightest notice would have been taken of this little rumour but for the tragedy which immediately followed. Annabel, who had been as gay and well as anyone at breakfast that morning, was never seen in the college again. She was unconscious, the servants said, for a long time, and when she awoke was in high fever. She was removed to the hospital, and Maggie had seen the last of her friend. Poor Annabel died in two days, and afterwards Maggie took the fever. Yes, she has been quite changed since then. She always had moods, as she called them, but not like now. Sometimes I think she is almost flighty.”Rosalind was silent. After a while she said, in a prim little voice, which she adopted now and then when she wanted to conceal her real feelings—“But I do wonder what the quarrel was about—I mean, what really happened between Annabel and Maggie.”“Look here, Rosalind, have I said anything about a quarrel? Please remember that the whole thing is conjecture from beginning to end, and don’t go all over the place spreading stories and making mischief. I have told you this in confidence, so don’t forget.”“I won’t forget,” replied Rosalind. “I don’t know why you should accuse me of wanting to make mischief, Annie. I can’t help being curious, of course, and, of course, I’d like to know more.”“Well, for that matter, so would I,” replied Annie. “Where there is a mystery it’s much more satisfactory to get to the bottom of it. Of course, something dreadful must have happened to account for the change in Miss Oliphant. It would be a comfort to know the truth, and, of course, one need never talk of it. By the way, Rosie, you are just the person to ferret this little secret out; you are the right sort of person for spying and peeping.”“Oh, thank you,” replied Rosalind; “if that’s your opinion of me I’m not inclined to do anything to please you. Spying and peeping, indeed! What next?”Annie Day patted her companion’s small white hand.“And so I’ve hurt the dear little baby’s feelings!” she said. “But I didn’t mean to—no, that I didn’t. And she such a pretty, sweet, little pet as she is! Well, Rosie, you know what I mean. If we can find out the truth about Miss Maggie we’ll just have a quiet little crow over her all to ourselves. I don’t suppose we shall find out; but opportunities may arise—who knows? Now I want to speak to you about another person, and that is Maggie’s new friend.”“What new friend?” Rosalind blushed brightly.“That ugly Priscilla Peel. She has taken her up. Anyone can see that.”“Oh, I don’t think so.”“But I do—I am sure of it. Now I have good reason not to like Miss Priscilla. You know what a virtuous parade she made of herself a few nights ago?”“Yes, you told me.”“Horrid, set-up minx! Just the sort of girl who ought to be suppressed, and crushed out of a college like ours. Vaunting her poverty in our very faces, and refusing to make herself pleasant or one with us in any sort of way. Lucy Marsh and I had a long talk over her that night, and we put our heads together to concoct a nice little bit of punishment for her. You know she’s horridly shy, and asgaucheas if she lived in the backwoods, and we meant to ‘send her to Coventry.’ We had it all arranged, and a whole lot of girls would have joined us, for it’s contrary to the spirit of a place like this to allow girls of the Priscilla Peel type to become popular, or liked in any way. But, most unluckily, poor, dear, good, but stupid, Nancy Banister was in the room when Prissie made her little oration, and Nancy took her up as if she were a heroine, and spoke of her as if she had done something magnificent, and, of course, Nancy told Maggie, and now Maggie is as thick as possible with Prissie. So you see, my dear Rosalind, our virtuous little scheme is completely knocked on the head.”“I don’t see—” began Rosalind.“You little goose, before a week is out Prissie will be the fashion. All the girls will flock round her when Maggie takes her part. Bare, ugly rooms will be the rage; poverty will be the height of the fashion, and it will be considered wrong even to go in for the recognised college recreations. Rosie, my love, we must nip this growing mischief in the bud.”“How?” asked Rosalind.“We must separate Maggie Oliphant and Priscilla Peel.”“How?” asked Rose again. “I’m sure,” she added, in a vehement voice, “I’m willing—I’m more than willing.”“Good. Well, we’re at home now, and I absolutely must have a cup of tea. No time for it in my room to-night—let’s come into the hall and have some there. Look here, Rosalind, I’ll ask Lucy Marsh to have cocoa to-night in my room, and you can come too. Now keep a silent tongue in your head, Baby.”
Annie Day and her friend Rosalind ceased to laugh as soon as they turned the corner. Annie now turned her eyes and fixed them on Rosalind, who blushed and looked uncomfortable.
