A Sweet Girl Graduate

Chapter Three

An Unwilling “At Home.”

Most of the girls who sat at those dinner-tables had fringed or tousled or curled locks. Priscilla’s were brushed simply away from her broad forehead. After saying her last words, she bent her head low over her plate, and longed even for the protection of a fringe to hide her burning blushes. Her momentary courage had evaporated; she was shocked at having betrayed herself to a stranger; her brief fit of passion left her stiffer and shyer than ever. Blinding tears rushed to Priscilla’s eyes, and her terror was that they would drop on to her plate. Suppose some of those horrid girls saw her crying? Hateful thought. She would rather die than show emotion before them.

At this moment a soft, plump little hand was slipped into hers, and the sweetest of voices said —

“I am so sorry anything has seemed unkind to you. Believe me, we are not what you imagine. We have our fun and our prejudices, of course, but we are not what you think we are.”

Priscilla could not help smiling, nor could she resist slightly squeezing the fingers which touched hers.

“You are not unkind, I know,” she answered; and she ate the rest of her dinner in a comforted frame of mind.

After dinner one of the lecturers who resided at Heath Hall, a pleasant, bright girl of two- or three-and-twenty, came and introduced herself, and presently took Priscilla with her to her own room, to talk over the line of study which the young girl proposed to take up. This conference lasted some little time, and then Priscilla, in the lecturer’s company, returned to the hall for tea.

A great many girls kept coming in and out. Some stayed to have tea, but most helped themselves to tea and bread-and-butter, and took them away to partake of in their own private rooms.

Maggie Oliphant and Nancy Banister presently rushed in for this purpose. Maggie, seeing Priscilla, ran up to her.

“How are you getting on?” she asked brightly. “Oh, by-the-bye, will you cocoa with me to-night at half-past ten?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” answered Priscilla. “But I’ll do it,” she added, her eyes brightening.

“All right, I’ll explain the simple ceremony when you come. My room is next to yours, so you’ll have no difficulty in finding me out. I don’t expect to have anyone present except Miss Banister,” nodding her head in Nancy’s direction, “and perhaps one other girl. By-bye, I’ll see you at half-past ten.”

Maggie turned to leave the hall, but Nancy lingered for a moment by Priscilla’s side.

“Wouldn’t you like to take your tea up to your room?” she asked. “We most of us do it. You may, you know.”

“I don’t think I wish to,” answered Priscilla, in an uncertain voice.

Nancy half-turned to go, then came back.

“You are going to unpack by-and-by, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Oh, yes, when I get back to my room.”

“Perhaps you ought to know beforehand; the girls will be coming to call.”

Priscilla raised her eyes.

“What girls?” she asked, alarm in her tone.

“Oh, most of the students in your corridor. They always call on a Fresher the first night in her room. You need not bother yourself about them; they’ll just talk for a little while and then go away. What is the matter, Miss Peel? Maggie has told me your name, you see.”

“What you tell me sounds so very – very formal.”

“But it isn’t – not really. Shall I come and help you to entertain them?”

“I wish – ” began Priscilla. She hesitated; the words seemed to stick in her throat.

“What did you say?” Nancy bent forward a little impatiently.

“I wish – yes, do come,” with a violent effort. “All right, you may expect me.”

Nancy flew after Maggie Oliphant, and Priscilla went slowly up the wide, luxurious stairs. She turned down the corridor which led to her own room. There were doors leading out of this corridor at both sides, and Priscilla caught glimpses of luxurious rooms bright with flowers and electric light. Girls were laughing and chatting in them; she saw pictures on the walls, and lounges and chairs scattered about. Her own room was at the far end of the corridor. The electric light was also brightening it, but the fire was unlit, and the presence of the unpacked trunk, taking up a position of prominence on the floor, gave it a very unhomelike feel. In itself the room was particularly picturesque. It had two charming lattice windows, set in deep square bays. One window faced the fireplace, the other the door. The effect was slightly irregular, but for that very reason all the more charming. The walls of the room were painted light blue; there was a looking-glass over the mantelpiece set in a frame of the palest, most delicate, blue. A picture-rail ran round the room about six feet from the ground, and the high frieze above had a scroll of wild roses painted on it in bold, free relief.

