Chapter Twenty Five.A Mysterious Episode.When she was alone, Maggie Oliphant sat down in her favourite chair, and covered her face with her hands. “It is horrible to listen to stories like that,” she murmured under her breath. “Such stories get on the nerves. I shall not sleep to-night. Fancy any people calling themselves ladies wanting meat, wanting clothes, wanting warmth. Oh, my God! this is horrible. Poor Prissie! Poor brave Prissie!” Maggie started from her chair and paced the length of her room once or twice. “I must help these people,” she said; “I must help this Aunt Raby, and those three little sisters. Penywern Cottage shall no longer be without coal, and food, and warmth. How shall I do this? One thing is quite evident—Prissie must not know. Prissie is as proud as I am. How shall I manage this?” She clasped her hands, her brow was contracted with the fulness of her thought. After a long while she left her room, and, going to the other end of the long corridor, knocked at Nancy Banister’s door. Nancy was within. It did not take Maggie long to tell the tale which she had just heard from Priscilla’s lips. Prissie had told her simple story with force, but it lost nothing in Maggie’s hands. She had a fine command of language, and she drew a picture of such pathos that Nancy’s honest blue eyes filled with tears.“That dear little Prissie!” she exclaimed.“I don’t know that she is dear,” said Maggie. “I don’t profess quite to understand her; however, that is not the point. The poverty at Penywern Cottage is an undoubted fact. It is also a fact that Prissie is forced to give up her classical education. She shall not! she has a genius for the old tongues. Now, Nancy, help me; use your common sense on my behalf. How am I to send money to Penywern Cottage?”Nancy thought for several minutes.“I have an idea,” she exclaimed at last.“What is that?”“I believe Mr Hammond could help us.”Maggie coloured.“How?” she asked. “Why should Geoffrey Hammond be dragged into Priscilla’s affairs? What can he possibly know about Penywern Cottage and the people who live in it?”“Only this,” said Nancy: “I remember his once talking about that part of Devonshire where Prissie’s home is, and saying that his uncle has a parish there. Mr Hammond’s uncle is the man to help us.”Miss Oliphant was silent for a moment.“Very well,” she said; “will you write to Mr Hammond and ask him for his uncle’s address?”“Why should I do this, Maggie? Geoffrey Hammond is your friend; he would think it strange for me to write.”Maggie’s tone grew as cold as her expressive face had suddenly become. “I can write if you think it best,” she said; “but you are mistaken in supposing that Mr Hammond is any longer a person of special interest to me.”“Oh, Maggie, Maggie, if you only would—”“Good-night, Nancy,” interrupted Maggie. She kissed her friend, and went back to her room. There she sat down before her bureau and prepared to write a letter. “I must not lose any time,” she said to herself; “I must help these people substantially; I must do something to rescue poor Prissie from a life of drudgery. Fancy Prissie, with her genius, living the life of an ordinary underpaid teacher: it is not to be thought of for a moment! Something must be done to put the whole family on a different footing, but that, of course, is for the future. From Priscilla’s account they want immediate aid. I have two five-pound notes in my purse: Geoffrey shall have them and enclose them to the clergyman who is his relation, and who lives near Priscilla’s home.”Maggie wrote her letter rapidly. She thought it cold; she meant it to be a purely business note; she did not intend Hammond to see even the glimpse of her warm heart under the carefully studied words. “I am sick of money,” she said to him, “but to some people it is as the bread of life. Ask your friend to provide food and warmth without a moment’s delay for these poor people out of the trifle I enclose. Ask him also to write directly to me, for the ten pounds I now send is only the beginning of what I mean really to do to help them.”When her letter was finished, Maggie put her hand in her pocket to take out her purse. It was not there. She searched on the table, looked under piles of books and papers, and presently found it. She unclasped the purse, and opened an inner pocket for the purpose of taking out two five-pound notes which she had placed there this morning. To her astonishment and perplexity, this portion of the purse now contained only one of the notes. Maggie felt her face turning crimson. Quick as a flash of lightning a horrible thought assailed her—Priscilla had been alone in her room for nearly an hour—Priscilla’s people were starving: had Priscilla taken the note?“Oh, hateful!” said Maggie to herself; “what am I coming to, to suspect the brave, the noble—I won’t, I can’t. Oh, how shall I look her in the face and feel that I ever, even for a second, thought of her so dreadfully.” Maggie searched through her purse again. “Perhaps I dreamt that I put two notes here this morning,” she said to herself. “But no, it is no dream; I put two notes into this division of my purse, I put four sovereigns here; the sovereigns are safe—one of the notes is gone.”She thought deeply for a few moments longer, then added a postscript to her letter:—“I am very sorry, but I can only send you one note for five pounds to-night. Even this, however, is better than nothing. I will give further help as soon as I hear from your friend.” Maggie then folded her letter, addressed, stamped it, and took it downstairs.Miss Oliphant was an heiress; she was also an orphan; her father and mother were mere memories to her; she had neither brothers nor sisters; she did not particularly like her guardian, who was old and worldly-wise, as different as possible from the bright, enthusiastic, impulsive girl. Mr Oliphant thought money the aim and object of life: when he spoke to Maggie about it, she professed to hate it. In reality she was indifferent to it; money was valueless to her because she had never felt its want.She lay awake for a long time that night, thinking of Penywern Cottage, of tired Aunt Raby, of the little girls who wanted food, and education, and care, and love. After a time she fell asleep. In her sleep she ceased to think of Priscilla’s relations: all her thoughts were with Priscilla herself. She dreamt that she saw Priscilla move stealthily in her room, take up her purse with wary fingers, open it, remove a note for five pounds, and hide the purse once more under books and papers.When Maggie awoke, she professed not to believe in her dream; but, nevertheless, she had a headache, and her heart was heavy within her.At breakfast that morning Miss Oliphant made a rather startling announcement. “I wish to say something,” she remarked, in her full, rich voice. “A strange thing happened to me last night. I am not accounting for it; I am casting no aspersions on anyone; I don’t even intend to investigate the matter; still, I wish publicly to state a fact—a five-pound note has been taken out of my purse!”There were no dons or lecturers present when Miss Oliphant made this startling announcement, but Nancy Banister, Rosalind Merton, Priscilla Peel, Miss Day, Miss Marsh, and several other girls were all in the room; they, each of them, looked at the speaker with startled and anxious inquiry.Maggie herself did not return the glances; she was lazily helping herself to some marmalade.“How perfectly shameful!” burst at last from the lips of Miss Day. “You have lost five pounds, Miss Oliphant; you are positively certain that five pounds have been taken out of your purse. Where was your purse?” Maggie was spreading the marmalade on her bread-and-butter; her eyes were still fixed on her plate. “I don’t wish a fuss made,” she said.“Oh, that’s all very fine!” continued Miss Day; “but if five pounds are lost out of your purse, someone has taken them! Someone, therefore, whether servant or student, is a thief. I am not narrow-minded or prudish; but I confess I draw the line at thieves.”“So do I,” said Maggie, in an icy tone; “still, I don’t mean to make a fuss.”“But where was your purse, Maggie dear?” asked Nancy Banister; “was it in your pocket?”“No. I found it last night in my bureau, under some books and papers.” Maggie rose from the table as she spoke. With a swift flash her brown eyes sought Priscilla’s face; she had not meant to look at her, she did not want to; but a fascination she could not control obliged her to dart this one glance of inquiry.Prissie’s eyes met hers. Their expression was anxious, puzzled, but there was not a trace of guilt or confusion in them. “I don’t know how that money could have been taken, Maggie,” she said, “for I was in your room studying my Greek.” Prissie sighed when she mentioned her Greek. “I was in your room studying Greek all the evening; no one could have come to take the money.”“It is gone, however,” said Maggie. She spoke with new cheerfulness. The look on Prissie’s face, the tone in her voice, made Maggie blush at ever having suspected her. “It is gone,” she said, in quite a light and cheerful way, “but I am really sorry I mentioned it. As I said just now, I don’t intend to investigate the matter. I may have fallen asleep and taken the five-pound note out in a dream and torn it up, or put it on the fire. Anyhow, it has vanished, and that is all I have to say. Come, Prissie, I want to hear what Miss Heath said to you last night.”“No,” suddenly exclaimed Annie Day, “Miss Peel, you must not leave the room just now. You have made a statement, Miss Oliphant, which I for one do not intend to pass over without at least asking a few questions. You did not tear up that note in a dream. If it is lost, someone took it. We are St. Benet’s girls, and we don’t choose to have this kind of thing said to us. The thief must confess, and the note must be returned.”“All right,” said Maggie, “I sha’n’t object to recovering my property. Priscilla, I shall be walking in the grounds; you can come to me when your council of war is over.”The moment Maggie left the room, Rosalind Merton made a remark. “Miss Peel is the only person who can explain the mystery,” she said.“What do you mean?” asked Priscilla.“Why, you confess yourself that you were in Miss Oliphant’s room the greater part of the evening.”“I confess it?” remarked Priscilla; “that is a curious phrase to apply to a statement. I confess nothing. I was in Maggie’s room, but what of that? When people confess things,” she added, with a naïveté which touched one or two of the girls, “they generally have done something wrong. Now, what was there wrong in my sitting in my friend’s room?”“Oh, Miss Oliphant is ‘your friend’?” said Rosalind.“Of course, of course.” But here a memory came over Priscilla; she remembered Maggie’s words the night before—“Youweremy friend.” For the first time her voice faltered, and the crimson flush of distress covered her face. Rosalind’s cruel eyes were fixed on her.“Let me speak now,” interrupted Miss Day. She gave Rosalind a piercing glance which caused her, in her turn, to colour violently. “It is just this, Miss Peel,” said Annie Day: “you will excuse my speaking bluntly, but you are placed in a very unpleasant position.”“I? How?” asked Prissie.“Oh, you great baby!” burst from Rosalind again.“Please don’t speak to me in that tone, Miss Merton,” said Priscilla, with a new dignity, which became her well. “Now, Miss Day, what have you to say?”To Prissie’s surprise, at this juncture, Nancy Banister suddenly left her seat, and came and stood at the back of her chair.“I am on your side whatever happens,” she remarked.“Thank you,” said Prissie.“Now, please, Miss Day.”“You must know who took the note,” said Annie Day.“I assure you I don’t; I can’t imagine how it has disappeared. Not a soul came into the room while I was there. I did go away once for about three minutes to fetch my Lexicon; but I don’t suppose anyone came into Miss Oliphant’s room during those few minutes—there was no one about to come.”“Oh, you left the room for about three minutes?”“Perhaps three—perhaps not so many. I had left my Lexicon in the library; I went to fetch it.”“Oh,” said Rosalind, suddenly taking the words out of Miss Day’s mouth, “when did you invent this little fiction?”Prissie’s eyes seemed suddenly to blaze fire; for the first time she perceived the drift of the cruel suspicion, which her fellow-students were seeking to cast upon her. “How wicked you are!” she said to Rosalind. “Why do you look at me like that? Miss Day, why do you smile? Why do you all smile? Oh, Nancy,” added poor Prissie, springing to her feet, and looking full into Nancy’s troubled eyes, “what is the matter?—am I in a dream?”“It is all very fine to be theatrical,” said Miss Day, “but the fact is, Miss Peel, you are not at all popular enough at St. Benet’s to induce any of us to consent to live under a ban for your sake. Miss Oliphant has lost her money. You say that you spent some time in her room; the purse was on her bureau. Miss Oliphant is rich, she is also generous, she says openly that she does not intend to investigate the matter. No doubt, if you confess your weakness and return the money, she will forgive you, and not report this disgraceful proceeding to the college authorities.” While Miss Day was speaking, some heavy panting breaths came two or three times from Priscilla’s lips. Her face had turned cold and white; but her eyes blazed like living coals.“Now I understand,” she said, slowly; “you think—you think that I—I stole a five-pound note from my friend; you think that I went into her room and opened her purse, and took away her money; you think that of me—you! I scorn you all, I defy you, I dare you to prove your dreadful words! I am going to Miss Heath this moment; she shall protect me from this dishonour.”
