A Sweet Girl Graduate
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“Well,” said Annie, “you are a humbug, Rose! What a story you told me about Mr Hammond – how he looked at you, and was so anxious to make use of you. Oh, you know all you said. You told me a charming story about your position as ‘gooseberry.’ You expected a little fun for yourself, didn’t you, my friend? Well, it seems to me that if anyone is to have the fun, it is Priscilla Peel.”
Rosalind had rather a nervous manner. She bit her lips now; her baby-blue eyes looked angry, her innocent face wore a frown. She dropped her hold of Annie Day’s arm.
Miss Day was one of the most commonplace girls at Heath Hall. She had neither good looks nor talent; she had no refinement of nature, nor had she those rugged but sterling qualities of honesty and integrity of purpose which go far to cover a multitude of other defects.
“I wish you wouldn’t speak to me in that way,” said Rosalind, with a little gasp. “I hate people to laugh at me, and I can’t stand sneers.”
“Oh, no! you’re such a dear little innocent baby. Of course, I can quite understand. And does she suppose I’ll ruffle her pretty little feathers? No, not I. I’d rather invent a new cradle song for you, Rosie, dear.”
“Don’t, don’t!” said Rosalind. “Look here, Annie, I must say something – yes, I must. I hate Maggie Oliphant!”
“You hate Miss Oliphant?” Annie Day stood still, turned round, and stared at her companion. “When did this revolution take place, my dear? What about Rose and Maggie sitting side by side at dinner? And Rose creeping away all by herself to Maggie’s room, and angling for an invitation to cocoa, and trying hard, very hard, to become a member of the Dramatic Society, just because Maggie acts so splendidly. Has it not been Maggie – Maggie– ever since the term began, until we girls, who were not in love with this quite too charming piece of perfection, absolutely hated the sound of her name? Oh, Rose, what a fickle baby you are. I am ashamed of you!”
“Don’t!” said Rose, again. She linked her hand half timidly in Miss Day’s arm. Miss Day was almost a head and shoulders above the little, delicate, fairy-like creature. “I suppose I can’t help changing my mind,” she said. “I did love Maggie, of course I loved her – she fascinated me; but I don’t care for her – no, I hate her now!”
“How vehemently you pronounce that naughty word, my fair Rosalind. You must give me some reasons for this grievous change in your feelings.”
“She snubbed me,” said Rosalind; “she made little of me. I offered to do her a kindness, and she repulsed me. Who cares to be made little of, and repulsed?”
“Who, truly, Rosie? – not even an innocent baby. Now then, my love, let me whisper a little secret to you. I have never loved Miss Oliphant. I have never been a victim to her charms. Time was when she and Miss Lee – poor Annabel! – ruled the whole of our Hall. Those two girls carried everything before them. That was before your day, Rose. Then Miss Lee died. She caught a chill, and had a fever, and was dead in a couple of days. Yes, of course, it was shocking. They moved her to the hospital, and she died there. Oh, there was such excitement, and such grief – even I was sorry; for Annabel had a way about her, I can’t describe it, but she could fascinate you. It was awfully interesting to talk to her, and even to look at her was a real pleasure. We used not to think much about Maggie when Annabel was by; but now, what with Maggie and her mystery, and Maggie and her love affair, and Maggie and her handsome face, and her wealth, and her expectations, why she bids fair to be more popular even than the two were when they were together. Yes, little Rose, I don’t want her to be popular any more than you do. I think it’s a very unhealthy sign of any place to have all the girls sighing and groaning about one or two – dying to possess their autographs, and kissing their photographs, and framing them, and putting them up in their rooms. I hate that mawkish kind of nonsense,” continued Miss Day, looking very virtuous, “and I think Miss Heath ought to know about it, and put a stop to it. I do, really.”
Rosalind was glad that the gathering darkness prevented her sharp companion from seeing the blush on her face; for amongst her own sacred possessions she kept an autograph letter of Maggie’s, and she had passionately kissed Maggie’s beautiful face as it looked at her out of a photograph, and, until the moment when all her feelings had undergone such a change, was secretly saving up her pence to buy a frame for it. Now she inquired eagerly —
“What is the mystery about Miss Oliphant? So many people hint about it, I do wish you would tell me, Annie.”
“If I told you, pet, it would cease to be a mystery.”
“But you might say what you know. Do, Annie!”