The panels of the doors were also decorated with sprays of wild flowers in picturesque confusion. Both the flowers and the scroll were boldly designed, but were unfinished, the final and completing touches remaining yet to be given.

Priscilla looked hungrily at these unexpected trophies of art. She could have shouted with glee as she recognised some of her dear, wild Devonshire flowers among the groups on the door panels. She wondered if all the rest of the students were treated to these artistic decorations, and grew a little happier and less homesick at the thought.

Priscilla could have been an artist herself had the opportunity arisen, but she was one of those girls all alive with aspiration and longing who never up to the present had come in the way of special culture in any style.

She stood for some time gazing at the groups of wild flowers, then remembering with horror that she was to receive visitors that night, she looked round the room to see if she could do anything to make it appear home-like and inviting.

It was a nice room, certainly. Priscilla had never before in her whole life occupied such a luxurious apartment, and yet it had a cold, dreary, uninhabited feel. She had an intuition that none of the other students’ rooms looked like hers. She rushed to light the fire, but could not find the matches, which had been removed from their place on the mantelpiece, and felt far too shy to ring the electric-bell. It was Priscilla’s fashion to clasp her hands together when she felt a sense of dismay, and she did so now, as she looked around the pretty room, which yet with all its luxuries looked to her cold and dreary.

The furniture was excellent of its kind. A Turkey carpet covered the centre of the floor, the boards round the edge were stained and brightly polished. In one corner of the room was a little bed, made to look like a sofa by day, with a Liberty cretonne covering. A curtain of the same shut away the wardrobe and washing apparatus. Just under one of the bay-windows stood a writing-table, so contrived as to form a writing-table, and a bookcase at the top, and a chest of drawers to hold linen below. Besides this there was a small square table for tea in the room, and a couple of chairs. The whole effect was undoubtedly bare.

Priscilla was hesitating whether to begin to unpack her trunk or not when a light knock was heard at her door. She said “Come in,” and two girls burst rather noisily into the apartment.

“How do you do?” they said, favouring the fresh girl with a brief nod. “You came to-day, didn’t you? What are you going to study? Are you clever?”

These queries issued rapidly from the lips of the tallest of the girls. She had red hair, tousled and tossed about her head. Her face was essentially commonplace; her small restless eyes now glanced at Priscilla, now wandered over the room. She did not wait for a reply to any of her queries, but turned rapidly to her companion.

“I told you so, Polly,” she said. “I was quite sure that she was going to be put into Miss Lee’s room. You see I’m right, this is Annabel Lee’s old room; it has never been occupied since.”

“Hush!” said the other girl.

The two walked across the apartment and seated themselves on Priscilla’s bed.

There came a fresh knock at the door, and this time three students entered. They barely nodded to Priscilla, and then rushed across the room with cries of rapture to greet the girls who were seated on the bed.

“How do you do, Miss Atkins? How do you do, Miss Jones?”

Miss Jones and Miss Atkins exchanged kisses with Miss Phillips, Miss Marsh, and Miss Day. The babel of tongues rose high, and everyone had something to say with regard to the room which had been assigned to Priscilla.

“Look,” said Miss Day, “it was in that corner she had her rocking-chair. Girls, do you remember Annabel’s rocking-chair, and how she used to sway herself backwards and forwards in it, and half-shut her lovely eyes?”

“Oh, and don’t I just seem to see that little red tea-table of hers near the fire,” burst from Miss Marsh. “That Japanese table, with the Japanese tea-set – oh dear, oh dear! those cups of tea – those cakes! Well, the room was luxurious, was worth coming to see in Annabel’s time.”

“It’s more than it is now,” laughed Miss Jones in a harsh voice. “How bare the walls look without her pictures. It was in that recess the large figure of ‘Hope’ by Burne-Jones used to hang, and there, that queer, wild, wonderful head looking out of clouds. You know she never would tell us the artist’s name. Yes, she had pretty things everywhere! How the room is altered! I don’t think I care for it a bit now.”