When she was alone, Maggie Oliphant sat down in her favourite chair, and covered her face with her hands. “It is horrible to listen to stories like that,” she murmured under her breath. “Such stories get on the nerves. I shall not sleep to-night. Fancy any people calling themselves ladies wanting meat, wanting clothes, wanting warmth. Oh, my God! this is horrible. Poor Prissie! Poor brave Prissie!” Maggie started from her chair and paced the length of her room once or twice. “I must help these people,” she said; “I must help this Aunt Raby, and those three little sisters. Penywern Cottage shall no longer be without coal, and food, and warmth. How shall I do this? One thing is quite evident—Prissie must not know. Prissie is as proud as I am. How shall I manage this?” She clasped her hands, her brow was contracted with the fulness of her thought. After a long while she left her room, and, going to the other end of the long corridor, knocked at Nancy Banister’s door. Nancy was within. It did not take Maggie long to tell the tale which she had just heard from Priscilla’s lips. Prissie had told her simple story with force, but it lost nothing in Maggie’s hands. She had a fine command of language, and she drew a picture of such pathos that Nancy’s honest blue eyes filled with tears.
“That dear little Prissie!” she exclaimed.
“I don’t know that she is dear,” said Maggie. “I don’t profess quite to understand her; however, that is not the point. The poverty at Penywern Cottage is an undoubted fact. It is also a fact that Prissie is forced to give up her classical education. She shall not! she has a genius for the old tongues. Now, Nancy, help me; use your common sense on my behalf. How am I to send money to Penywern Cottage?”
Nancy thought for several minutes.
“I have an idea,” she exclaimed at last.
“What is that?”
“I believe Mr Hammond could help us.”
Maggie coloured.
“How?” she asked. “Why should Geoffrey Hammond be dragged into Priscilla’s affairs? What can he possibly know about Penywern Cottage and the people who live in it?”
“Only this,” said Nancy: “I remember his once talking about that part of Devonshire where Prissie’s home is, and saying that his uncle has a parish there. Mr Hammond’s uncle is the man to help us.”
Miss Oliphant was silent for a moment.
“Very well,” she said; “will you write to Mr Hammond and ask him for his uncle’s address?”
“Why should I do this, Maggie? Geoffrey Hammond is your friend; he would think it strange for me to write.”
Maggie’s tone grew as cold as her expressive face had suddenly become. “I can write if you think it best,” she said; “but you are mistaken in supposing that Mr Hammond is any longer a person of special interest to me.”
“Oh, Maggie, Maggie, if you only would—”
“Good-night, Nancy,” interrupted Maggie. She kissed her friend, and went back to her room. There she sat down before her bureau and prepared to write a letter. “I must not lose any time,” she said to herself; “I must help these people substantially; I must do something to rescue poor Prissie from a life of drudgery. Fancy Prissie, with her genius, living the life of an ordinary underpaid teacher: it is not to be thought of for a moment! Something must be done to put the whole family on a different footing, but that, of course, is for the future. From Priscilla’s account they want immediate aid. I have two five-pound notes in my purse: Geoffrey shall have them and enclose them to the clergyman who is his relation, and who lives near Priscilla’s home.”
Maggie wrote her letter rapidly. She thought it cold; she meant it to be a purely business note; she did not intend Hammond to see even the glimpse of her warm heart under the carefully studied words. “I am sick of money,” she said to him, “but to some people it is as the bread of life. Ask your friend to provide food and warmth without a moment’s delay for these poor people out of the trifle I enclose. Ask him also to write directly to me, for the ten pounds I now send is only the beginning of what I mean really to do to help them.”
When her letter was finished, Maggie put her hand in her pocket to take out her purse. It was not there. She searched on the table, looked under piles of books and papers, and presently found it. She unclasped the purse, and opened an inner pocket for the purpose of taking out two five-pound notes which she had placed there this morning. To her astonishment and perplexity, this portion of the purse now contained only one of the notes. Maggie felt her face turning crimson. Quick as a flash of lightning a horrible thought assailed her—Priscilla had been alone in her room for nearly an hour—Priscilla’s people were starving: had Priscilla taken the note?
“Oh, hateful!” said Maggie to herself; “what am I coming to, to suspect the brave, the noble—I won’t, I can’t. Oh, how shall I look her in the face and feel that I ever, even for a second, thought of her so dreadfully.” Maggie searched through her purse again. “Perhaps I dreamt that I put two notes here this morning,” she said to herself. “But no, it is no dream; I put two notes into this division of my purse, I put four sovereigns here; the sovereigns are safe—one of the notes is gone.”
She thought deeply for a few moments longer, then added a postscript to her letter:—
“I am very sorry, but I can only send you one note for five pounds to-night. Even this, however, is better than nothing. I will give further help as soon as I hear from your friend.” Maggie then folded her letter, addressed, stamped it, and took it downstairs.
Miss Oliphant was an heiress; she was also an orphan; her father and mother were mere memories to her; she had neither brothers nor sisters; she did not particularly like her guardian, who was old and worldly-wise, as different as possible from the bright, enthusiastic, impulsive girl. Mr Oliphant thought money the aim and object of life: when he spoke to Maggie about it, she professed to hate it. In reality she was indifferent to it; money was valueless to her because she had never felt its want.
She lay awake for a long time that night, thinking of Penywern Cottage, of tired Aunt Raby, of the little girls who wanted food, and education, and care, and love. After a time she fell asleep. In her sleep she ceased to think of Priscilla’s relations: all her thoughts were with Priscilla herself. She dreamt that she saw Priscilla move stealthily in her room, take up her purse with wary fingers, open it, remove a note for five pounds, and hide the purse once more under books and papers.
When Maggie awoke, she professed not to believe in her dream; but, nevertheless, she had a headache, and her heart was heavy within her.
At breakfast that morning Miss Oliphant made a rather startling announcement. “I wish to say something,” she remarked, in her full, rich voice. “A strange thing happened to me last night. I am not accounting for it; I am casting no aspersions on anyone; I don’t even intend to investigate the matter; still, I wish publicly to state a fact—a five-pound note has been taken out of my purse!”
There were no dons or lecturers present when Miss Oliphant made this startling announcement, but Nancy Banister, Rosalind Merton, Priscilla Peel, Miss Day, Miss Marsh, and several other girls were all in the room; they, each of them, looked at the speaker with startled and anxious inquiry.
Maggie herself did not return the glances; she was lazily helping herself to some marmalade.
“How perfectly shameful!” burst at last from the lips of Miss Day. “You have lost five pounds, Miss Oliphant; you are positively certain that five pounds have been taken out of your purse. Where was your purse?” Maggie was spreading the marmalade on her bread-and-butter; her eyes were still fixed on her plate. “I don’t wish a fuss made,” she said.
“Oh, that’s all very fine!” continued Miss Day; “but if five pounds are lost out of your purse, someone has taken them! Someone, therefore, whether servant or student, is a thief. I am not narrow-minded or prudish; but I confess I draw the line at thieves.”
“So do I,” said Maggie, in an icy tone; “still, I don’t mean to make a fuss.”
“But where was your purse, Maggie dear?” asked Nancy Banister; “was it in your pocket?”
“No. I found it last night in my bureau, under some books and papers.” Maggie rose from the table as she spoke. With a swift flash her brown eyes sought Priscilla’s face; she had not meant to look at her, she did not want to; but a fascination she could not control obliged her to dart this one glance of inquiry.
Prissie’s eyes met hers. Their expression was anxious, puzzled, but there was not a trace of guilt or confusion in them. “I don’t know how that money could have been taken, Maggie,” she said, “for I was in your room studying my Greek.” Prissie sighed when she mentioned her Greek. “I was in your room studying Greek all the evening; no one could have come to take the money.”
“It is gone, however,” said Maggie. She spoke with new cheerfulness. The look on Prissie’s face, the tone in her voice, made Maggie blush at ever having suspected her. “It is gone,” she said, in quite a light and cheerful way, “but I am really sorry I mentioned it. As I said just now, I don’t intend to investigate the matter. I may have fallen asleep and taken the five-pound note out in a dream and torn it up, or put it on the fire. Anyhow, it has vanished, and that is all I have to say. Come, Prissie, I want to hear what Miss Heath said to you last night.”
“No,” suddenly exclaimed Annie Day, “Miss Peel, you must not leave the room just now. You have made a statement, Miss Oliphant, which I for one do not intend to pass over without at least asking a few questions. You did not tear up that note in a dream. If it is lost, someone took it. We are St. Benet’s girls, and we don’t choose to have this kind of thing said to us. The thief must confess, and the note must be returned.”