“Well,” said Annie, “you are a humbug, Rose! What a story you told me about Mr Hammond—how he looked at you, and was so anxious to make use of you. Oh, you know all you said. You told me a charming story about your position as ‘gooseberry.’ You expected a little fun for yourself, didn’t you, my friend? Well, it seems to me that if anyone is to have the fun, it is Priscilla Peel.”
Rosalind had rather a nervous manner. She bit her lips now; her baby-blue eyes looked angry, her innocent face wore a frown. She dropped her hold of Annie Day’s arm.
Miss Day was one of the most commonplace girls at Heath Hall. She had neither good looks nor talent; she had no refinement of nature, nor had she those rugged but sterling qualities of honesty and integrity of purpose which go far to cover a multitude of other defects.
“I wish you wouldn’t speak to me in that way,” said Rosalind, with a little gasp. “I hate people to laugh at me, and I can’t stand sneers.”
“Oh, no! you’re such a dear little innocent baby. Of course, I can quite understand. And does she suppose I’ll ruffle her pretty little feathers? No, not I. I’d rather invent a new cradle song for you, Rosie, dear.”
“Don’t, don’t!” said Rosalind. “Look here, Annie, I must say something—yes, I must. IhateMaggie Oliphant!”
“You hate Miss Oliphant?” Annie Day stood still, turned round, and stared at her companion. “When did this revolution take place, my dear? What about Rose and Maggie sitting side by side at dinner? And Rose creeping away all by herself to Maggie’s room, and angling for an invitation to cocoa, and trying hard, very hard, to become a member of the Dramatic Society, just because Maggie acts so splendidly. Has it not beenMaggie—Maggie—ever since the term began, until we girls, who were not in love with this quite too charming piece of perfection, absolutely hated the sound of her name? Oh, Rose, what a fickle baby you are. I am ashamed of you!”
“Don’t!” said Rose, again. She linked her hand half timidly in Miss Day’s arm. Miss Day was almost a head and shoulders above the little, delicate, fairy-like creature. “I suppose I can’t help changing my mind,” she said. “Ididlove Maggie, of course I loved her—she fascinated me; but I don’t care for her—no, Ihateher now!”
“How vehemently you pronounce that naughty word, my fair Rosalind. You must give me some reasons for this grievous change in your feelings.”
“She snubbed me,” said Rosalind; “she made little of me. I offered to do her a kindness, and she repulsed me. Who cares to be made little of, and repulsed?”
“Who, truly, Rosie?—not even an innocent baby. Now then, my love, let me whisper a little secret to you. I have never loved Miss Oliphant. I have never been a victim to her charms. Time was when she and Miss Lee—poor Annabel!—ruled the whole of our Hall. Those two girls carried everything before them. That was before your day, Rose. Then Miss Lee died. She caught a chill, and had a fever, and was dead in a couple of days. Yes, of course, it was shocking. They moved her to the hospital, and she died there. Oh, there was such excitement, and such grief—evenIwas sorry; for Annabel had a way about her, I can’t describe it, but shecouldfascinate you. It was awfully interesting to talk to her, and even to look at her was a real pleasure. We used not to think much about Maggie when Annabel was by; but now, what with Maggie and her mystery, and Maggie and her love affair, and Maggie and her handsome face, and her wealth, and her expectations, why she bids fair to be more popular even than the two were when they were together. Yes, little Rose, I don’t want her to be popular any more than you do. I think it’s a very unhealthy sign of any place to have all the girls sighing and groaning about one or two—dying to possess their autographs, and kissing their photographs, and framing them, and putting them up in their rooms. I hate that mawkish kind of nonsense,” continued Miss Day, looking very virtuous, “and I think Miss Heath ought to know about it, and put a stop to it. I do, really.”
Rosalind was glad that the gathering darkness prevented her sharp companion from seeing the blush on her face; for amongst her own sacred possessions she kept an autograph letter of Maggie’s, and she had passionately kissed Maggie’s beautiful face as it looked at her out of a photograph, and, until the moment when all her feelings had undergone such a change, was secretly saving up her pence to buy a frame for it. Now she inquired eagerly—
“What is the mystery about Miss Oliphant? So many people hint about it, I do wish you would tell me, Annie.”
“If I told you, pet, it would cease to be a mystery.”