“Could anyone who knew Annabel Lee care for the room without her?” asked one of the girls. She had a common, not to say vulgar, face, but it wore a wistful expression as she uttered these words.

All this time Priscilla was standing, feeling utterly shy and miserable. From time to time other girls came in; they nodded to her, and then rushed upon their companions. The eager talk began afresh, and always there were looks of regret, and allusions, accompanied by sighs, to the girl who had lived in the room last.

“Well,” said one merry little girl, who was spoken to by the others as Ada Hardy, “I have no doubt that by-and-by, when Miss – ” She glanced towards Priscilla.

“Peel,” faltered Priscilla.

“When Miss Peel unpacks her trunk, she’ll make the room look very pretty, too.”

“She can’t,” said Miss Day, in a tragic voice; “she never could make the room look as it used to – not if she was to live till the age of Methuselah. Of course you’ll improve it, Miss Peel; you couldn’t possibly exist in it as it is now.”

“I can tell you of a capital shop in Kingsdene, Miss Peel,” said Miss Marsh, “where you can buy tables and chairs, and pretty artistic cloths, and little whatnots of all descriptions. I’d advise you to go to Rigg’s! he’s in the High Street, Number 48.”

“But Spilman has much the most recherché articles, you know, Lucy,” interposed Miss Day. “I’ll walk over to Spilman’s to-morrow with you, if you like, Miss Peel.”

Before Priscilla had time to reply there was again a knock at the door, and this time Nancy Banister, looking flushed and pretty, came in.

She took in the scene at a glance: numbers of girls making themselves at home in Priscilla’s room, some seated on her trunk, some on her bureau, several curled up in comfortable attitudes on her bed, and she herself standing, meek, awkward, depressed, near one of the windows.

“How tired you look, Miss Peel!” said Nancy Banister.

Priscilla smiled gratefully at her.

“And your trunk is not unpacked yet?”

“Oh! there is time enough,” faltered Priscilla.

“Are we in your way?” suddenly spoke Miss Marsh, springing to her feet. “Good-night. My name is Marsh, my room is thirty-eight.”

She swung herself lazily and carelessly out of the room, followed, at longer or shorter intervals, by the other girls, who all nodded to Priscilla, told her their names, and one or two the numbers of their rooms. At last she was left alone with Nancy Banister.

“Poor thing! How tired and white you look!” said Nancy. “But now that dreadful martyrdom is over, you shall have a real cosy time. Don’t you want a nice hot cup of cocoa? It will be ready in a minute or two. And please may I help you to unpack?”

“Thank you,” said Priscilla; her teeth were chattering. “If I might have a fire?” she asked suddenly.

“Oh, you poor, shivering darling! Of course. Are there no matches here? There were some on the mantelpiece before dinner. No, I declare they have vanished. How careless of the maid. I’ll run into Maggie’s room and fetch some.”

Miss Banister was not a minute away. She returned with a box of matches, and, stooping down, set a light to the wood, and a pleasant fire was soon blazing and crackling merrily.

“Now, isn’t that better?” said Nancy. “Please sit down on your bed, and give me the key of your trunk. I’ll soon have the things out, and put all to rights for you. I’m a splendid unpacker.”

But Priscilla had no desire to have her small and meagre wardrobe overhauled even by the kindest of St. Benet’s girls.

“I will unpack presently myself, if you don’t mind,” she said. She felt full of gratitude, but she could not help an almost surly tone coming into her voice.

Nancy drew back, repulsed and distressed.

“Perhaps you would like me to go away?” she said. “I will go into Maggie’s room, and let you know when cocoa is ready.”

“Thank you,” said Prissie. Miss Banister disappeared, and Priscilla sat on by the fire, unconscious that she had given any pain or annoyance, thinking with gratitude of Nancy, and with feelings of love of Maggie Oliphant, and wondering what her little sisters were doing without her at home to-night.