“All right,” said Maggie, “I sha’n’t object to recovering my property. Priscilla, I shall be walking in the grounds; you can come to me when your council of war is over.”
The moment Maggie left the room, Rosalind Merton made a remark. “Miss Peel is the only person who can explain the mystery,” she said.
“What do you mean?” asked Priscilla.
“Why, you confess yourself that you were in Miss Oliphant’s room the greater part of the evening.”
“I confess it?” remarked Priscilla; “that is a curious phrase to apply to a statement. I confess nothing. I was in Maggie’s room, but what of that? When people confess things,” she added, with a naïveté which touched one or two of the girls, “they generally have done something wrong. Now, what was there wrong in my sitting in my friend’s room?”
“Oh, Miss Oliphant is ‘your friend’?” said Rosalind.
“Of course, of course.” But here a memory came over Priscilla; she remembered Maggie’s words the night before—“Youweremy friend.” For the first time her voice faltered, and the crimson flush of distress covered her face. Rosalind’s cruel eyes were fixed on her.
“Let me speak now,” interrupted Miss Day. She gave Rosalind a piercing glance which caused her, in her turn, to colour violently. “It is just this, Miss Peel,” said Annie Day: “you will excuse my speaking bluntly, but you are placed in a very unpleasant position.”
“I? How?” asked Prissie.
“Oh, you great baby!” burst from Rosalind again.
“Please don’t speak to me in that tone, Miss Merton,” said Priscilla, with a new dignity, which became her well. “Now, Miss Day, what have you to say?”
To Prissie’s surprise, at this juncture, Nancy Banister suddenly left her seat, and came and stood at the back of her chair.
“I am on your side whatever happens,” she remarked.
“Thank you,” said Prissie.
“Now, please, Miss Day.”
“You must know who took the note,” said Annie Day.
“I assure you I don’t; I can’t imagine how it has disappeared. Not a soul came into the room while I was there. I did go away once for about three minutes to fetch my Lexicon; but I don’t suppose anyone came into Miss Oliphant’s room during those few minutes—there was no one about to come.”
“Oh, you left the room for about three minutes?”
“Perhaps three—perhaps not so many. I had left my Lexicon in the library; I went to fetch it.”
“Oh,” said Rosalind, suddenly taking the words out of Miss Day’s mouth, “when did you invent this little fiction?”
Prissie’s eyes seemed suddenly to blaze fire; for the first time she perceived the drift of the cruel suspicion, which her fellow-students were seeking to cast upon her. “How wicked you are!” she said to Rosalind. “Why do you look at me like that? Miss Day, why do you smile? Why do you all smile? Oh, Nancy,” added poor Prissie, springing to her feet, and looking full into Nancy’s troubled eyes, “what is the matter?—am I in a dream?”
“It is all very fine to be theatrical,” said Miss Day, “but the fact is, Miss Peel, you are not at all popular enough at St. Benet’s to induce any of us to consent to live under a ban for your sake. Miss Oliphant has lost her money. You say that you spent some time in her room; the purse was on her bureau. Miss Oliphant is rich, she is also generous, she says openly that she does not intend to investigate the matter. No doubt, if you confess your weakness and return the money, she will forgive you, and not report this disgraceful proceeding to the college authorities.” While Miss Day was speaking, some heavy panting breaths came two or three times from Priscilla’s lips. Her face had turned cold and white; but her eyes blazed like living coals.
“Now I understand,” she said, slowly; “you think—you think that I—I stole a five-pound note from my friend; you think that I went into her room and opened her purse, and took away her money; you think that of me—you! I scorn you all, I defy you, I dare you to prove your dreadful words! I am going to Miss Heath this moment; she shall protect me from this dishonour.”
Chapter Twenty Six.In the Ante-Chapel of St. Hilda’s.Priscilla ran blindly down the corridor which opened into the wide entrance-hall. Groups of girls were standing about; they stared as the wild-looking apparition rushed past them: Prissie was blind to their puzzled and curious glances. She wanted to see Miss Heath; she had a queer kind of instinct, rather than any distinct impression, that in Miss Heath’s presence she would be protected, that Miss Heath would know what to say, would know how to dispel the cloud of disgrace which had suddenly been cast over her like a cloak.“Is there anything wrong, Miss Peel?” said gentle little Ada Hardy, coming up and speaking to her affectionately. Miss Hardy stood right in Prissie’s path, barring her way for a moment, and causing her, in spite of herself, to stop her headlong rush to the Vice-Principal’s room. Priscilla put up her hand to her brow; she looked in a dazed sort of way at the kind-hearted girl.“What is the matter—can I help you?” repeated Ada Hardy.“You can’t help me,” said Prissie. “I want to see Miss Heath; let me pass.” She ran forward again, and some other girls, coming out of the dining-hall, now came up to Ada and distracted her attention.Miss Heath’s private sitting-room was on the ground floor. This lovely room has been described before. It was open now, and Prissie went in without knocking; she thought she would see Miss Heath sitting as she usually was at this hour, either reading or answering letters; she was not in the room. Priscilla felt too wild and impetuous to consider any action carefully, just then; she ran up at once to the electric-bell, and pressed the button for quite a quarter of a minute. A maidservant came quickly to answer the summons. She thought Miss Heath had sent for her, and stared at the excited girl.“I want to see Miss Heath,” said Priscilla; “please ask her to come to me here; say Miss Peel wants to see her—Priscilla Peel wants to see her, very,verybadly, in her own sitting-room at once. Ask her to come to me at once.”The presence of real tragedy always inspires respect; there was no question with regard to the genuineness of Prissie’s sorrow just then.“I will try and find Miss Heath, Miss, and ask her to come to you without delay,” answered the maid. She softly withdrew, closing the door after her. Priscilla went and stood on the hearthrug. Raising her eyes for a moment, they rested on a large and beautiful platinotype of G.F. Watts’s picture of “Hope.” The last time she had visited Miss Heath in that room, Prissie had been taken by the kind Vice-Principal to look at the picture, and some of its symbolism was explained to her. “That globe on which the figure of Hope sits,” Miss Heath had said, “is meant to represent the world. Hope is blindfolded in order more effectually to shut out the sights which might distract her. See the harp in her hand, observe her rapt attitude—she is listening to melody—she hears, she rejoices, and yet the harp out of which she makes music only possesses one string—all the rest are broken.” Miss Heath said nothing further, and Prissie scarcely took in the full meaning of the picture that evening. Now she looked again, and a passionate agony swept over her. “Hope has one string still left to her harp with which she can play music,” murmured the young girl; “but oh! there are times when all the strings of the harp are broken; then, Hope dies.”The room door was opened, and the servant reappeared.“I am very sorry, Miss,” she said, “but Miss Heath has gone out for the morning. Would you like to see anyone else?”Priscilla gazed at the messenger in a dull sort of way. “I can’t see Miss Heath?” she murmured.“No, Miss, she is out.”“Very well.”“Can I do anything for you, Miss?”“No, thank you.”The servant went away with a puzzled expression on her face.“That plain young lady, who is so awful poor—Miss Peel, I mean—seems in a sad taking,” she said by-and-by to her fellow-servants.Priscilla, left alone in Miss Heath’s sitting-room, stood still for a moment, then, running upstairs to her room, she put on her hat and jacket, and went out. She was expected to attend two lectures that morning, and the hour for the first had almost arrived. Maggie Oliphant was coming into the house when Prissie ran past her.“My dear!” she exclaimed, shocked at the look on Priscilla’s face. “Come here; I want to speak to you.”“I can’t—don’t stop me.”“But where are you going? Mr Kenyon has just arrived. I am on my way to the lecture-hall now.”“It doesn’t matter.”“Aren’t you coming?”“No.”This last word reached Miss Oliphant from a distance; Prissie had already almost reached the gates.Maggie stood still for a moment, half inclined to follow the excited, frantic-looking girl, but that queer inertia, which was part of her complex character, came over her. She shrugged her shoulders, the interest died out of her face; she walked slowly through the entrance-hall and down one of the side corridors to the lecture-room.When the Greek lecture had come to an end, Nancy Banister came up and slipped her hand through Maggie’s arm.“What is the matter, Maggie?” she asked, “you look very white and tired.”“I have a headache,” answered Maggie. “If it does not get better, I shall send for a carriage and take a drive.”“May I come with you?”“No, dear Nancy, when I have these bad headaches it is almost necessary to me to be alone.”“Would it not be better for you to go and lie down in your room?”“I, to lie down in my room with a headache like this?—no, thank you.” Maggie shuddered as she spoke. Nancy felt her friend’s arm shiver as she leant on it.“You are really ill, darling!” she said, in a tone of sympathy and fondness.“I have not felt right for a week, and am worse to-day, but I daresay a drive in this nice frosty air will set me up.”“I am going to Kingsdene. Shall I order a carriage for you?”“I wish you would.”“Maggie, did you notice that Priscilla was not at her lecture?”“She was not. I met her rushing away, I think, to Kingsdene; she seemed put out about something.”“Poor little thing; no wonder—those horrid girls!”“Oh, Nancy, if there’s anything unpleasant, don’t tell me just now; my head aches so dreadfully, I could scarcely hear bad news.”“You are working too hard, Maggie.”“I am not; it is the only thing left to me.”“Do you know that we are to have a rehearsal ofThe Princessto-night? If you are as ill as you look now, you can’t be present.”“I will be present. Do you think I can’t force myself to do what is necessary?”“Oh, I am well acquainted with the power of your will,” answered Nancy, with a laugh. “Well, good-bye dear, I am off; you may expect the carriage to arrive in half an hour.”Meanwhile, Priscilla, still blind, deaf, and dumb with misery, ran, rather than walked, along the road which leads to Kingsdene. The day was lovely, with little faint wafts of spring in the air; the sky was pale blue and cloudless; there was a slight hoar frost on the grass. Priscilla chose to walk on it, rather than on the dusty road; it felt crisp under her tread.She had not the least idea why she was going to Kingsdene; her wish was to walk, and walk, and walk until sheer fatigue, caused by long-continued motion, brought to her temporary ease and forgetfulness.Prissie was a very strong girl, and she knew she must walk for a long time; her feet must traverse many miles before she effected her object. Just as she was passing St. Hilda’s College she came face to face with Hammond. He was in his college cap and gown, and was on his way to morning prayers in the chapel. Hammond had received Maggie’s letter that morning, and this fact caused him to look at Priscilla with new interest. On another occasion, he would have passed her with a hurried bow. Now he stopped to speak. The moment he caught sight of her face, he forgot everything else in his distress at the expression of misery which it wore.