The Girls of St. Wode's
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“Excellent,” she said; “and Annie will never miss it. She is the most eccentric creature I ever met. Her brown-studies are too wonderful. We all laugh at her, but we all like her, for she really is a good old thing, although such an oddity. Well, I’ll come with you, for my room is in the same corridor. Let us go at once. There are two or three friends who are certain to come and see me to-night, and I should like to introduce you to them.”
Just as the two girls were about to ascend the stairs they met Eileen and Marjorie, who, arm in arm, were looking at the regulation board. As soon as they saw Leslie they turned to speak to her.
“I hope you are comfortable, Miss Gilroy?” said Marjorie. “We are – very.”
“Please introduce me, Miss Gilroy,” said Jane Heriot, touching Leslie on her sleeve.
Leslie did what was required.
“You don’t know anybody here yet, do you?” asked Jane, turning to Eileen.
“No,” replied Eileen; “one or two girls spoke to us at dinner, but – ”
“In that case you had better come and join my party,” said Jane. “The girls will call on you to-morrow evening, so you must be at home; but they will not do so to-night, as it is the first night of term. Do come, both of you. Miss Gilroy is coming, and we shall make quite a cozy party.”
Eileen and Marjorie said they would be delighted to comply, and the girls went upstairs side by side. Leslie went to her own room, secured the key, slipped it into her pocket, and joined the rest on the threshold of Jane’s room.
Jane Heriot happened to have one of the prettiest and most tastefully arranged rooms in North Hall. It was a corner room, and had queer little nooks and crannies in all sorts of unexpected places. It was papered with a very artistic paper, and had a deep dado, which Jane herself had painted, with a running pattern of wild flowers and birds. Some good photogravures of pictures by Burne-Jones and Watts hung upon the walls, the curtains were of Liberty silk, the floor was covered with a self-colored drugget, the bed was turned into a tastefully arranged sofa and the chest of drawers was rendered unique and graceful by a piano cloth concealing its back. The screen which hid the washing apparatus was a Liberty one, and very pretty. A bright little fire burned in the grate, which was agreeable, as the evening was somewhat chilly. One of the windows stood slightly open, and the room was full of fresh air without draught.
“We must all go down to debate within an hour,” said Jane; “and then I hope you will return to my room, girls, for cocoa. I am giving a cocoa party to-night, you know.”
“How delightful!” said Leslie. “How pleasant everything seems to be!”
“When did you say the debate would begin?” asked Eileen.
“Within an hour.”
“Then you have time first to tell us something of your college life.”
“I can do so if you like. We have a great deal of liberty here; and, provided we don’t break the rules, we are not likely to get into hot water. The studious girls work as a rule in the morning, play games in the afternoon, and work again after dinner, until whatever hour they wish to go to bed. We are all expected to be in bed soon after midnight, and no one is allowed to be outside the gates after half-past ten, unless special leave is given. By the way, do you know any people in Wingfield, Miss Gilroy?”
“I have an introduction to one of the Dons, Mr. Matcheson,” said Leslie; “but I don’t know him yet.”
“Oh, you are in great luck if you get into the Matcheson set,” said Jane with a slight look of envy flitting across her face. “They are some of the nicest people in Wingfield, and they have such delightful Sunday evenings; they are sure to invite you to them. Do you know any people, Miss Chetwynd?”
“Not a soul,” said Marjorie, sinking down upon a corner of Jane’s sofa, “and I am not likely to,” she added; “for when once we take up our work in earnest we shall have no time for social frivolities.”
“Social frivolities!” repeated Jane; “but half the good of the place is its social life. You won’t get the benefit you ought to derive from a residence at St. Wode’s unless you take up the social as well as the learned side of the life.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Marjorie, knitting her pretty brows.
“I must try and explain. I see by Miss Gilroy’s face that she does.”
Leslie nodded and smiled.