By-and-by there came a tap at her door. Priscilla ran to open it. Miss Oliphant stood outside.

“Won’t you come in?” said Priscilla, throwing the door wide open, and smiling with joy. It was already delightful to her to look at Maggie. “Please come in,” she added, in a tone almost of entreaty.

Maggie Oliphant started and turned pale. “Into that room? No, no, I can’t,” she said in a queer voice. She rushed back to her own, leaving Priscilla standing in amazement by her open door.

There was a moment’s silence; then Miss Oliphant’s voice, rich, soft, and lazy, was heard within the shelter of her own apartment.

“Please come in, Miss Peel, cocoa awaits you. Do not stand on ceremony.”

Priscilla went timidly across the landing, and the next instant found herself in one of the prettiest of the students’ rooms at St. Benet’s. A few rare prints and some beautiful photogravures of well-known pictures adorned the walls. The room was crowded with knick-knacks, and rendered gay and sweet by many tall flowers in pots. A piano stood open by one of the walls, and a violin lay carelessly on a chair not far off. There were piles of new music, and some tempting, small, neatly-bound books lying about. A fire glowed on the hearth, and a little brass kettle sang merrily on the hob. The cocoa-table was drawn up in front of the fire, and on a quaintly shaped tray stood the bright little cocoa-pot, and the oddly devised cups and saucers.

“Welcome to St. Benet’s?” said Maggie, going up and taking Priscilla’s hand cordially within her own. “Now you’ll have to get into this low chair, and make yourself quite at home and happy.”

“How snug you are here,” said Prissie, her eyes brightening, and a pink colour mounting into her cheeks. She was glad that Maggie was alone; she felt more at ease with her than with anyone, but the next moment she said, with a look of apparent regret —

“I thought Miss Banister was in your room?”

“No; Nancy has gone to her own room at the end of the corridor to do some work for an hour. She will come back to say good-night. She always does. Are you sorry to have me by myself?”

“Indeed I am not,” said Priscilla. The smile, which made her rather plain face attractive, crept slowly back to it. Maggie poured out a cup of cocoa and brought it to her, then, drawing another chair forward, she seated herself in it, sipped her own cocoa, and began to talk.

Long afterwards Priscilla remembered that talk. It was not what Maggie said, for her conversation in itself was not at all brilliant, but it was the sound of her rich, calm, rather lazy voice, the different lights which glanced and gleamed in her eyes, the dimples about her mouth, the attitude she put herself in. Maggie had a way of changing colour, too, which added to her fascinations. Sometimes the beautiful oval of her face would be almost ivory white, but then again a rosy cloud would well up and up the cheeks, and even slightly suffuse the broad, low forehead. Her face was never long the same, never more than a moment in repose; eyes, mouth, brow, even the very waves of her hair seemed to Priscilla, this first night as she sat by her hearth, to be all speech.

The girls grew cosy and confidential together. Priscilla told Maggie about her home, a little also about her past history, and her motive in coming to St. Benet’s. Maggie sympathised with all the expression she was capable of. At last Priscilla bade her new friend good-night, and, rising from her luxurious chair, prepared to go back to her own room.

She had just reached the door of Maggie’s room, and was about to turn the handle, when a sudden thought arrested her. She came back a few steps.

“May I ask you a question?” she said.

“Certainly,” replied Miss Oliphant.

“Who is the girl who used to live in my room? Annabel Lee, the other girls call her. Who is she? What is there remarkable about her?”

To Priscilla’s astonishment Maggie started a step forward, her eyes blazed with an expression which was half frightened – half angry. She interlocked one soft hand inside the other, her face grew white, hard, and strained.

“You must not ask me about Annabel Lee,” she said in a whisper, “for I – I can tell you nothing about her. I can never tell you about her – never.”

Then she rushed to her sofa-bed, flung herself upon it face downwards, and burst into queer, silent, distressful tears.

Someone touched Priscilla softly on her shoulder.