“Where are you going, Miss Peel?” he asked; “you appear to be flying from something, or, perhaps, it istosomething. Must you run? See, you have almost knocked me down.” He chose light words on purpose, hoping to make Prissie smile.“I am going for a walk,” she said; “please let me pass.”“I am afraid you are in trouble,” he replied then, seeing that Priscilla’s mood must be taken seriously.His sympathy gave the poor girl a momentary thrill of comfort; she raised her eyes to his face, and spoke huskily.“A dreadful thing has happened to me,” she said.The chapel bell stopped as she spoke; groups of men, all in their caps and gowns, hurried by; several of them looked from Hammond to Priscilla, and smiled.“I must go to chapel now,” he said; “but I should like to speak to you. Can I not see you after morning prayers? Would you not come to the service? You might sit in the ante-chapel, if you did not want to come into the chapel itself. You had much better do that. Whatever your trouble is, the service at St. Hilda’s ought to sustain you. Please wait for me in the ante-chapel. I shall look for you there after prayers.”He ran off just in time to take his own place in the chapel, before the doors were shut, and curtains drawn.Without a moment’s hesitation, Priscilla followed him. She entered the ante-chapel, sat down on a bench not far from the entrance door, and when the service began, she dropped on her knees, and covered her face with her hands.The music came to her in soft waves of far-off harmony. The doors which divided the inner chapel from the outer gave it a faint sound, as if it were miles away; each note, however, was distinct; no sound was lost. The boys’ voices rose high in the air; they were angelic in their sweetness. Prissie was incapable, at that moment, of taking in the meaning of the words she heard, but the lovely sounds comforted her; the dreadful weight was lifted, or, at least, partially lifted, from her brain; she felt as if a hand had been laid on her hot, angry heart; as if a gentle, a very gentle, touch was soothing the sorrow there.“I am ready now,” said Hammond, when the service was over; “will you come?”She rose without a word, and went out with him into the quadrangle; they walked down the High Street.“Are you going back to St. Benet’s?” he asked.“Oh, no—oh, no!””‘Yes,’ you mean; I will walk with you as far as the gates.”“I am not going back.”“Pardon me,” said Hammond, “youmustgo back; so young a girl cannot take long walks alone. If one of your fellow-students were with you, it would be different.”“I would not walk with one of them now for the world.”“Not with Miss Oliphant?”“With her, least of all.”“That is a pity,” said Hammond, gravely, “for no one can feel more kindly towards you.”Prissie made no response.They walked to the end of the High Street.“This is your way,” said Hammond, “down this quiet lane; we shall get to St. Benet’s in ten minutes.”“I am not going there. Good-bye, Mr Hammond.”“Miss Peel, you must forgive my appearing to interfere with you, but it is absolutely wrong for a young girl, such as you are, to wander about alone in the vicinity of a large university town. Let me treat you as my sister for once, and insist on accompanying you to the gates of the college.”Prissie looked up at him. “It is very good of you to take any notice of me,” she said, after a pause. “You won’t ever again after—after you know what I have been accused of. If you wish me to go back to St. Benet’s, I will; after all, it does not matter, for I can go out by-and-by somewhere else.”Hammond smiled to himself at Prissie’s very qualified submission. Just then a carriage came up and drove slowly past them. Miss Oliphant, in her velvet and sables, was seated in it. Hammond sprang forward with heightened colour, and an eager exclamation on his lips. She did not motion to the coachman to stop, however, but gave the young man a careless, cold bow. She did not notice Priscilla at all. The carriage quickly drove out of sight, and Hammond, after a pause, said gravely—“You must tell me your trouble, Miss Peel.”“I will,” said Prissie. “Someone has stolen a five-pound note out of Maggie Oliphant’s purse; she missed it late at night, and spoke about it at breakfast this morning. I said that I did not know how it could have been taken, for I had been studying my Greek in her room during the whole afternoon. Maggie spoke about her loss in the dining-hall, and after she left the room Miss Day and Miss Merton accused me of having stolen the money.” Priscilla stopped speaking abruptly; she turned her head away; a dull red suffused her face and neck.“Well?” said Hammond.“That is all. The girls at St. Benet’s think I am a thief. They think I took my kindest friend’s money. I have nothing more to say: nothing possibly could be more dreadful to me. I shall speak to Miss Heath, and ask leave to go away from the college at once.”“You certainly ought not to do that.”“What do you mean?”“If you went from St. Benet’s now, people might be induced to think that you really were guilty.”“But they think that now.”“I am quite certain that those students whose friendship is worth retaining think nothing of the sort.”“Why are you certain?” asked Prissie, turning swiftly round, and a sudden ray of sunshine illuminating her whole face. “Doyouthink that I am not a thief?”“I am as certain of that fact as I am of my own identity.”“Oh!” said the girl, with a gasp. She made a sudden dart forward, and seizing Hammond’s hand, squeezed it passionately between both her own.“And Miss Oliphant does not think of you as a thief,” continued Hammond.“I don’t know—I can’t say.”“You have no right to be so unjust to her,” he replied, with fervour.“I don’t care so much for the opinions of the others now,” said Prissie; “youbelieve in me.” She walked erect again; her footsteps were light as if she trod on air. “You are a very good man,” she said; “I would do anything for you—anything.”Hammond smiled. Her innocence, her enthusiasm, her childishness were too apparent for him to take her words for more than they were worth.“Do you know,” he said, after a pause, “that I am in a certain measure entitled to help you? In the first place, Miss Oliphant takes a great interest in you.”“You are mistaken, she does not—not now.”“I am not mistaken; she takes a great interest in you. Priscilla, you must have guessed—youhaveguessed—what Maggie Oliphant is to me; I should like, therefore, to help her friend. That is one tie between us; but there is another—Mr Hayes, your parish clergyman—”“Oh!” said Prissie, “do you know Mr Hayes?”“I not only know him,” replied Hammond, smiling, “but he is my uncle. I am going to see him this evening.”“Oh!”“Of course, I shall tell him nothing of this, but I shall probably talk of you. Have you a message for him?”“I can send him no message to-day.”They had now reached the college gates. Hammond took Priscilla’s hand. “Good-bye,” he said; “I believe in you, and so does Miss Oliphant. If her money was stolen, the thief was certainly not the most upright, the most sincere girl in the college. My advice to you, Miss Peel, is to hold your head up bravely, to confront this charge by that sense of absolute innocence which you possess. In the meanwhile, I have not the least doubt that the real thief will be found. Don’t make a fuss; don’t go about in wild despair—have faith in God.” He pressed her hand, and turned away.Priscilla took her usual place that day at the luncheon table. The girls who had witnessed her wild behaviour in the morning watched her in perplexity and astonishment. She ate her food with appetite; her face looked serene—all the passion and agony had left it.Rosalind Merton ventured on a sly allusion to the scene of the morning. Priscilla did not make the smallest comment; her face remained pale, her eyes untroubled. There was a new dignity about her.“What’s up now?” said Rosalind, to her friend Miss Day. “Is the little Puritan going to defy us all?”“Oh, don’t worry any more about her,” said Annie, who, for some reason, was in a particularly bad humour. “I only wish, for my part, Miss Peel had never come to St. Benet’s; I don’t like anything about her. Her heroics are as unpleasant to me as her stoicisms. But I may as well say frankly, Rosalind, before I drop this detestable subject, that I am quite sure she never stole that five-pound note: she was as little likely to do it as you, so there!”There came a knock at the door. Rosalind flew to open it; by so doing she hoped that Miss Day would not notice the sudden colour which filled her cheeks.
Priscilla ran blindly down the corridor which opened into the wide entrance-hall. Groups of girls were standing about; they stared as the wild-looking apparition rushed past them: Prissie was blind to their puzzled and curious glances. She wanted to see Miss Heath; she had a queer kind of instinct, rather than any distinct impression, that in Miss Heath’s presence she would be protected, that Miss Heath would know what to say, would know how to dispel the cloud of disgrace which had suddenly been cast over her like a cloak.
“Is there anything wrong, Miss Peel?” said gentle little Ada Hardy, coming up and speaking to her affectionately. Miss Hardy stood right in Prissie’s path, barring her way for a moment, and causing her, in spite of herself, to stop her headlong rush to the Vice-Principal’s room. Priscilla put up her hand to her brow; she looked in a dazed sort of way at the kind-hearted girl.
“What is the matter—can I help you?” repeated Ada Hardy.
“You can’t help me,” said Prissie. “I want to see Miss Heath; let me pass.” She ran forward again, and some other girls, coming out of the dining-hall, now came up to Ada and distracted her attention.
Miss Heath’s private sitting-room was on the ground floor. This lovely room has been described before. It was open now, and Prissie went in without knocking; she thought she would see Miss Heath sitting as she usually was at this hour, either reading or answering letters; she was not in the room. Priscilla felt too wild and impetuous to consider any action carefully, just then; she ran up at once to the electric-bell, and pressed the button for quite a quarter of a minute. A maidservant came quickly to answer the summons. She thought Miss Heath had sent for her, and stared at the excited girl.
“I want to see Miss Heath,” said Priscilla; “please ask her to come to me here; say Miss Peel wants to see her—Priscilla Peel wants to see her, very,verybadly, in her own sitting-room at once. Ask her to come to me at once.”
The presence of real tragedy always inspires respect; there was no question with regard to the genuineness of Prissie’s sorrow just then.
“I will try and find Miss Heath, Miss, and ask her to come to you without delay,” answered the maid. She softly withdrew, closing the door after her. Priscilla went and stood on the hearthrug. Raising her eyes for a moment, they rested on a large and beautiful platinotype of G.F. Watts’s picture of “Hope.” The last time she had visited Miss Heath in that room, Prissie had been taken by the kind Vice-Principal to look at the picture, and some of its symbolism was explained to her. “That globe on which the figure of Hope sits,” Miss Heath had said, “is meant to represent the world. Hope is blindfolded in order more effectually to shut out the sights which might distract her. See the harp in her hand, observe her rapt attitude—she is listening to melody—she hears, she rejoices, and yet the harp out of which she makes music only possesses one string—all the rest are broken.” Miss Heath said nothing further, and Prissie scarcely took in the full meaning of the picture that evening. Now she looked again, and a passionate agony swept over her. “Hope has one string still left to her harp with which she can play music,” murmured the young girl; “but oh! there are times when all the strings of the harp are broken; then, Hope dies.”