“But you might say what you know.Do, Annie!”
“Oh, it isn’t much—it’s really nothing; and yet— and yet—”
“You know it isn’t nothing, Annie!”
“Well, when Annabel died, people said that Maggie had more cause than anyone else to be sorry. I never could find out what that cause was; but the servants spread some reports. They said they had found Maggie and Annabel together; Annabel had fainted, and Maggie was in an awful state of misery—in quite an unnatural state, they said; she went into hysterics, and Miss Heath was sent for, and was a long time soothing her. There was no apparent reason for this, although, somehow or other, little whispers got abroad that the mystery of Annabel’s illness and Maggie’s distress was connected with Geoffrey Hammond. Of course, nothing was known, and nothing is known; but, certainly, the little whisper got into the air. Dear me, Rosalind, you need not eat me with your eyes. I am repeating mere conjectures, and it is highly probable that not the slightest notice would have been taken of this little rumour but for the tragedy which immediately followed. Annabel, who had been as gay and well as anyone at breakfast that morning, was never seen in the college again. She was unconscious, the servants said, for a long time, and when she awoke was in high fever. She was removed to the hospital, and Maggie had seen the last of her friend. Poor Annabel died in two days, and afterwards Maggie took the fever. Yes, she has been quite changed since then. She always had moods, as she called them, but not like now. Sometimes I think she is almost flighty.”
Rosalind was silent. After a while she said, in a prim little voice, which she adopted now and then when she wanted to conceal her real feelings—
“But I do wonder what the quarrel was about—I mean, what really happened between Annabel and Maggie.”
“Look here, Rosalind, have I said anything about a quarrel? Please remember that the whole thing is conjecture from beginning to end, and don’t go all over the place spreading stories and making mischief. I have told you this in confidence, so don’t forget.”
“I won’t forget,” replied Rosalind. “I don’t know why you should accuse me of wanting to make mischief, Annie. I can’t help being curious, of course, and, of course, I’d like to know more.”
“Well, for that matter, so would I,” replied Annie. “Where there is a mystery it’s much more satisfactory to get to the bottom of it. Of course, something dreadful must have happened to account for the change in Miss Oliphant. It would be a comfort to know the truth, and, of course, one need never talk of it. By the way, Rosie, you are just the person to ferret this little secret out; you are the right sort of person for spying and peeping.”
“Oh, thank you,” replied Rosalind; “if that’s your opinion of me I’m not inclined to do anything to please you. Spying and peeping, indeed! What next?”
Annie Day patted her companion’s small white hand.
“And so I’ve hurt the dear little baby’s feelings!” she said. “But I didn’t mean to—no, that I didn’t. And she such a pretty, sweet, little pet as she is! Well, Rosie, you know what I mean. If we can find out the truth about Miss Maggie we’ll just have a quiet little crow over her all to ourselves. I don’t suppose we shall find out; but opportunities may arise—who knows? Now I want to speak to you about another person, and that is Maggie’s new friend.”
“What new friend?” Rosalind blushed brightly.
“That ugly Priscilla Peel. She has taken her up. Anyone can see that.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
“But I do—I am sure of it. Now I have good reason not to like Miss Priscilla. You know what a virtuous parade she made of herself a few nights ago?”
“Yes, you told me.”
“Horrid, set-up minx! Just the sort of girl who ought to be suppressed, and crushed out of a college like ours. Vaunting her poverty in our very faces, and refusing to make herself pleasant or one with us in any sort of way. Lucy Marsh and I had a long talk over her that night, and we put our heads together to concoct a nice little bit of punishment for her. You know she’s horridly shy, and asgaucheas if she lived in the backwoods, and we meant to ‘send her to Coventry.’ We had it all arranged, and a whole lot of girls would have joined us, for it’s contrary to the spirit of a place like this to allow girls of the Priscilla Peel type to become popular, or liked in any way. But, most unluckily, poor, dear, good, but stupid, Nancy Banister was in the room when Prissie made her little oration, and Nancy took her up as if she were a heroine, and spoke of her as if she had done something magnificent, and, of course, Nancy told Maggie, and now Maggie is as thick as possible with Prissie. So you see, my dear Rosalind, our virtuous little scheme is completely knocked on the head.”
“I don’t see—” began Rosalind.