“Oh, it isn’t much – it’s really nothing; and yet – and yet – ”
“You know it isn’t nothing, Annie!”
“Well, when Annabel died, people said that Maggie had more cause than anyone else to be sorry. I never could find out what that cause was; but the servants spread some reports. They said they had found Maggie and Annabel together; Annabel had fainted, and Maggie was in an awful state of misery – in quite an unnatural state, they said; she went into hysterics, and Miss Heath was sent for, and was a long time soothing her. There was no apparent reason for this, although, somehow or other, little whispers got abroad that the mystery of Annabel’s illness and Maggie’s distress was connected with Geoffrey Hammond. Of course, nothing was known, and nothing is known; but, certainly, the little whisper got into the air. Dear me, Rosalind, you need not eat me with your eyes. I am repeating mere conjectures, and it is highly probable that not the slightest notice would have been taken of this little rumour but for the tragedy which immediately followed. Annabel, who had been as gay and well as anyone at breakfast that morning, was never seen in the college again. She was unconscious, the servants said, for a long time, and when she awoke was in high fever. She was removed to the hospital, and Maggie had seen the last of her friend. Poor Annabel died in two days, and afterwards Maggie took the fever. Yes, she has been quite changed since then. She always had moods, as she called them, but not like now. Sometimes I think she is almost flighty.”
Rosalind was silent. After a while she said, in a prim little voice, which she adopted now and then when she wanted to conceal her real feelings —
“But I do wonder what the quarrel was about – I mean, what really happened between Annabel and Maggie.”
“Look here, Rosalind, have I said anything about a quarrel? Please remember that the whole thing is conjecture from beginning to end, and don’t go all over the place spreading stories and making mischief. I have told you this in confidence, so don’t forget.”
“I won’t forget,” replied Rosalind. “I don’t know why you should accuse me of wanting to make mischief, Annie. I can’t help being curious, of course, and, of course, I’d like to know more.”
“Well, for that matter, so would I,” replied Annie. “Where there is a mystery it’s much more satisfactory to get to the bottom of it. Of course, something dreadful must have happened to account for the change in Miss Oliphant. It would be a comfort to know the truth, and, of course, one need never talk of it. By the way, Rosie, you are just the person to ferret this little secret out; you are the right sort of person for spying and peeping.”
“Oh, thank you,” replied Rosalind; “if that’s your opinion of me I’m not inclined to do anything to please you. Spying and peeping, indeed! What next?”
Annie Day patted her companion’s small white hand.
“And so I’ve hurt the dear little baby’s feelings!” she said. “But I didn’t mean to – no, that I didn’t. And she such a pretty, sweet, little pet as she is! Well, Rosie, you know what I mean. If we can find out the truth about Miss Maggie we’ll just have a quiet little crow over her all to ourselves. I don’t suppose we shall find out; but opportunities may arise – who knows? Now I want to speak to you about another person, and that is Maggie’s new friend.”
“What new friend?” Rosalind blushed brightly.
“That ugly Priscilla Peel. She has taken her up. Anyone can see that.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
“But I do – I am sure of it. Now I have good reason not to like Miss Priscilla. You know what a virtuous parade she made of herself a few nights ago?”
“Yes, you told me.”
“Horrid, set-up minx! Just the sort of girl who ought to be suppressed, and crushed out of a college like ours. Vaunting her poverty in our very faces, and refusing to make herself pleasant or one with us in any sort of way. Lucy Marsh and I had a long talk over her that night, and we put our heads together to concoct a nice little bit of punishment for her. You know she’s horridly shy, and as gauche as if she lived in the backwoods, and we meant to ‘send her to Coventry.’ We had it all arranged, and a whole lot of girls would have joined us, for it’s contrary to the spirit of a place like this to allow girls of the Priscilla Peel type to become popular, or liked in any way. But, most unluckily, poor, dear, good, but stupid, Nancy Banister was in the room when Prissie made her little oration, and Nancy took her up as if she were a heroine, and spoke of her as if she had done something magnificent, and, of course, Nancy told Maggie, and now Maggie is as thick as possible with Prissie. So you see, my dear Rosalind, our virtuous little scheme is completely knocked on the head.”
“I don’t see – ” began Rosalind.
“You little goose, before a week is out Prissie will be the fashion. All the girls will flock round her when Maggie takes her part. Bare, ugly rooms will be the rage; poverty will be the height of the fashion, and it will be considered wrong even to go in for the recognised college recreations. Rosie, my love, we must nip this growing mischief in the bud.”