The room door was opened, and the servant reappeared.
“I am very sorry, Miss,” she said, “but Miss Heath has gone out for the morning. Would you like to see anyone else?”
Priscilla gazed at the messenger in a dull sort of way. “I can’t see Miss Heath?” she murmured.
“No, Miss, she is out.”
“Very well.”
“Can I do anything for you, Miss?”
“No, thank you.”
The servant went away with a puzzled expression on her face.
“That plain young lady, who is so awful poor—Miss Peel, I mean—seems in a sad taking,” she said by-and-by to her fellow-servants.
Priscilla, left alone in Miss Heath’s sitting-room, stood still for a moment, then, running upstairs to her room, she put on her hat and jacket, and went out. She was expected to attend two lectures that morning, and the hour for the first had almost arrived. Maggie Oliphant was coming into the house when Prissie ran past her.
“My dear!” she exclaimed, shocked at the look on Priscilla’s face. “Come here; I want to speak to you.”
“I can’t—don’t stop me.”
“But where are you going? Mr Kenyon has just arrived. I am on my way to the lecture-hall now.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“No.”
This last word reached Miss Oliphant from a distance; Prissie had already almost reached the gates.
Maggie stood still for a moment, half inclined to follow the excited, frantic-looking girl, but that queer inertia, which was part of her complex character, came over her. She shrugged her shoulders, the interest died out of her face; she walked slowly through the entrance-hall and down one of the side corridors to the lecture-room.
When the Greek lecture had come to an end, Nancy Banister came up and slipped her hand through Maggie’s arm.
“What is the matter, Maggie?” she asked, “you look very white and tired.”
“I have a headache,” answered Maggie. “If it does not get better, I shall send for a carriage and take a drive.”
“May I come with you?”
“No, dear Nancy, when I have these bad headaches it is almost necessary to me to be alone.”
“Would it not be better for you to go and lie down in your room?”
“I, to lie down in my room with a headache like this?—no, thank you.” Maggie shuddered as she spoke. Nancy felt her friend’s arm shiver as she leant on it.
“You are really ill, darling!” she said, in a tone of sympathy and fondness.
“I have not felt right for a week, and am worse to-day, but I daresay a drive in this nice frosty air will set me up.”
“I am going to Kingsdene. Shall I order a carriage for you?”
“I wish you would.”
“Maggie, did you notice that Priscilla was not at her lecture?”
“She was not. I met her rushing away, I think, to Kingsdene; she seemed put out about something.”
“Poor little thing; no wonder—those horrid girls!”
“Oh, Nancy, if there’s anything unpleasant, don’t tell me just now; my head aches so dreadfully, I could scarcely hear bad news.”
“You are working too hard, Maggie.”
“I am not; it is the only thing left to me.”
“Do you know that we are to have a rehearsal ofThe Princessto-night? If you are as ill as you look now, you can’t be present.”
“I will be present. Do you think I can’t force myself to do what is necessary?”
“Oh, I am well acquainted with the power of your will,” answered Nancy, with a laugh. “Well, good-bye dear, I am off; you may expect the carriage to arrive in half an hour.”
Meanwhile, Priscilla, still blind, deaf, and dumb with misery, ran, rather than walked, along the road which leads to Kingsdene. The day was lovely, with little faint wafts of spring in the air; the sky was pale blue and cloudless; there was a slight hoar frost on the grass. Priscilla chose to walk on it, rather than on the dusty road; it felt crisp under her tread.
She had not the least idea why she was going to Kingsdene; her wish was to walk, and walk, and walk until sheer fatigue, caused by long-continued motion, brought to her temporary ease and forgetfulness.
Prissie was a very strong girl, and she knew she must walk for a long time; her feet must traverse many miles before she effected her object. Just as she was passing St. Hilda’s College she came face to face with Hammond. He was in his college cap and gown, and was on his way to morning prayers in the chapel. Hammond had received Maggie’s letter that morning, and this fact caused him to look at Priscilla with new interest. On another occasion, he would have passed her with a hurried bow. Now he stopped to speak. The moment he caught sight of her face, he forgot everything else in his distress at the expression of misery which it wore.
“Where are you going, Miss Peel?” he asked; “you appear to be flying from something, or, perhaps, it istosomething. Must you run? See, you have almost knocked me down.” He chose light words on purpose, hoping to make Prissie smile.
“I am going for a walk,” she said; “please let me pass.”
“I am afraid you are in trouble,” he replied then, seeing that Priscilla’s mood must be taken seriously.
His sympathy gave the poor girl a momentary thrill of comfort; she raised her eyes to his face, and spoke huskily.
“A dreadful thing has happened to me,” she said.
The chapel bell stopped as she spoke; groups of men, all in their caps and gowns, hurried by; several of them looked from Hammond to Priscilla, and smiled.
“I must go to chapel now,” he said; “but I should like to speak to you. Can I not see you after morning prayers? Would you not come to the service? You might sit in the ante-chapel, if you did not want to come into the chapel itself. You had much better do that. Whatever your trouble is, the service at St. Hilda’s ought to sustain you. Please wait for me in the ante-chapel. I shall look for you there after prayers.”
He ran off just in time to take his own place in the chapel, before the doors were shut, and curtains drawn.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Priscilla followed him. She entered the ante-chapel, sat down on a bench not far from the entrance door, and when the service began, she dropped on her knees, and covered her face with her hands.
The music came to her in soft waves of far-off harmony. The doors which divided the inner chapel from the outer gave it a faint sound, as if it were miles away; each note, however, was distinct; no sound was lost. The boys’ voices rose high in the air; they were angelic in their sweetness. Prissie was incapable, at that moment, of taking in the meaning of the words she heard, but the lovely sounds comforted her; the dreadful weight was lifted, or, at least, partially lifted, from her brain; she felt as if a hand had been laid on her hot, angry heart; as if a gentle, a very gentle, touch was soothing the sorrow there.
“I am ready now,” said Hammond, when the service was over; “will you come?”
She rose without a word, and went out with him into the quadrangle; they walked down the High Street.
“Are you going back to St. Benet’s?” he asked.
“Oh, no—oh, no!”
”‘Yes,’ you mean; I will walk with you as far as the gates.”
“I am not going back.”
“Pardon me,” said Hammond, “youmustgo back; so young a girl cannot take long walks alone. If one of your fellow-students were with you, it would be different.”
“I would not walk with one of them now for the world.”
“Not with Miss Oliphant?”
“With her, least of all.”
“That is a pity,” said Hammond, gravely, “for no one can feel more kindly towards you.”
Prissie made no response.
They walked to the end of the High Street.
“This is your way,” said Hammond, “down this quiet lane; we shall get to St. Benet’s in ten minutes.”
“I am not going there. Good-bye, Mr Hammond.”
“Miss Peel, you must forgive my appearing to interfere with you, but it is absolutely wrong for a young girl, such as you are, to wander about alone in the vicinity of a large university town. Let me treat you as my sister for once, and insist on accompanying you to the gates of the college.”
Prissie looked up at him. “It is very good of you to take any notice of me,” she said, after a pause. “You won’t ever again after—after you know what I have been accused of. If you wish me to go back to St. Benet’s, I will; after all, it does not matter, for I can go out by-and-by somewhere else.”
Hammond smiled to himself at Prissie’s very qualified submission. Just then a carriage came up and drove slowly past them. Miss Oliphant, in her velvet and sables, was seated in it. Hammond sprang forward with heightened colour, and an eager exclamation on his lips. She did not motion to the coachman to stop, however, but gave the young man a careless, cold bow. She did not notice Priscilla at all. The carriage quickly drove out of sight, and Hammond, after a pause, said gravely—
“You must tell me your trouble, Miss Peel.”
“I will,” said Prissie. “Someone has stolen a five-pound note out of Maggie Oliphant’s purse; she missed it late at night, and spoke about it at breakfast this morning. I said that I did not know how it could have been taken, for I had been studying my Greek in her room during the whole afternoon. Maggie spoke about her loss in the dining-hall, and after she left the room Miss Day and Miss Merton accused me of having stolen the money.” Priscilla stopped speaking abruptly; she turned her head away; a dull red suffused her face and neck.
“Well?” said Hammond.
“That is all. The girls at St. Benet’s think I am a thief. They think I took my kindest friend’s money. I have nothing more to say: nothing possibly could be more dreadful to me. I shall speak to Miss Heath, and ask leave to go away from the college at once.”
“You certainly ought not to do that.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you went from St. Benet’s now, people might be induced to think that you really were guilty.”
“But they think that now.”
“I am quite certain that those students whose friendship is worth retaining think nothing of the sort.”
“Why are you certain?” asked Prissie, turning swiftly round, and a sudden ray of sunshine illuminating her whole face. “Doyouthink that I am not a thief?”
“I am as certain of that fact as I am of my own identity.”
“Oh!” said the girl, with a gasp. She made a sudden dart forward, and seizing Hammond’s hand, squeezed it passionately between both her own.
“And Miss Oliphant does not think of you as a thief,” continued Hammond.
“I don’t know—I can’t say.”
“You have no right to be so unjust to her,” he replied, with fervour.
“I don’t care so much for the opinions of the others now,” said Prissie; “youbelieve in me.” She walked erect again; her footsteps were light as if she trod on air. “You are a very good man,” she said; “I would do anything for you—anything.”
Hammond smiled. Her innocence, her enthusiasm, her childishness were too apparent for him to take her words for more than they were worth.
“Do you know,” he said, after a pause, “that I am in a certain measure entitled to help you? In the first place, Miss Oliphant takes a great interest in you.”
“You are mistaken, she does not—not now.”
“I am not mistaken; she takes a great interest in you. Priscilla, you must have guessed—youhaveguessed—what Maggie Oliphant is to me; I should like, therefore, to help her friend. That is one tie between us; but there is another—Mr Hayes, your parish clergyman—”
“Oh!” said Prissie, “do you know Mr Hayes?”
“I not only know him,” replied Hammond, smiling, “but he is my uncle. I am going to see him this evening.”
“Oh!”