“You little goose, before a week is out Prissie will be the fashion. All the girls will flock round her when Maggie takes her part. Bare, ugly rooms will be the rage; poverty will be the height of the fashion, and it will be considered wrong even to go in for the recognised college recreations. Rosie, my love, we must nip this growing mischief in the bud.”
“How?” asked Rosalind.
“We must separate Maggie Oliphant and Priscilla Peel.”
“How?” asked Rose again. “I’m sure,” she added, in a vehement voice, “I’m willing—I’m more than willing.”
“Good. Well, we’re at home now, and I absolutely must have a cup of tea. No time for it in my room to-night—let’s come into the hall and have some there. Look here, Rosalind, I’ll ask Lucy Marsh to have cocoa to-night in my room, and you can come too. Now keep a silent tongue in your head, Baby.”
Chapter Twelve.A Good Thing to be Young.It was long past the tea-hour at Heath Hall when Maggie Oliphant and Priscilla started on their walk home. The brightness and gaiety of the merry party at the Marshalls’ had increased as the moments flew on. Even Priscilla had caught something of the charm. The kindly spirit which animated everyone seemed to get into her. She first became interested, then she forgot herself. Prissie was no longer awkward; she began to talk, and when she liked she could talk well.As the two girls were leaving the house, Geoffrey Hammond put in a sudden appearance.“I will see you home,” he said to Maggie.“No, no, you mustn’t,” she answered; her tone was vehement. She forgot Prissie’s presence, and half-turned her back on her.“How unkind you are!” said the young man, in a low tone.“No, Geoffrey, but I am struggling—you don’t know how hard I am struggling—to be true to myself.”“You are altogether mistaken in your idea of truth,” said Hammond, turning, and walking a little way by her side.“I am not mistaken—I am right.”“Well, at least allow me to explain my side of the question.”“No, it cannot be; there shall be no explanations, I am resolved. Good-night, you must not come any further.”She held out her hand. Hammond took it limply between his own.“You are very cruel,” he murmured, in the lowest of voices.He raised his hat, forgot even to bow to Priscilla, and hurried off down a side street.Maggie walked on a little way. Then she turned, and looked down the street where he had vanished. Suddenly she raised her hand to her lips, kissed it, and blew the kiss after the figure which had already disappeared. She laughed excitedly when she did this, and her whole face was glowing with a beautiful colour.Prissie, standing miserable and forgotten by the tall, handsome girl’s side, could see the light in her eyes, and the glow on her checks in the lamplight.“I am here,” said Priscilla, at last, in a low, half-frightened voice. “I am sorry I am here, but I am. I heard what you said to Mr Hammond. I am sorry I heard.”Maggie turned slowly, and looked at her. Prissie returned her gaze. Then, as if further words were wrung from her against her will, she continued—“I saw the tears in your eyes in the fern-house at the Marshalls’. I am very sorry, but I did see them.”“My dear Prissie!” said Maggie. She went up suddenly to the girl, put her arm round her neck, and kissed her.“Come home now,” she said, drawing Prissie’s hand through her arm. “I don’t think I greatly mind your knowing,” she said, after a pause. “You are true; I see it in your face. You would never tell again—you would never make mischief.”“Tell again! Of course not.” Prissie’s words came out with great vigour.“I know you would not, Priscilla; may I call you Priscilla?”“Yes.”“Will you be my friend, and shall I be your friend?”“If you would,” said Prissie. “But you don’t mean it. It is impossible that you can mean it. I’m not a bit like you—and—and—you only say these things to be kind.”“What do you mean, Priscilla?”“I must tell you,” said Prissie, turning very pale. “I heard what you said to Miss Banister the night I came to the college.”“What I said to Miss Banister? What did I say?”“Oh, can’t you remember? The words seemed burnt into me: I shall never forget them. I had left my purse in the dining-hall, and I was going to fetch it. Your door was a little open. I heard my name, and I stopped—yes, I did stop to listen.”“Oh, what a naughty, mean little Prissie! You stopped to listen. And what did you hear? Nothing good, of course? The bad thing was said to punish you for listening.”“I heard,” said Priscilla, her own cheeks crimson now, “I heard you say that it gave you an aesthetic pleasure to be kind, and that was why you were good to me.”Maggie felt her own colour rising.“Well, my dear,” she said, “it still gives me an aesthetic pleasure to be kind. You could not expect me to fall in love with you the moment I saw you. I was kind to you then, perhaps, for the reason I stated. It is very different now.”