“How?” asked Rosalind.
“We must separate Maggie Oliphant and Priscilla Peel.”
“How?” asked Rose again. “I’m sure,” she added, in a vehement voice, “I’m willing – I’m more than willing.”
“Good. Well, we’re at home now, and I absolutely must have a cup of tea. No time for it in my room to-night – let’s come into the hall and have some there. Look here, Rosalind, I’ll ask Lucy Marsh to have cocoa to-night in my room, and you can come too. Now keep a silent tongue in your head, Baby.”
Chapter Twelve
A Good Thing to be Young
It was long past the tea-hour at Heath Hall when Maggie Oliphant and Priscilla started on their walk home. The brightness and gaiety of the merry party at the Marshalls’ had increased as the moments flew on. Even Priscilla had caught something of the charm. The kindly spirit which animated everyone seemed to get into her. She first became interested, then she forgot herself. Prissie was no longer awkward; she began to talk, and when she liked she could talk well.
As the two girls were leaving the house, Geoffrey Hammond put in a sudden appearance.
“I will see you home,” he said to Maggie.
“No, no, you mustn’t,” she answered; her tone was vehement. She forgot Prissie’s presence, and half-turned her back on her.
“How unkind you are!” said the young man, in a low tone.
“No, Geoffrey, but I am struggling – you don’t know how hard I am struggling – to be true to myself.”
“You are altogether mistaken in your idea of truth,” said Hammond, turning, and walking a little way by her side.
“I am not mistaken – I am right.”
“Well, at least allow me to explain my side of the question.”
“No, it cannot be; there shall be no explanations, I am resolved. Good-night, you must not come any further.”
She held out her hand. Hammond took it limply between his own.
“You are very cruel,” he murmured, in the lowest of voices.
He raised his hat, forgot even to bow to Priscilla, and hurried off down a side street.
Maggie walked on a little way. Then she turned, and looked down the street where he had vanished. Suddenly she raised her hand to her lips, kissed it, and blew the kiss after the figure which had already disappeared. She laughed excitedly when she did this, and her whole face was glowing with a beautiful colour.
Prissie, standing miserable and forgotten by the tall, handsome girl’s side, could see the light in her eyes, and the glow on her checks in the lamplight.
“I am here,” said Priscilla, at last, in a low, half-frightened voice. “I am sorry I am here, but I am. I heard what you said to Mr Hammond. I am sorry I heard.”
Maggie turned slowly, and looked at her. Prissie returned her gaze. Then, as if further words were wrung from her against her will, she continued —
“I saw the tears in your eyes in the fern-house at the Marshalls’. I am very sorry, but I did see them.”
“My dear Prissie!” said Maggie. She went up suddenly to the girl, put her arm round her neck, and kissed her.
“Come home now,” she said, drawing Prissie’s hand through her arm. “I don’t think I greatly mind your knowing,” she said, after a pause. “You are true; I see it in your face. You would never tell again – you would never make mischief.”
“Tell again! Of course not.” Prissie’s words came out with great vigour.
“I know you would not, Priscilla; may I call you Priscilla?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be my friend, and shall I be your friend?”
“If you would,” said Prissie. “But you don’t mean it. It is impossible that you can mean it. I’m not a bit like you – and – and – you only say these things to be kind.”
“What do you mean, Priscilla?”
“I must tell you,” said Prissie, turning very pale. “I heard what you said to Miss Banister the night I came to the college.”
“What I said to Miss Banister? What did I say?”
“Oh, can’t you remember? The words seemed burnt into me: I shall never forget them. I had left my purse in the dining-hall, and I was going to fetch it. Your door was a little open. I heard my name, and I stopped – yes, I did stop to listen.”
“Oh, what a naughty, mean little Prissie! You stopped to listen. And what did you hear? Nothing good, of course? The bad thing was said to punish you for listening.”
“I heard,” said Priscilla, her own cheeks crimson now, “I heard you say that it gave you an aesthetic pleasure to be kind, and that was why you were good to me.”
Maggie felt her own colour rising.
“Well, my dear,” she said, “it still gives me an aesthetic pleasure to be kind. You could not expect me to fall in love with you the moment I saw you. I was kind to you then, perhaps, for the reason I stated. It is very different now.”