“Of course, I shall tell him nothing of this, but I shall probably talk of you. Have you a message for him?”
“I can send him no message to-day.”
They had now reached the college gates. Hammond took Priscilla’s hand. “Good-bye,” he said; “I believe in you, and so does Miss Oliphant. If her money was stolen, the thief was certainly not the most upright, the most sincere girl in the college. My advice to you, Miss Peel, is to hold your head up bravely, to confront this charge by that sense of absolute innocence which you possess. In the meanwhile, I have not the least doubt that the real thief will be found. Don’t make a fuss; don’t go about in wild despair—have faith in God.” He pressed her hand, and turned away.
Priscilla took her usual place that day at the luncheon table. The girls who had witnessed her wild behaviour in the morning watched her in perplexity and astonishment. She ate her food with appetite; her face looked serene—all the passion and agony had left it.
Rosalind Merton ventured on a sly allusion to the scene of the morning. Priscilla did not make the smallest comment; her face remained pale, her eyes untroubled. There was a new dignity about her.
“What’s up now?” said Rosalind, to her friend Miss Day. “Is the little Puritan going to defy us all?”
“Oh, don’t worry any more about her,” said Annie, who, for some reason, was in a particularly bad humour. “I only wish, for my part, Miss Peel had never come to St. Benet’s; I don’t like anything about her. Her heroics are as unpleasant to me as her stoicisms. But I may as well say frankly, Rosalind, before I drop this detestable subject, that I am quite sure she never stole that five-pound note: she was as little likely to do it as you, so there!”
There came a knock at the door. Rosalind flew to open it; by so doing she hoped that Miss Day would not notice the sudden colour which filled her cheeks.
Chapter Twenty Seven.Beautiful Annabel Lee.Circumstances seem to combine to spoil some people. Maggie Oliphant was one of the victims of fortune, which, while appearing to favour her, gave her in reality the worst training which was possible for a nature such as hers. She was impulsive, generous, affectionate, but she was also perverse, and, so to speak, uncertain. She was a creature of moods, and she was almost absolutely without self-control; and yet nature had been kind to Maggie, giving her great beauty of form and face, and a character which a right training would have rendered noble.Up to the present, however, this training had scarcely come to Miss Oliphant. She was almost without relations, and she was possessed of more money than she knew what to do with. She had great abilities, and loved learning for the sake of learning, but, till she came to St. Benet’s, her education had been as desultory as her life. She had never been to school; her governesses only taught her what she chose to learn. As a child she was very fickle in this respect, working hard from morning till night one day, but idling the whole of the next. When she was fifteen her guardian took her to Rome; the next two years were spent in travelling, and Maggie, who knew nothing properly, picked up that kind of superficial miscellaneous knowledge which made her conversation brilliant and added to her many charms.“You shall be brought out early,” her guardian had said to her. “You are not educated in the stereotyped fashion, but you know enough. After you are seventeen I will get you a suitable chaperon, and you shall live in London.”This scheme, however, was not carried out. For, shortly after her seventeenth birthday, Maggie Oliphant met a girl whose beauty and brilliance were equal to her own, whose nature was stronger, and who had been carefully trained in heart and mind while Maggie had been neglected. Miss Lee was going through a course of training at St. Benet’s College for Women at Kingsdene. She was an uncommon girl in every sense of the word. The expression of her lovely face was as piquant as its features were beautiful; her eyes were dark as night; they also possessed the depth of the tenderest, sweetest summer night, subjugating all those who came in contact with her. Annabel Lee won Maggie’s warmest affections at once; she determined to join her friend at St. Benet’s. She spoke with ineffable scorn of her London season, and resolved, with that enthusiasm which was the strongest part of her nature, to become a student in reality. Under Annabel’s guidance she took up the course of study which was necessary to enable her to pass her entrance examination. She acquitted herself well, for her abilities were of the highest order, and entered the college withéclat. Miss Lee was a student in Heath Hall, and Maggie thought herself supremely happy when she was given a room next to her friend.Those were brilliant days at the Hall. Some girls resided there at this time whose names were destined to be known in the world by-and-by. The workers were earnest; the tone which pervaded the life at Heath Hall was distinctly high. Shallow girls there must always be where any number are to be found together, but, during Maggie Oliphant’s first year, these girls had little chance of coming to the front. Maggie, who was as easily influenced as a wave is tossed by the wind, rose quickly to the heights with her companions. Her splendid intellect developed each day; she was merry with the merry, glad with the glad, studious with the studious. She was also generous, kind, and unselfish in company with those girls who observed the precepts of the higher life. Next to Miss Lee, Maggie was one of the most popular girls in the college. Annabel Lee had the kindest of hearts, as well as the most fascinating of ways. She was an extraordinary girl; there was a great deal of the exotic about her; in many ways she was old for her years. No one ever thought or spoke of her as a prig, but all her influence was brought to bear in the right direction. The girl who could do or think meanly avoided the expression in Annabel’s beautiful eyes. It was impossible for her to think badly of her fellow-creatures, but meanness and sin made her sorrowful. There was not a girl in Heath Hall who would willingly give Annabel Lee sorrow.In the days that followed people knew that she was one of those rare and brilliant creatures who, like a lovely but too ethereal flower, must quickly bloom into perfection and then pass away. Annabel was destined to a short life, and after her death the high tone of Heath Hall deteriorated considerably.This girl was a born leader. When she died no other girl in the college could take her place, and for many a long day those who had loved her were conscious of a sense which meant a loss of headship. In short, they were without their leader.If Annabel in her gaiety and brightness could influence girls who were scarcely more than acquaintances, the effect of her strong personality on Maggie was supreme. Maggie often said that she never knew what love meant until she met Annabel. The two girls were inseparable; their love for each other was compared to that of Jonathan and David of Bible story, and of Orestes and Pylades of Greek legend. The society of each gave the other the warmest pleasure.Annabel and Maggie were both so beautiful in appearance, so far above the average girl in their pose, their walk, their manner, that people noticed these friends wherever they went. A young and rising artist, who saw them once at St. Hilda’s, begged permission to make a picture of the pair. It was done during the summer recess before Annabel died, and made a sensation in the next year’s Academy. Many of the visitors who went there stopped and looked at the two faces, both in the perfection of their youthful bloom and beauty; few guessed that one even now had gone to the Home best fitted for so ardent and high a spirit.Annabel Lee died a year before Priscilla came to the college. Whatever Maggie inwardly felt, she had got over her first grief; her smile was again as brilliant as when Annabel was by her side, her laugh was as merry; but the very few who could look a little way into Maggie’s perverse and passionate heart, knew well that something had died in her which could never live again, that her laugh was often hollow, and her brilliant smile had only a foundation in bitterness.Maggie did not only grieve for her friend when she mourned for Annabel. She had loved her most deeply, and love alone would have caused her agony in such a loss; but Maggie’s keenest and most terrible feelings were caused by an unavailing regret.This regret was connected with Geoffrey Hammond.He had known Annabel from her childhood. He was an old friend of some of her friends, and during those last, long summer holidays, which the two girls spent together under the roof of Maggie’s guardian, Hammond, who was staying with relations not far away, came to see them almost daily. He was the kind of man who could win both respect and admiration; he was grave in his nature; and his aspirations, aims, and ambitions were high. In their conversations during this lovely summer weather these young people dreamt happy dreams together, and planned a future which meant good to all mankind. Maggie, to all appearance, was heart and soul with Annabel and Geoffrey in what they thought and said.Nothing could have been simpler or more unconventional than the intercourse between these young people. Miss Lee had known Hammond all her life; Maggie always spoke and thought of herself as second to Annabel in Geoffrey Hammond’s regard. One brilliant autumn day, however, he surprised Maggie by asking her to take a long walk alone with him. No words were said during this ramble to open Maggie Oliphant’s eyes to the true state of Hammond’s feelings for her, but, when she returned from her walk, she could not help noticing Annabel Lee’s unaccountable depression. It was not until later, however, that Maggie attributed a certain pathetic, almost heart-broken, look in her friend’s lovely eyes to its true cause.Hammond was a graduate of St. Hilda’s College at Kingsdene, and the three friends often talked of the happy meetings they would have during the coming winter. He was a man of large property, and the favourite amusement of these young people was in talking over the brilliant life which lay before Hammond when he took possession of his estates. He would be the ideal landlord of his age; the people who lived on his property would, when he attained his majority, enter into a millennium of bliss.Maggie returned to St. Benet’s, imagining herself quite heart-whole; but happiness shone out of her eyes, and there was a new tender ring in her voice for which she could not account to herself, and which added a new fascination to her beauty.Shortly after the commencement of the term, Hammond met Miss Oliphant by accident just outside Kingsdene.“I was going to post a letter to you,” he said. His face was unusually pale, his eyes full of joy and yet of solicitude.“You can tell me what you have written,” replied Maggie, in her gayest voice.“No, I would rather you read my letter.”He thrust it into her hand and immediately, to her astonishment, left her.As she walked home through the frosty air she opened Hammond’s letter, and read its contents. It contained an earnest appeal for her love, and an assurance that all the happiness of the writer’s future life depended on her consenting to marry him. Would she be his wife when her three years’ term at St. Benet’s came to an end?No letter could be more manly, more simple. Its contents went straight to the depths of a heart easily swayed and full of strong affection.“Yes, I love him,” whispered the girl; “I did not know it until I read this letter, but I am sure of myself now. Yes, I love him better than anyone else in the world.”A joyous light filled Maggie’s brown eyes; her heart was gay. She rushed to Annabel’s room to tell her news, and to claim the sympathy which had never hitherto been denied her, and which was essential to the completion of her happiness.When Maggie entered her friend’s room, she saw, to her surprise, that Annabel was lying on her bed with flushed cheeks. Two hours before she had been, to all appearance, in brilliant health; now her face burned with fever, and her beautiful dark eyes were glazed with pain.Maggie rushed up and kissed her. “What is it, darling,” she asked; “what is wrong? You look ill; your eyes have a strange expression.”Annabel’s reply was scarcely audible. The pain and torpor of her last short illness were already overmastering her. Maggie was alarmed at the burning touch of her hand; but she had no experience to guide her, and her own great joy helped to make her selfish.“Annabel, look at me for a moment; I have wonderful news to give you.”Annabel’s eyes were closed. She opened them wide at this appeal for sympathy, stretched out her hand, and pushed back a tangle of bright hair from Maggie’s brow.