“It was wrong of you to be kind to me for that reason.”“Wrong of me? What an extraordinary girl you are, Priscilla—why was it wrong of me?”“Because I learnt to love you. You were gentle to me, and spoke courteously, when others were rude and only laughed; my whole heart went out to you when you were so sweet and gentle and kind. I did not think—I could not possibly think—that you were good just because it gave you a sort of selfish pleasure. When I heard your words I felt dreadful. I hated St. Benet’s; I wished I had never come. Your words turned everything to bitterness for me.”“Did they really, Priscilla? Oh, Prissie! what a thoughtless, wild, impulsive creature I am. Well, I don’t feel now as I did that night. If those words were cruel, forgive me. Forget those words, Prissie.”“I will, if you will.”“I? I have forgotten them utterly.”“Thank you, thank you.”“Then we’ll be friends—real friends; true friends?”“Yes.”“You must say ‘Yes, Maggie.’”“Yes, Maggie.”“That is right. Now keep your hand in my arm. Let’s walk fast Is it not glorious to walk in this semi-frosty sort of weather? Prissie, you’ll see a vast lot that you don’t approve of in your new friend.”“Oh, I don’t care,” said Priscilla.She felt so joyous she could have skipped.“I’ve as many sides,” continued Maggie, “as a chameleon has colours. I am the gayest of the gay, as well as the saddest of the sad. When I am gay you may laugh with me, but I warn you when I am sad you must never cry with me. Leave me alone when I have my dark moods on, Prissie.”“Very well, Maggie, I’ll remember.”“I think you’ll make a delightful friend,” said Miss Oliphant, just glancing at her; “but I pity your side of the bargain.”“Why?”“Because I’ll try you so fearfully.”“Oh, no, you won’t. I don’t want to have a perfect friend.”“Perfect! No, child—Heaven forbid. But there are shades of perfection. Now, when I get into my dark moods, I feel wicked as well as sad. No, we won’t talk of them; we’ll keep them away. Prissie, I feel good to-night—good—and glad: it’s such a nice feeling.”“I am sure of it,” said Priscilla.“What do you know about it, child? You have not tasted life yet. Wait until you do. For instance—no, though—I won’t enlighten you. Prissie, what do you think of Geoffrey Hammond?”“I think he loves you, very much.”“Poor Geoffrey! Now, Prissie, you are to keep that little thought quite dark in your mind—in fact, you are to put it out of your mind. You are not to associate my name with Mr Hammond’s—not even in your thoughts. You will very likely hear us spoken of together, and some of the stupid girls here will make little quizzing, senseless remarks. But there will be no truth in them, Prissie. He is nothing to me, nor I to him.”“Then why did you blow a kiss after him?” asked Priscilla.Maggie stood still. It was too dark for Priscilla to see her blush.“Oh, my many-sided nature!” she suddenly exclaimed. “It was a wicked sprite made me blow that kiss. Prissie, my dear, I am cold: race me to the house.”The two girls entered the wide hall, flushed and laughing. Other girls were lingering about on the stairs. Some were just starting off to evening service at Kingsdene; others were standing in groups, chatting. Nancy Banister came up, and spoke to Maggie. Maggie took her arm, and walked away with her.Prissie found herself standing alone in the hall. It was as if the delightful friendship cemented between herself and Miss Oliphant in the frosty air outside had fallen to pieces like a castle of cards the moment they entered the house. Prissie felt a chill. Her high spirits went down a very little. Then, resolving to banish the ignoble spirit of distrust, she prepared to run upstairs to her own room.Miss Heath called her name as she was passing an open door.“Is that you, my dear? Will you come to my room after supper to-night?”“Oh, thank you,” said Prissie, her eyes sparkling.Miss Heath came to the threshold of her pretty room, and smiled at the young girl.“You look well and happy,” she said. “You are getting at home here. You will love us all yet.”“I love you now!” said Prissie, with fervour.Miss Heath, prompted by the look of intense and sincere gladness on the young face, bent and kissed Priscilla. A rather disagreeable voice said suddenly at her back—“I beg your pardon,” and Lucy Marsh ran down the stairs.She had knocked against Prissie in passing; she had witnessed Miss Heath’s kiss. The expression on Lucy’s face was unpleasant. Prissie did not notice it, however. She went slowly up to her room. The electric light was on, the fire was blazing merrily. Priscilla removed her hat and jacket, threw herself into the one easy-chair the room contained, and gave herself up to pleasant dreams. Many new aspects of life were opening before her. She felt that it was a good thing to be young, and she was distinctly conscious of a great, soft glow of happiness.