“Let me take you to your room, Miss Peel,” said Nancy Banister. “Don’t take any notice of Maggie; she will be all right by-and-by.”

Nancy took Priscilla’s hand, and walked with her across the corridor.

“I am so sorry I said anything to hurt Miss Oliphant,” said Priscilla.

“Oh, you were not to blame. You could not know any better. Of course, now that you do know, you will never do it again.”

“But I don’t know anything now. Please will you tell me who Annabel Lee is?”

“Hush! don’t speak so loud. Annabel Lee – ” Nancy’s eyes filled with tears – “no girl in the college was so popular.”

“Why do you say was? and why do you cry?”

“I did not know that I cried. Annabel Lee is dead.”

“Oh!”

Priscilla walked into her room, and Nancy went back to Maggie Oliphant.

Chapter Four

An Eavesdropper

The students at St. Benet’s were accustomed to unlimited licence in the matter of sitting up at night. At a certain hour the electric lights were put out, but each girl was well supplied with candles, and could sit up and pursue her studies into the small hours, if she willed.

It was late when Priscilla left Maggie Oliphant’s room on this first night, but, long as her journey had been, and tired as she undoubtedly felt, the events of the evening had excited her, and she did not care to go to bed. Her fire was now burning well, and her room was warm and cosy. She drew the bolt of her door, and, unlocking her trunk, began to unpack. She was a methodical girl, and well trained. Miss Rachel Peel had instilled order into Priscilla from her earliest days, and she now quickly disposed of her small but neat wardrobe. Her linen would just fit into the drawers of the bureau. Her two or three dresses and jackets were hung tidily away behind the curtain which formed her wardrobe.

Priscilla pushed her empty trunk against the wall, folded up the bits of string and paper which lay scattered about, and then, slowly undressing, she got into bed.

She undressed with a certain sense of luxuriousness and pleasure. Her room began to look charming to her now that her things were unpacked, and the first sharp pain of her home-sickness was greatly softened since she had fallen in love with Maggie Oliphant.

Priscilla had not often in the course of her life undressed by a fire, but then had she ever spent an evening like this one? All was fresh to her, new, exciting. Now she was really very tired, and the moment she laid her head on her pillow would doubtless be asleep.

She got into bed, and, putting out her candle, lay down. The firelight played on the pale blue walls, and lit up the bold design of the briar-roses, which ran round the frieze at the top of the room.

Priscilla wondered why she did not drop asleep at once. She felt vexed with herself when she discovered that each instant the chance of slumber was flying before her, that every moment her tired body became more restless and wide-awake. She could not help gazing at that scroll of briar-roses; she could not help thinking of the hand that had painted the flowers, of the girl whose presence had once made the room in which she now lay so charming.

Priscilla had not yet been twelve hours at St. Benet’s, and yet almost every student she had met had spoken of Annabel Lee – had spoken of her with interest, with regret. One girl had gone further than this; she had breathed her name with bitter sorrow.

Priscilla wished she had not been put into this room. She felt absolutely nervous; she had a sense of usurping someone else’s place, of turning somebody else out into the cold. She did not believe in ghosts, but she had an uncomfortable sensation, and it would not have greatly surprised her if Annabel had come gliding back in the night watches to put the finishing touches to those scrolls of wild flowers which ornamented the panels of the doors, and to the design of the briar-rose, which ran round the frieze of the room. Annabel might come in, and pursue this work in stealthy spirit fashion, and then glide up to her, and ask her to get out of this little white bed, and let the strange visitor, to whom it had once belonged, rest in it herself once more.

Annabel Lee! It was a queer name – a wild, bewitching sort of a name – the name of a girl in a song.

Priscilla knew many of Poe’s strange songs, and she found herself now murmuring some words which used to fascinate her long ago: —

Some ashes fell from the expiring fire; Priscilla jumped up in bed with a start. Her heart was beating fast. She thought of Maggie’s exquisite face. She remembered it as she had seen it that night when they were sitting by the fire, as she had seen it last, when it turned so white, and the eyes blazed at her in anger.