“I love you, Maggie,” she said, in that voice which had always power to thrill its listeners.Maggie kissed her friend’s hand, and pressed it to her own beating heart. “I met Geoffrey Hammond to-day,” she said. “He gave me a letter; I have read it. Oh, Annabel, Annabel! I can be good now. No more bad half-hours, no more struggles with myself. I can be very good now.”With some slight difficulty Annabel Lee drew her hot hand away from Maggie’s fervent clasp; her eyes, slightly distended, were fixed on her friend’s face; the flush of fever left her cheeks; a hot flood of emotion seemed to press against her beating heart; she looked at Maggie with passionate longing.“What is it?” she asked, in a husky whisper. “Why are you so glad, Maggie? Why can you be good now?”“Because I love Geoffrey Hammond,” answered Maggie: “I love him with all my heart, all my life, all my strength, and he loves me; he has asked me to be his wife.”Maggie paused. She expected to feel Annabel’s arms round her neck; she waited impatiently for this last crowning moment of bliss. Her own happiness caused her to lower her eyes; her joy was so dazzling that for a moment she felt she must shade their brilliance even from Annabel’s gaze.Instead of the pressure of loving arms, however, and the warm kiss of sympathy, there came a low cry from the lips of the sick girl. She made an effort to say something, but words failed her: the next moment she was unconscious. Maggie rushed to the bell, and gave an alarm, which brought Miss Heath and one or two servants to the room.A doctor was speedily sent for, and Maggie Oliphant was banished from the room. She never saw Annabel Lee again. That night the sick girl was removed to the hospital, which was in a building apart from the Halls, and two days afterwards she was dead.Typhus fever was raging at Kingsdene at this time, and Annabel Lee had taken it in its most virulent form. The doctors (and two or three were summoned) gave up all hope of saving her life from the first. Maggie also gave up hope. She accused herself of having caused her friend’s death; she believed that the shock of her tidings had killed Annabel, who, already suffering from fever, had not strength to bear the agony of knowing that Hammond’s love was given to Maggie.On the night of Annabel’s death, Maggie wrote to Hammond refusing his offer of marriage, but giving no reason for doing so. After posting her letter, she lay down on her own sick bed, and nearly died of the fever which had taken Annabel away.All these things happened a year ago. The agitation caused by the death of one so young, beautiful, and beloved had subsided. People could talk calmly of Annabel, and although for a long time her room had remained vacant, it was now occupied by a girl in all respects her opposite.Nothing would induce Maggie to enter this room, and no words would persuade her to speak of Annabel. She was merry and bright once more, and few gave her credit for secret hours of misery, which were seriously undermining her health, and ruining what was best of her character.On this particular day, as she lay back in her carriage, wrapped in costly furs, a great wave of misery and bitterness was sweeping over her heart. In the first agony caused by Annabel’s death, Maggie had vowed a vow to her own heart never, under any circumstances, to consent to be Hammond’s wife. In the first misery of regret and compunction it had been easy to Maggie Oliphant to make such a vow; but she knew well, as the days and months went by, that its weight was crushing her life, was destroying her chance of ever becoming a really strong and good woman. If she had loved Hammond a year ago her sufferings made her love him fifty times better now. With all her outward coldness and apparent indifference, his presence gave her the keenest pain. Her heart beat fast when she caught sight of his face; if he spoke to another, she was conscious of being overcome by a spirit of jealousy. The thought of him mingled with her waking and sleeping hours; but the sacrifice she owed to the memory of her dead friend must be made at all hazards. Maggie consulted no one on this subject. Annabel’s unhappy story lay buried with her in her early grave; Maggie would have died rather than reveal it. Now, as she lay back in her carriage, the tears filled her eyes.“I am too weak for this to go on any longer,” she said to herself. “I shall leave St. Benet’s at the end of the present term. What is the winning of a tripos to me? what do I want with honours and distinctions? Everything is barren to me. My life has no flavour in it. I loved Annabel, and she is gone. Without meaning it, I broke Annabel’s heart. Without meaning it, I caused my darling’s death, and now my own heart is broken, for I love Geoffrey—I love him, and I can never, under any circumstances, be his wife. He misunderstands me—he thinks me cold, wicked, heartless—and I can never, never set myself right with him. Soon he will grow tired of me, and give his heart to someone else, and perhaps marry someone else. When he does, I too shall die. Yes, whatever happens, I must go away from St. Benet’s.”Maggie’s tears always came slowly; she put up her handkerchief to wipe them away. It was little wonder that when she returned from her drive her head was no better.“We must put off the rehearsal,” said Nancy Banister. She came into Maggie’s room, and spoke vehemently. “I saw you at lunch, Maggie: you ate nothing—you spoke with an effort. I know your head is worse. You must lie down, and, unless you are better soon, I will ask Miss Heath to send for a doctor.”“No doctor will cure me,” said Maggie. “Give me a kiss, Nance; let me rest my head against yours for a moment. Oh, how earnestly I wish I was like you.”“Why so? What have I got? I have no beauty; I am not clever; I am neither romantically poor, like Prissie, nor romantically rich, like you. In short, the fairies were not invited to my christening.”“One or two fairies came, however,” replied Maggie, “and they gave you an honest soul, and a warm heart, and—and happiness, Nancy. My dear, I need only look into your eyes to know that you are happy.”Nancy’s blue eyes glowed with pleasure. “Yes,” she said, “I don’t know anything about dumps and low spirits.”“And you are unselfish, Nancy; you are never seeking your own pleasure.”“I am not obliged to: I have all I want. And now to turn to a more important subject. I will see the members of our Dramatic Society, and put off the rehearsal.”“You must not; the excitement will do me good.”“For the time, perhaps,” replied Nancy, shaking her wise head, “but you will be worse afterwards.”“No. Now, Nancy, don’t let us argue the point. If you aretrulymy friend, you will sit by me for an hour, and read aloud the dullest book you can find, then perhaps I shall go to sleep.”
Circumstances seem to combine to spoil some people. Maggie Oliphant was one of the victims of fortune, which, while appearing to favour her, gave her in reality the worst training which was possible for a nature such as hers. She was impulsive, generous, affectionate, but she was also perverse, and, so to speak, uncertain. She was a creature of moods, and she was almost absolutely without self-control; and yet nature had been kind to Maggie, giving her great beauty of form and face, and a character which a right training would have rendered noble.
Up to the present, however, this training had scarcely come to Miss Oliphant. She was almost without relations, and she was possessed of more money than she knew what to do with. She had great abilities, and loved learning for the sake of learning, but, till she came to St. Benet’s, her education had been as desultory as her life. She had never been to school; her governesses only taught her what she chose to learn. As a child she was very fickle in this respect, working hard from morning till night one day, but idling the whole of the next. When she was fifteen her guardian took her to Rome; the next two years were spent in travelling, and Maggie, who knew nothing properly, picked up that kind of superficial miscellaneous knowledge which made her conversation brilliant and added to her many charms.
“You shall be brought out early,” her guardian had said to her. “You are not educated in the stereotyped fashion, but you know enough. After you are seventeen I will get you a suitable chaperon, and you shall live in London.”
This scheme, however, was not carried out. For, shortly after her seventeenth birthday, Maggie Oliphant met a girl whose beauty and brilliance were equal to her own, whose nature was stronger, and who had been carefully trained in heart and mind while Maggie had been neglected. Miss Lee was going through a course of training at St. Benet’s College for Women at Kingsdene. She was an uncommon girl in every sense of the word. The expression of her lovely face was as piquant as its features were beautiful; her eyes were dark as night; they also possessed the depth of the tenderest, sweetest summer night, subjugating all those who came in contact with her. Annabel Lee won Maggie’s warmest affections at once; she determined to join her friend at St. Benet’s. She spoke with ineffable scorn of her London season, and resolved, with that enthusiasm which was the strongest part of her nature, to become a student in reality. Under Annabel’s guidance she took up the course of study which was necessary to enable her to pass her entrance examination. She acquitted herself well, for her abilities were of the highest order, and entered the college withéclat. Miss Lee was a student in Heath Hall, and Maggie thought herself supremely happy when she was given a room next to her friend.
Those were brilliant days at the Hall. Some girls resided there at this time whose names were destined to be known in the world by-and-by. The workers were earnest; the tone which pervaded the life at Heath Hall was distinctly high. Shallow girls there must always be where any number are to be found together, but, during Maggie Oliphant’s first year, these girls had little chance of coming to the front. Maggie, who was as easily influenced as a wave is tossed by the wind, rose quickly to the heights with her companions. Her splendid intellect developed each day; she was merry with the merry, glad with the glad, studious with the studious. She was also generous, kind, and unselfish in company with those girls who observed the precepts of the higher life. Next to Miss Lee, Maggie was one of the most popular girls in the college. Annabel Lee had the kindest of hearts, as well as the most fascinating of ways. She was an extraordinary girl; there was a great deal of the exotic about her; in many ways she was old for her years. No one ever thought or spoke of her as a prig, but all her influence was brought to bear in the right direction. The girl who could do or think meanly avoided the expression in Annabel’s beautiful eyes. It was impossible for her to think badly of her fellow-creatures, but meanness and sin made her sorrowful. There was not a girl in Heath Hall who would willingly give Annabel Lee sorrow.
In the days that followed people knew that she was one of those rare and brilliant creatures who, like a lovely but too ethereal flower, must quickly bloom into perfection and then pass away. Annabel was destined to a short life, and after her death the high tone of Heath Hall deteriorated considerably.
This girl was a born leader. When she died no other girl in the college could take her place, and for many a long day those who had loved her were conscious of a sense which meant a loss of headship. In short, they were without their leader.
If Annabel in her gaiety and brightness could influence girls who were scarcely more than acquaintances, the effect of her strong personality on Maggie was supreme. Maggie often said that she never knew what love meant until she met Annabel. The two girls were inseparable; their love for each other was compared to that of Jonathan and David of Bible story, and of Orestes and Pylades of Greek legend. The society of each gave the other the warmest pleasure.
Annabel and Maggie were both so beautiful in appearance, so far above the average girl in their pose, their walk, their manner, that people noticed these friends wherever they went. A young and rising artist, who saw them once at St. Hilda’s, begged permission to make a picture of the pair. It was done during the summer recess before Annabel died, and made a sensation in the next year’s Academy. Many of the visitors who went there stopped and looked at the two faces, both in the perfection of their youthful bloom and beauty; few guessed that one even now had gone to the Home best fitted for so ardent and high a spirit.