“One of the many benefits of coming to college is to strengthen the social side of one’s character,” said Jane. “When Miss Frere or Miss Maple ask you to tea, they will discourse much on that point. A college girl ought to have wider sympathies, and to be less selfish all round, than a girl who knows only the ordinary home life. Oh, I have not a word to say against home girls, but certainly college life does strengthen one. Now, here we have heaps of opportunities; we know so many girls, we enter into their lives, we have a delightful feeling of comradeship. The wide outside world, which we get a glimpse of from our own dear little paradise, is most strengthening to our characters. You ask some of the older girls here what they think of St. Wode’s. They will tell you that it is a paradise, an oasis. We are all happy; devoid of care. And the hockey and tennis clubs, and the boating club – they are all so charming that we cannot but have a gay time. There are twenty boats belonging to St. Wode’s College; and on the long summer afternoons we go up the river a good distance, and very often do our work under the trees; so you can imagine how jolly everything is. But of course there are certain rules. No girl can belong to the boating club, for instance, unless she can swim in fifty feet of water.”
“I can stand that test,” said Marjorie eagerly, “and I should rather like to be in a boat. Eileen and I have rowed a good deal on the sea since we were quite children.”
“Can you swim, Miss Gilroy?” asked Jane.
“I am afraid I cannot,” replied Leslie; “but I don’t think I am much of a coward, and can soon learn,” she added. “You see I have spent all my life in London, and have not had a chance of learning.”
“Oh, if you are a London girl you ought to have courage for anything! Then, besides the boating club, we have our bicycle clubs, and our debating society, and our dramatic society. Oh, yes, it is a very full life, and those derive most benefit from the college who enter into it in its divers branches as much as possible.”
“All that social frivolity will not suit me,” said Marjorie, breaking the silence that followed Jane’s rapid flow of words.
“Why so?”
“Because my sister and I – I am sure I can speak for her as well as myself – have come here for a definite purpose. If we had stayed at home we should have gone in for all those other things. We know a very earnest student who belongs to this college, and she has given us quite different particulars with regard to the life. She did not speak of it as you have done, Miss Heriot.”
“May I know the name of that girl?” asked Jane.
“Certainly you may; she is a great friend of ours. I believe her room is in West Hall; her name is Belle Acheson.”
A queer, convulsed sort of look passed over Jane’s face for a quarter of a second, then vanished. She looked solemnly at Eileen.
“Are you a great friend of Miss Acheson’s?” she asked.
“Certainly. We have known her since we were children. But why do you inquire?”
“I am sorry – that is all,” said Jane.
“Sorry? What can you mean? Do you know her?”
“We all know her more or less. I have nothing to say against her personally except that she does not take the best the college affords. I hope you will not – But forgive me. I am a stranger to you; I ought not to interfere.”
“It would certainly be better for you to say nothing more,” said Marjorie in her gentle voice. “Belle is a friend of ours. Yes,” she continued, “we have come here to learn, and we don’t wish to be narrow-minded; but we are quite determined that we will not waste our time nor our money in dress or ornaments.”
Here she glanced disapprovingly round the exquisitely furnished little room.
“We mean to work hard; we shall have no time for amusement.”
Jane muttered something under her breath; then she said cheerfully:
“I am not the one to lecture you. Come, what shall I show you? It will soon be time to go down to hall to the debate. Now, how can I amuse you?”
“We don’t want amusing,” said Eileen; “that’s just the very point we wish you to clearly understand. If you can tell us anything about the poor in Wingfield, or what philanthropic societies are started, or if there are classes for the teaching of cookery and domestic economy, we shall be greatly obliged to you.”
“But why did you come here?” said Jane, opening her eyes wide. “This is a place for the acquiring of academic learning, not for – ”
“It is the place where Belle Acheson is acquiring her profound knowledge of life,” said Marjorie in a slow voice.
Jane looked at her with a puzzled expression.
Just then there came a tap at the door, and two girls named Alice and Florrie Smart, put in an appearance. They were fashionably dressed, and rushed up to Jane and kissed her.
“Dear old Janie, how are you?” said Alice.
“Oh, we have had such a jolly time,” interrupted Florrie. “We were out with the Davidsons all the afternoon, and thought we should be late. We wouldn’t miss the debate to-night for a thousand worlds. Freshers? Do I see freshers here? Pray introduce me, Janie.”
Jane performed her duties in a somewhat perfunctory manner. She was puzzled by Eileen and Marjorie, could not understand them, and was scarcely prepared to like them; but Leslie had already stolen into her heart.