It was long past the tea-hour at Heath Hall when Maggie Oliphant and Priscilla started on their walk home. The brightness and gaiety of the merry party at the Marshalls’ had increased as the moments flew on. Even Priscilla had caught something of the charm. The kindly spirit which animated everyone seemed to get into her. She first became interested, then she forgot herself. Prissie was no longer awkward; she began to talk, and when she liked she could talk well.
As the two girls were leaving the house, Geoffrey Hammond put in a sudden appearance.
“I will see you home,” he said to Maggie.
“No, no, you mustn’t,” she answered; her tone was vehement. She forgot Prissie’s presence, and half-turned her back on her.
“How unkind you are!” said the young man, in a low tone.
“No, Geoffrey, but I am struggling—you don’t know how hard I am struggling—to be true to myself.”
“You are altogether mistaken in your idea of truth,” said Hammond, turning, and walking a little way by her side.
“I am not mistaken—I am right.”
“Well, at least allow me to explain my side of the question.”
“No, it cannot be; there shall be no explanations, I am resolved. Good-night, you must not come any further.”
She held out her hand. Hammond took it limply between his own.
“You are very cruel,” he murmured, in the lowest of voices.
He raised his hat, forgot even to bow to Priscilla, and hurried off down a side street.
Maggie walked on a little way. Then she turned, and looked down the street where he had vanished. Suddenly she raised her hand to her lips, kissed it, and blew the kiss after the figure which had already disappeared. She laughed excitedly when she did this, and her whole face was glowing with a beautiful colour.
Prissie, standing miserable and forgotten by the tall, handsome girl’s side, could see the light in her eyes, and the glow on her checks in the lamplight.
“I am here,” said Priscilla, at last, in a low, half-frightened voice. “I am sorry I am here, but I am. I heard what you said to Mr Hammond. I am sorry I heard.”
Maggie turned slowly, and looked at her. Prissie returned her gaze. Then, as if further words were wrung from her against her will, she continued—
“I saw the tears in your eyes in the fern-house at the Marshalls’. I am very sorry, but I did see them.”
“My dear Prissie!” said Maggie. She went up suddenly to the girl, put her arm round her neck, and kissed her.
“Come home now,” she said, drawing Prissie’s hand through her arm. “I don’t think I greatly mind your knowing,” she said, after a pause. “You are true; I see it in your face. You would never tell again—you would never make mischief.”
“Tell again! Of course not.” Prissie’s words came out with great vigour.
“I know you would not, Priscilla; may I call you Priscilla?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be my friend, and shall I be your friend?”
“If you would,” said Prissie. “But you don’t mean it. It is impossible that you can mean it. I’m not a bit like you—and—and—you only say these things to be kind.”
“What do you mean, Priscilla?”
“I must tell you,” said Prissie, turning very pale. “I heard what you said to Miss Banister the night I came to the college.”
“What I said to Miss Banister? What did I say?”
“Oh, can’t you remember? The words seemed burnt into me: I shall never forget them. I had left my purse in the dining-hall, and I was going to fetch it. Your door was a little open. I heard my name, and I stopped—yes, I did stop to listen.”
“Oh, what a naughty, mean little Prissie! You stopped to listen. And what did you hear? Nothing good, of course? The bad thing was said to punish you for listening.”
“I heard,” said Priscilla, her own cheeks crimson now, “I heard you say that it gave you an aesthetic pleasure to be kind, and that was why you were good to me.”
Maggie felt her own colour rising.
“Well, my dear,” she said, “it still gives me an aesthetic pleasure to be kind. You could not expect me to fall in love with you the moment I saw you. I was kind to you then, perhaps, for the reason I stated. It is very different now.”
“It was wrong of you to be kind to me for that reason.”
“Wrong of me? What an extraordinary girl you are, Priscilla—why was it wrong of me?”