Annabel Lee died a year before Priscilla came to the college. Whatever Maggie inwardly felt, she had got over her first grief; her smile was again as brilliant as when Annabel was by her side, her laugh was as merry; but the very few who could look a little way into Maggie’s perverse and passionate heart, knew well that something had died in her which could never live again, that her laugh was often hollow, and her brilliant smile had only a foundation in bitterness.
Maggie did not only grieve for her friend when she mourned for Annabel. She had loved her most deeply, and love alone would have caused her agony in such a loss; but Maggie’s keenest and most terrible feelings were caused by an unavailing regret.
This regret was connected with Geoffrey Hammond.
He had known Annabel from her childhood. He was an old friend of some of her friends, and during those last, long summer holidays, which the two girls spent together under the roof of Maggie’s guardian, Hammond, who was staying with relations not far away, came to see them almost daily. He was the kind of man who could win both respect and admiration; he was grave in his nature; and his aspirations, aims, and ambitions were high. In their conversations during this lovely summer weather these young people dreamt happy dreams together, and planned a future which meant good to all mankind. Maggie, to all appearance, was heart and soul with Annabel and Geoffrey in what they thought and said.
Nothing could have been simpler or more unconventional than the intercourse between these young people. Miss Lee had known Hammond all her life; Maggie always spoke and thought of herself as second to Annabel in Geoffrey Hammond’s regard. One brilliant autumn day, however, he surprised Maggie by asking her to take a long walk alone with him. No words were said during this ramble to open Maggie Oliphant’s eyes to the true state of Hammond’s feelings for her, but, when she returned from her walk, she could not help noticing Annabel Lee’s unaccountable depression. It was not until later, however, that Maggie attributed a certain pathetic, almost heart-broken, look in her friend’s lovely eyes to its true cause.
Hammond was a graduate of St. Hilda’s College at Kingsdene, and the three friends often talked of the happy meetings they would have during the coming winter. He was a man of large property, and the favourite amusement of these young people was in talking over the brilliant life which lay before Hammond when he took possession of his estates. He would be the ideal landlord of his age; the people who lived on his property would, when he attained his majority, enter into a millennium of bliss.
Maggie returned to St. Benet’s, imagining herself quite heart-whole; but happiness shone out of her eyes, and there was a new tender ring in her voice for which she could not account to herself, and which added a new fascination to her beauty.
Shortly after the commencement of the term, Hammond met Miss Oliphant by accident just outside Kingsdene.
“I was going to post a letter to you,” he said. His face was unusually pale, his eyes full of joy and yet of solicitude.
“You can tell me what you have written,” replied Maggie, in her gayest voice.
“No, I would rather you read my letter.”
He thrust it into her hand and immediately, to her astonishment, left her.
As she walked home through the frosty air she opened Hammond’s letter, and read its contents. It contained an earnest appeal for her love, and an assurance that all the happiness of the writer’s future life depended on her consenting to marry him. Would she be his wife when her three years’ term at St. Benet’s came to an end?
No letter could be more manly, more simple. Its contents went straight to the depths of a heart easily swayed and full of strong affection.
“Yes, I love him,” whispered the girl; “I did not know it until I read this letter, but I am sure of myself now. Yes, I love him better than anyone else in the world.”
A joyous light filled Maggie’s brown eyes; her heart was gay. She rushed to Annabel’s room to tell her news, and to claim the sympathy which had never hitherto been denied her, and which was essential to the completion of her happiness.
When Maggie entered her friend’s room, she saw, to her surprise, that Annabel was lying on her bed with flushed cheeks. Two hours before she had been, to all appearance, in brilliant health; now her face burned with fever, and her beautiful dark eyes were glazed with pain.
Maggie rushed up and kissed her. “What is it, darling,” she asked; “what is wrong? You look ill; your eyes have a strange expression.”
Annabel’s reply was scarcely audible. The pain and torpor of her last short illness were already overmastering her. Maggie was alarmed at the burning touch of her hand; but she had no experience to guide her, and her own great joy helped to make her selfish.
“Annabel, look at me for a moment; I have wonderful news to give you.”
Annabel’s eyes were closed. She opened them wide at this appeal for sympathy, stretched out her hand, and pushed back a tangle of bright hair from Maggie’s brow.
“I love you, Maggie,” she said, in that voice which had always power to thrill its listeners.
Maggie kissed her friend’s hand, and pressed it to her own beating heart. “I met Geoffrey Hammond to-day,” she said. “He gave me a letter; I have read it. Oh, Annabel, Annabel! I can be good now. No more bad half-hours, no more struggles with myself. I can be very good now.”
With some slight difficulty Annabel Lee drew her hot hand away from Maggie’s fervent clasp; her eyes, slightly distended, were fixed on her friend’s face; the flush of fever left her cheeks; a hot flood of emotion seemed to press against her beating heart; she looked at Maggie with passionate longing.
“What is it?” she asked, in a husky whisper. “Why are you so glad, Maggie? Why can you be good now?”
“Because I love Geoffrey Hammond,” answered Maggie: “I love him with all my heart, all my life, all my strength, and he loves me; he has asked me to be his wife.”
Maggie paused. She expected to feel Annabel’s arms round her neck; she waited impatiently for this last crowning moment of bliss. Her own happiness caused her to lower her eyes; her joy was so dazzling that for a moment she felt she must shade their brilliance even from Annabel’s gaze.
Instead of the pressure of loving arms, however, and the warm kiss of sympathy, there came a low cry from the lips of the sick girl. She made an effort to say something, but words failed her: the next moment she was unconscious. Maggie rushed to the bell, and gave an alarm, which brought Miss Heath and one or two servants to the room.
A doctor was speedily sent for, and Maggie Oliphant was banished from the room. She never saw Annabel Lee again. That night the sick girl was removed to the hospital, which was in a building apart from the Halls, and two days afterwards she was dead.
Typhus fever was raging at Kingsdene at this time, and Annabel Lee had taken it in its most virulent form. The doctors (and two or three were summoned) gave up all hope of saving her life from the first. Maggie also gave up hope. She accused herself of having caused her friend’s death; she believed that the shock of her tidings had killed Annabel, who, already suffering from fever, had not strength to bear the agony of knowing that Hammond’s love was given to Maggie.
On the night of Annabel’s death, Maggie wrote to Hammond refusing his offer of marriage, but giving no reason for doing so. After posting her letter, she lay down on her own sick bed, and nearly died of the fever which had taken Annabel away.
All these things happened a year ago. The agitation caused by the death of one so young, beautiful, and beloved had subsided. People could talk calmly of Annabel, and although for a long time her room had remained vacant, it was now occupied by a girl in all respects her opposite.
Nothing would induce Maggie to enter this room, and no words would persuade her to speak of Annabel. She was merry and bright once more, and few gave her credit for secret hours of misery, which were seriously undermining her health, and ruining what was best of her character.
On this particular day, as she lay back in her carriage, wrapped in costly furs, a great wave of misery and bitterness was sweeping over her heart. In the first agony caused by Annabel’s death, Maggie had vowed a vow to her own heart never, under any circumstances, to consent to be Hammond’s wife. In the first misery of regret and compunction it had been easy to Maggie Oliphant to make such a vow; but she knew well, as the days and months went by, that its weight was crushing her life, was destroying her chance of ever becoming a really strong and good woman. If she had loved Hammond a year ago her sufferings made her love him fifty times better now. With all her outward coldness and apparent indifference, his presence gave her the keenest pain. Her heart beat fast when she caught sight of his face; if he spoke to another, she was conscious of being overcome by a spirit of jealousy. The thought of him mingled with her waking and sleeping hours; but the sacrifice she owed to the memory of her dead friend must be made at all hazards. Maggie consulted no one on this subject. Annabel’s unhappy story lay buried with her in her early grave; Maggie would have died rather than reveal it. Now, as she lay back in her carriage, the tears filled her eyes.
“I am too weak for this to go on any longer,” she said to herself. “I shall leave St. Benet’s at the end of the present term. What is the winning of a tripos to me? what do I want with honours and distinctions? Everything is barren to me. My life has no flavour in it. I loved Annabel, and she is gone. Without meaning it, I broke Annabel’s heart. Without meaning it, I caused my darling’s death, and now my own heart is broken, for I love Geoffrey—I love him, and I can never, under any circumstances, be his wife. He misunderstands me—he thinks me cold, wicked, heartless—and I can never, never set myself right with him. Soon he will grow tired of me, and give his heart to someone else, and perhaps marry someone else. When he does, I too shall die. Yes, whatever happens, I must go away from St. Benet’s.”
Maggie’s tears always came slowly; she put up her handkerchief to wipe them away. It was little wonder that when she returned from her drive her head was no better.
“We must put off the rehearsal,” said Nancy Banister. She came into Maggie’s room, and spoke vehemently. “I saw you at lunch, Maggie: you ate nothing—you spoke with an effort. I know your head is worse. You must lie down, and, unless you are better soon, I will ask Miss Heath to send for a doctor.”
“No doctor will cure me,” said Maggie. “Give me a kiss, Nance; let me rest my head against yours for a moment. Oh, how earnestly I wish I was like you.”
“Why so? What have I got? I have no beauty; I am not clever; I am neither romantically poor, like Prissie, nor romantically rich, like you. In short, the fairies were not invited to my christening.”
“One or two fairies came, however,” replied Maggie, “and they gave you an honest soul, and a warm heart, and—and happiness, Nancy. My dear, I need only look into your eyes to know that you are happy.”
Nancy’s blue eyes glowed with pleasure. “Yes,” she said, “I don’t know anything about dumps and low spirits.”
“And you are unselfish, Nancy; you are never seeking your own pleasure.”
“I am not obliged to: I have all I want. And now to turn to a more important subject. I will see the members of our Dramatic Society, and put off the rehearsal.”
“You must not; the excitement will do me good.”
“For the time, perhaps,” replied Nancy, shaking her wise head, “but you will be worse afterwards.”
“No. Now, Nancy, don’t let us argue the point. If you aretrulymy friend, you will sit by me for an hour, and read aloud the dullest book you can find, then perhaps I shall go to sleep.”