CHAPTER XIV – A COCOA PARTY – CONTINUED
“Are the graces forgotten by the modern woman?” was the subject of the debate that evening. The opener’s speech was made by Miss Frere, who boldly threw down the gauntlet, reminded the girls assembled before her of some of the perils which lay across their paths, and assured them that the old graces of politeness, of gentleness, of loving service, of all that made woman noble and graceful ought to be part of the new life which was opening its doors wider and wider each day for the happy modern girl.
“If in grasping the new we let go of the old, we make a vast mistake,” she continued, her eyes flashing with suppressed fire. “We leave out what has made woman noble and great in the past. We shut away deliberately a vast influence which would otherwise help to pervade the world, for a woman can be graceful, pleasant to look at, agreeable, and not silly. She may be sympathetic without being sentimental. She may be, in the best sense, womanly without sinking into a nonentity.”
Miss Frere’s words were full of feeling, and Leslie listened to her with an ever-growing admiration. In such tones, with almost similar words, had her own mother often spoken to her. From that moment she believed in Miss Frere, and determined to do her utmost to secure the friendship of one who looked so noble and spoke so well.
Marjorie and Eileen, however, fidgeted, rumpled up their short locks, and glanced impatiently one at the other.
The opener’s speech lasted about twenty minutes; then came the speech from the opposition. Marjorie could not help starting as she heard Belle Acheson’s well-known voice. Her words were forcible and full of power, put together with much grammatical fluency, and absolutely to the point. She did her utmost to crush Miss Frere, declaring that if woman, the modern woman, who had such a vast work before her, was to spend her life devoting herself to the pleasures of the toilet, to society, to mere ornamentation, to the thought of what others would think of her, she would be frittering away her birthright, and would be a despicable creature.
“There are no two sides,” cried Belle. “Woman has got to choose. If she means to take up her whole mission, she must drop that which has hindered her in the past; she must cast away her crutch and stand alone.”
“Hear! hear!” burst from some of the students whose ideas coincided with Belle’s.
“For shame!” muttered others.
“Yes,” continued Belle, raising her short-sighted eyes and glancing down the hall to right and left of her. “I repeat once again that there are no two sides. I disagree with Miss Frere in toto. Away with shams! Away with shams!”
As Belle said the last words she brought down her hand upon the table with a great clap which caused the glass and bottle of water standing upon it to rattle ominously.
There was a stamping of feet when she sat down. Marjorie and Eileen looked no longer displeased; their eyes were bright and their cheeks flushed.
“Dear old Belle,” whispered one of the girls to the other; “it is quite refreshing to hear her and to see her again.”
“How true to her colours she is,” said Eileen. “I respect her more than words can say.”
After the speeches from the opener and the opposition, the debate proceeded with enthusiasm. Girls argued for Miss Frere and against Miss Frere; but finally, when the summing-up was over, Miss Frere was able to declare that she had a small victory on her side. She then thanked the girls for their polite attention, hoped that those who differed from her would by and by see matters in another light, and broke up the debate.
It was now past ten o’clock; and Jane, turning to Leslie, reminded her that she had promised to join the cocoa party in her room.
“And I shall be delighted if your friends will come too,” she said. “Oh, I see they have joined Belle Acheson; I cannot help being sorry for them.”
“Is that girl Belle Acheson?” cried Leslie in some astonishment. “I only met the Chetwynds to-day, and they were speaking of her.”
“Belle is a perfect horror,” said Jane. “She leads the extreme party in the college; but I do not think anyone really likes her. Now, do come to my room.”
Four other girls were already assembled in Miss Heriot’s room. They had provided themselves with seats, and were lounging about in a very free-and-easy manner. Jane proceeded to make cocoa, chatting as she did so. All the talk was intelligent and bright. The girls drew Leslie into their midst, holding out affectionate hands of comradeship. They asked her eagerly about her former life, and what she had done in the way of study. When they heard that she had passed her London Matriculation, they congratulated her, and said that she would be sure to do well at St. Wode’s.
“And you will be popular too,” said Florrie Smart. “I can see that at a glance. Oh, I don’t mean to flatter; but you are not the sort who will go over to the Belle Acheson side.”
“I don’t think I shall,” replied Leslie gently. “I did not approve of what she said. My mother agrees entirely with Miss Frere.”
“And therefore you agree with Miss Frere; is not that so?” said Alice Smart.