“It was wrong of you to be kind to me for that reason.”
“Wrong of me? What an extraordinary girl you are, Priscilla – why was it wrong of me?”
“Because I learnt to love you. You were gentle to me, and spoke courteously, when others were rude and only laughed; my whole heart went out to you when you were so sweet and gentle and kind. I did not think – I could not possibly think – that you were good just because it gave you a sort of selfish pleasure. When I heard your words I felt dreadful. I hated St. Benet’s; I wished I had never come. Your words turned everything to bitterness for me.”
“Did they really, Priscilla? Oh, Prissie! what a thoughtless, wild, impulsive creature I am. Well, I don’t feel now as I did that night. If those words were cruel, forgive me. Forget those words, Prissie.”
“I will, if you will.”
“I? I have forgotten them utterly.”
“Thank you, thank you.”
“Then we’ll be friends – real friends; true friends?”
“Yes.”
“You must say ‘Yes, Maggie.’”
“Yes, Maggie.”
“That is right. Now keep your hand in my arm. Let’s walk fast Is it not glorious to walk in this semi-frosty sort of weather? Prissie, you’ll see a vast lot that you don’t approve of in your new friend.”
“Oh, I don’t care,” said Priscilla.
She felt so joyous she could have skipped.
“I’ve as many sides,” continued Maggie, “as a chameleon has colours. I am the gayest of the gay, as well as the saddest of the sad. When I am gay you may laugh with me, but I warn you when I am sad you must never cry with me. Leave me alone when I have my dark moods on, Prissie.”
“Very well, Maggie, I’ll remember.”
“I think you’ll make a delightful friend,” said Miss Oliphant, just glancing at her; “but I pity your side of the bargain.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll try you so fearfully.”
“Oh, no, you won’t. I don’t want to have a perfect friend.”
“Perfect! No, child – Heaven forbid. But there are shades of perfection. Now, when I get into my dark moods, I feel wicked as well as sad. No, we won’t talk of them; we’ll keep them away. Prissie, I feel good to-night – good – and glad: it’s such a nice feeling.”
“I am sure of it,” said Priscilla.
“What do you know about it, child? You have not tasted life yet. Wait until you do. For instance – no, though – I won’t enlighten you. Prissie, what do you think of Geoffrey Hammond?”
“I think he loves you, very much.”
“Poor Geoffrey! Now, Prissie, you are to keep that little thought quite dark in your mind – in fact, you are to put it out of your mind. You are not to associate my name with Mr Hammond’s – not even in your thoughts. You will very likely hear us spoken of together, and some of the stupid girls here will make little quizzing, senseless remarks. But there will be no truth in them, Prissie. He is nothing to me, nor I to him.”
“Then why did you blow a kiss after him?” asked Priscilla.
Maggie stood still. It was too dark for Priscilla to see her blush.
“Oh, my many-sided nature!” she suddenly exclaimed. “It was a wicked sprite made me blow that kiss. Prissie, my dear, I am cold: race me to the house.”
The two girls entered the wide hall, flushed and laughing. Other girls were lingering about on the stairs. Some were just starting off to evening service at Kingsdene; others were standing in groups, chatting. Nancy Banister came up, and spoke to Maggie. Maggie took her arm, and walked away with her.
Prissie found herself standing alone in the hall. It was as if the delightful friendship cemented between herself and Miss Oliphant in the frosty air outside had fallen to pieces like a castle of cards the moment they entered the house. Prissie felt a chill. Her high spirits went down a very little. Then, resolving to banish the ignoble spirit of distrust, she prepared to run upstairs to her own room.
Miss Heath called her name as she was passing an open door.
“Is that you, my dear? Will you come to my room after supper to-night?”
“Oh, thank you,” said Prissie, her eyes sparkling.
Miss Heath came to the threshold of her pretty room, and smiled at the young girl.
“You look well and happy,” she said. “You are getting at home here. You will love us all yet.”
“I love you now!” said Prissie, with fervour.
Miss Heath, prompted by the look of intense and sincere gladness on the young face, bent and kissed Priscilla. A rather disagreeable voice said suddenly at her back —
“I beg your pardon,” and Lucy Marsh ran down the stairs.