“Because I learnt to love you. You were gentle to me, and spoke courteously, when others were rude and only laughed; my whole heart went out to you when you were so sweet and gentle and kind. I did not think—I could not possibly think—that you were good just because it gave you a sort of selfish pleasure. When I heard your words I felt dreadful. I hated St. Benet’s; I wished I had never come. Your words turned everything to bitterness for me.”
“Did they really, Priscilla? Oh, Prissie! what a thoughtless, wild, impulsive creature I am. Well, I don’t feel now as I did that night. If those words were cruel, forgive me. Forget those words, Prissie.”
“I will, if you will.”
“I? I have forgotten them utterly.”
“Thank you, thank you.”
“Then we’ll be friends—real friends; true friends?”
“Yes.”
“You must say ‘Yes, Maggie.’”
“Yes, Maggie.”
“That is right. Now keep your hand in my arm. Let’s walk fast Is it not glorious to walk in this semi-frosty sort of weather? Prissie, you’ll see a vast lot that you don’t approve of in your new friend.”
“Oh, I don’t care,” said Priscilla.
She felt so joyous she could have skipped.
“I’ve as many sides,” continued Maggie, “as a chameleon has colours. I am the gayest of the gay, as well as the saddest of the sad. When I am gay you may laugh with me, but I warn you when I am sad you must never cry with me. Leave me alone when I have my dark moods on, Prissie.”
“Very well, Maggie, I’ll remember.”
“I think you’ll make a delightful friend,” said Miss Oliphant, just glancing at her; “but I pity your side of the bargain.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll try you so fearfully.”
“Oh, no, you won’t. I don’t want to have a perfect friend.”
“Perfect! No, child—Heaven forbid. But there are shades of perfection. Now, when I get into my dark moods, I feel wicked as well as sad. No, we won’t talk of them; we’ll keep them away. Prissie, I feel good to-night—good—and glad: it’s such a nice feeling.”
“I am sure of it,” said Priscilla.
“What do you know about it, child? You have not tasted life yet. Wait until you do. For instance—no, though—I won’t enlighten you. Prissie, what do you think of Geoffrey Hammond?”
“I think he loves you, very much.”
“Poor Geoffrey! Now, Prissie, you are to keep that little thought quite dark in your mind—in fact, you are to put it out of your mind. You are not to associate my name with Mr Hammond’s—not even in your thoughts. You will very likely hear us spoken of together, and some of the stupid girls here will make little quizzing, senseless remarks. But there will be no truth in them, Prissie. He is nothing to me, nor I to him.”
“Then why did you blow a kiss after him?” asked Priscilla.
Maggie stood still. It was too dark for Priscilla to see her blush.
“Oh, my many-sided nature!” she suddenly exclaimed. “It was a wicked sprite made me blow that kiss. Prissie, my dear, I am cold: race me to the house.”
The two girls entered the wide hall, flushed and laughing. Other girls were lingering about on the stairs. Some were just starting off to evening service at Kingsdene; others were standing in groups, chatting. Nancy Banister came up, and spoke to Maggie. Maggie took her arm, and walked away with her.
Prissie found herself standing alone in the hall. It was as if the delightful friendship cemented between herself and Miss Oliphant in the frosty air outside had fallen to pieces like a castle of cards the moment they entered the house. Prissie felt a chill. Her high spirits went down a very little. Then, resolving to banish the ignoble spirit of distrust, she prepared to run upstairs to her own room.
Miss Heath called her name as she was passing an open door.
“Is that you, my dear? Will you come to my room after supper to-night?”
“Oh, thank you,” said Prissie, her eyes sparkling.
Miss Heath came to the threshold of her pretty room, and smiled at the young girl.
“You look well and happy,” she said. “You are getting at home here. You will love us all yet.”
“I love you now!” said Prissie, with fervour.
Miss Heath, prompted by the look of intense and sincere gladness on the young face, bent and kissed Priscilla. A rather disagreeable voice said suddenly at her back—
“I beg your pardon,” and Lucy Marsh ran down the stairs.
She had knocked against Prissie in passing; she had witnessed Miss Heath’s kiss. The expression on Lucy’s face was unpleasant. Prissie did not notice it, however. She went slowly up to her room. The electric light was on, the fire was blazing merrily. Priscilla removed her hat and jacket, threw herself into the one easy-chair the room contained, and gave herself up to pleasant dreams. Many new aspects of life were opening before her. She felt that it was a good thing to be young, and she was distinctly conscious of a great, soft glow of happiness.