“I love my mother more than words can say,” replied Leslie. The tears started to her eyes as she spoke. Florrie Smart held out her hand and gave Leslie an affectionate pressure on her arm.
“I quite understand,” she said. “Alice and I also have a mother – such a darling.”
“But I do wish you had a room to yourself, you poor old thing,” said Alice Smart. “Miss Colchester is a well-meaning creature; but to live with her – oh, it would be a real trial!”
“And I wonder what Miss Gilroy will do when the other girls call on her,” said Jane. “Annie will be so cross; she won’t make herself the least bit agreeable. She is learning-mad; that is the only word I can say for her.”
“I must make the best of it, however matters turn out,” said Leslie. “I am only sorry that Miss Colchester is not a little more tidy; but I dare say I shall get on with her very well.”
“And you know you can make your own part of the room as pretty as you please,” said Florrie, speaking again. “You ought to go to Hunt’s, in the Broad, to-morrow; he is the decorator of all our rooms. Some of us spend a good deal over our rooms; others again are more economical. But Hunt will do the thing in any way you wish, and he won’t send in the account until the end of term. That latter fact is of importance to some of us, I can tell you.”
As Florrie said the last words she rose.
“I am too sleepy to stay up another moment,” she said, “fascinating as your cocoa-parties always are, Janie; but I was out so long this afternoon that I am half-dead with sleep.”
“And I, too, am very sleepy,” said Alice, rising. “Janie, that cocoa was excellent. Ta-ta; sleep well.”
The girls nodded to Leslie, then to Jane Heriot, and the next moment Leslie was also bidding Miss Heriot good-night. She ran down the corridor to her own room. As she approached the door, a furious sound of someone pacing up and down fell on her ears. She felt glad that she had secured the key. She opened the door quickly, and then saw Annie, with her red hair flying wildly about her face and shoulders, pacing up and down the room. Annie was talking aloud with great force.
“What can be the matter?” said Leslie as she entered.
“Oh, is that you, my new roomfellow? Pray don’t disturb me. I have just reached the bottom of a problem; but my brain nearly went in the effort. I see it at last; it is magnificent. I do wish you were mathematical; you could rejoice with me.”
Leslie glanced at her with a smile.
“I don’t know anything whatever about mathematics,” she said; “but, at least, I won’t disturb you.”
She moved softly to her own end, sat down on a corner of her sofa-bed, and taking up her Bible read a verse or two before she went to bed. The familiar words quieted her overexcited heart. She thought of her mother at home, of Llewellyn, and of the younger children; and for the first time a rush of real loneliness visited her.
“But I won’t give way to it,” she said to herself. “Strange as it all is at the present moment, I am certain I shall find it delightful by and by. I intend to make the very best of everything. Poor Annie Colchester – has she a chance to sleep with that terrible mental excitement? I only trust I shan’t go mad over literature in the way she does over mathematics.”
Annie, having worn off some of her surplus excitement, had again sunk down by her desk; her face was buried in her hands, and she was sighing in a feeble sort of fashion. Leslie went up and touched her on her shoulder.
“You ought to go to bed,” she said; “you are absolutely weary from all that work.”
“To bed?” said Annie. “Just feel my brow.” She caught hold of Leslie’s slim hand and held it to her forehead.
“It does burn awfully,” said Leslie. “You really ought not to work too hard.”
“But I must; you can never guess what depends on my work. There, I ought not to confide in a new girl and on the first night.”
“Tell me anything that will comfort you,” said Leslie in a voice full of sympathy. “I quite understand home life, if it is that you allude to.”
“I don’t. I never knew home life, and I cannot possibly tell you to-night, nor, perhaps, ever; but I am willing to say this much: There is a great, a terrible reason why I must succeed. If I take honors in mathematics all will be well, if not – Don’t ask me any more, Miss Gilroy.”
“Well, at least, let me help you to go to bed,” said Leslie.
“To bed, with this head of mine! It is almost on fire, and my feet are like ice. I could not possibly sleep. I often lie awake until morning. When matters are very bad, I rise and pace the floor. You won’t mind, will you, if you hear me pacing between two and four, because I do so most nights?”