She had knocked against Prissie in passing; she had witnessed Miss Heath’s kiss. The expression on Lucy’s face was unpleasant. Prissie did not notice it, however. She went slowly up to her room. The electric light was on, the fire was blazing merrily. Priscilla removed her hat and jacket, threw herself into the one easy-chair the room contained, and gave herself up to pleasant dreams. Many new aspects of life were opening before her. She felt that it was a good thing to be young, and she was distinctly conscious of a great, soft glow of happiness.
Chapter Thirteen
Caught in a Trap
College life is school life over again, but with wide differences. The restraints which characterise the existence of a school-girl are scarcely felt at all by the girl graduate. There are no punishments. Up to a certain point she is free to be industrious or not as she pleases. Some rules there are for her conduct and guidance, but they are neither many nor arbitrary. In short, the young girl graduate is no longer thought of as a child. She is a woman, with a woman’s responsibilities; she is treated accordingly.
Miss Day, Miss Marsh, Miss Merton, and one or two other congenial spirits, entered heartily into the little plot which should deprive Priscilla of Maggie Oliphant’s friendship. They were anxious to succeed in this, because their characters were low, their natures jealous and mean. Prissie had set up a higher standard than theirs, and they were determined to crush the little aspirant for moral courage. If in crushing Prissie they could also bring discredit upon Miss Oliphant, their sense of victory would have been intensified; but it was one thing for these conspirators to plot and plan, and another thing for them to perform. It is possible that in school life they might have found this easier; opportunities might have arisen for them, with mistresses to be obeyed, punishments to be dreaded, rewards to be won. At St. Benet’s there was no one especially to be obeyed, and neither rewards nor punishments entered into the lives of the girls.
Maggie Oliphant did not care in the least what girls like Miss Day or Miss Marsh said or thought about her, and Priscilla, who was very happy and industrious just now, heard many innuendoes and sly little speeches without taking in their meaning.
Still, the conspirators did not despair. The term before Christmas was in some ways rather a dull one, and they were glad of any excitement to break the monotony. As difficulties increased their ardour also deepened, and they were resolved not to leave a stone unturned to effect their object. Where there is a will there is a way. This is true as regards evil and good things alike.
One foggy morning, towards the end of November, Priscilla was standing by the door of one of the lecture-rooms, a book of French history, a French grammar and exercise-book, and a thick note-book in her hand. She was going to her French lecture, and was standing patiently by the lecture-room door, which had not yet been opened.
Priscilla’s strongest bias was for Greek and Latin, but Mr Hayes had recommended her to take up modern languages as well, and she was steadily plodding through the French and German, for which she had not so strong a liking as for her beloved classics. Prissie was a very eager learner, and she was busy now looking over her notes of the last lecture, and standing close to the door, so as to be one of the first to take her place in the lecture-room.
The rustling of a dress caused her to look round, and Rosalind Merton stood by her side. Rosalind was by no means one of the “students” of the college. She attended as few lectures as were compatible with her remaining there, but French happened to be one of the subjects which she thought it well to take up, and she appeared now by Prissie’s side with the invariable note-book, without which no girl went to lecture, in her hand.
“Isn’t it cold?” she said, shivering, and raising her pretty face to Priscilla’s.
Prissie glanced at her for a moment, said Yes; she supposed it was cold, in an abstracted voice, and bent her head once more over her note-book.
Rosalind was looking very pretty in a dress of dark blue velveteen. Her golden curly hair lay in little tendrils all over her head, and curled lovingly against her soft white throat.
“I hate Kingsdene in a fog,” she continued, “and I think it’s very wrong to keep us in this draughty passage until the lecture-room is opened. Don’t you, Miss Peel?”
“Well, we are before our time, so no one is to blame for that,” answered Priscilla.
“Of course, so we are.” Rosalind pulled out a small gold watch, which she wore at her girdle.
“How stupid of me to have mistaken the hour!” she exclaimed. Then looking hard at Prissie, she continued in an anxious tone —
“You are not going to attend any lectures this afternoon, are you, Miss Peel?”
“No,” answered Priscilla. “Why?”
Rosalind’s blue eyes looked almost pathetic in their pleading.
“I wonder,” – she began; “I’m so worried, I wonder if you’d do me a kindness.”
“I can’t say until you ask me,” said Priscilla; “what do you want me to do?”
“There’s a girl at Kingsdene, a Miss Forbes. She makes my dresses now and then; I had a letter from her last night, and she is going to London in a hurry, because her mother is ill. She made this dress for me; isn’t it pretty?”