“I am sorry,” said Leslie, trying to smother her own feelings of annoyance. “I mean I am sorry on your account; but you must go to bed now. I cannot share your room and not feel a certain amount of responsibility with regard to you. I will rub your feet and make them warm if you will let me, and if I put a handkerchief, wrung out of water, to your head the heat will soon leave it. Llewellyn was like that once or twice, and I always got him to sleep in that fashion. He fell asleep while I was rubbing. Oh, it is so soothing! Do let me try it.”
“You are a kind-hearted creature; but who in the world is Llewellyn?”
“My brother, and the darling of my heart.”
“Your brother, the darling of your heart,” echoed Annie. A queer expression filled her eyes; they flashed with sudden fire. She started to her feet.
“I am glad you are my roomfellow,” she said impulsively. “I feel that by and by we shall be friends. Do give me your hand; put it on my forehead. It is true that you have a soothing touch.”
“The thing to remember just now,” said Leslie, speaking as brightly as she could, “is that it is almost twelve o’clock. It is very wrong indeed of you to be up so late; and when did you eat anything last? I happened to notice that you scarcely touched your dinner.”
“When did I eat? I can never eat when my brain is on fire.”
“Have you nothing in the room now – biscuits, or anything of that sort?”
“I have a dim sort of idea that a tin of very stale biscuits stands behind that rubbish on the top of the chest of drawers.”
“Stale as they are, they will be better than nothing. You must eat one. I shall get something better for you to-morrow. I am sure that I have been sent to this room to help you a little. Now, do take off your things, and get into bed. Try to remember that if you become seriously ill you won’t be able to help the person you mean to help; you won’t get your honors after all.”
“Are you certain? How seriously you speak!”
“Yes, I am quite certain. A sick brain never gets anything really worth having. My mother has told me that.”
“Your mother; but she must be a middle-aged woman.”
“I do not see what that has to do with it; and at any rate she is only a little over forty.”
“Oh, she is more than middle-aged. She belongs to the dead and gone woman, who never did anything worth speaking of in her life.”
“You are vastly mistaken,” said Leslie, with spirit. “You would not say that if you knew her. My mother is a journalist, and makes a very good income with her work. I don’t think anyone could write a better leader than she, and as to her pars., they are quite the best the Grapho ever receives.”
“Does your mother write for the Grapho?”
“Yes, and for several other leading papers. She is on the staff of the Daily Post.”
“You astound me. She must be a well-informed woman.”
“She does know a few things,” said Leslie, trying to suppress a smile. “Now, please get into bed; for, if you are not tired, I am.”
“Well, just to please you, and as it is your first night. You are a nice creature. I saw that the moment you entered the room, and I am truly sorry I am your roomfellow, for I know I shall worry you terribly. I may as well tell you frankly that annoy you I shall, for I cannot possibly help myself. If I get mathematics on the brain I always go the whole length, and that means pacing the floor and mumbling problems to myself, sometimes for hours. As to tidiness, I have known myself to fling a book from one end of the room to the other in a fit of excitement. I only trust none of my books may hit you by mistake.”
“I echo that wish,” said Leslie; “but, as I have got a screen, I shall put it round my bed now that you have warned me. Please get into your own bed now, for I do not mean to sleep until I see you comfortable, and I am dead tired.”
Annie opened her red-brown eyes very slowly, and fixed them on Leslie’s face.
“To oblige you, I’ll do what you wish,” she said.
She tumbled into bed, did not attempt to say her prayers, flung her head on the pillow, and closed her eyes.
“How my temples do beat,” she said with a sort of a sob, “and my legs are icy up to my knees, and – ”
“Drink this cold water to begin with,” said Leslie. “You are under my care now, and must submit to my directions.”
She brought a glass of ice-cold water, and held it to Annie’s lips.
“Oh, thank you; I was so terribly thirsty!” Annie drained the glass off and returned it to her companion.
“You are good,” she repeated. She flung her head down again on her pillow.
Leslie got out one of her own handkerchiefs, wrung it out of cold water, and laid it upon Annie’s brow. Then kneeling down, she softly unfastened the bedclothes, and began to rub the girl’s feet. She did this softly and rhythmically, as she had done often and often for Llewellyn when he was in his fits of literary despair. By slow degrees her efforts took effect; Annie’s groans grew less, her eyes closed, and in half an hour she was asleep.