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A Sweet Girl Graduate

by L. T. Meade · English · Gutenberg #4989 · 424,299 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: A Sweet Girl Graduate

Author: L. T. Meade


        
Release date: January 1, 2004 [eBook #4989]
                Most recently updated: September 4, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4989

Credits: Jim Weiler, xooqi.com


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A SWEET GIRL GRADUATE ***




A Sweet Girl Graduate

by Mrs. L. T. Meade

1891


Contents

 CHAPTER I. GOING OUT INTO THE WORLD
 CHAPTER II. THE DELIGHTS OF BEING A FRESHER
 CHAPTER III. AN UNWILLING “AT HOME”
 CHAPTER IV. AN EAVESDROPPER
 CHAPTER V. WHY PRISCILLA PEEL WENT TO ST. BENET’S
 CHAPTER VI. COLLEGE LIFE
 CHAPTER VII. IN MISS OLIPHANT’S ROOM
 CHAPTER VIII. THE KINDEST AND MOST COMFORTING WAY
 CHAPTER IX. A NEW LIFE
 CHAPTER X. ST. HILDA’S CHAPEL
 CHAPTER XI. CONSPIRATORS
 CHAPTER XII. A GOOD THING TO BE YOUNG
 CHAPTER XIII. CAUGHT IN A TRAP
 CHAPTER XIV. IN THE ELLIOT-SMITH’S DRAWING-ROOM
 CHAPTER XV. POLLY SINGLETON
 CHAPTER XVI. PRETTY LITTLE ROSALIND
 CHAPTER XVII. SEALSKIN AND PINK CORAL
 CHAPTER XVIII. A BLACK SELF AND A WHITE SELF
 CHAPTER XIX. IN MISS ECCLESTON’S SITTING-ROOM
 CHAPTER XX. A PAINTER
 CHAPTER XXI. “I DETEST IT”
 CHAPTER XXII. A BLACK SATIN JACKET
 CHAPTER XXIII. THE FASHION OF THE DAY
 CHAPTER XXIV. TWO EXTREMES
 CHAPTER XXV. A MYSTERIOUS EPISODE
 CHAPTER XXVI. IN THE ANTE-CHAPEL OF ST. HILDA’S
 CHAPTER XXVII. BEAUTIFUL ANNABEL LEE
 CHAPTER XXVIII. “COME AND KILL THE BOGIE”
 CHAPTER XXIX. AT THE ELLIOT-SMITHS PARTY
 CHAPTER XXX. “IF I HAD KNOWN YOU SOONER”
 CHAPTER XXXI. A MESSAGE
 CHAPTER XXXII. “THE PRINCESS”
 CONCLUSION




CHAPTER I
GOING OUT INTO THE WORLD


Priscilla’s trunk was neatly packed. It was a new trunk and had a nice
canvas covering over it. The canvas was bound with red braid, and
Priscilla’s initials were worked on the top in large plain letters. Her
initials were P. P. P., and they stood for Priscilla Penywern Peel. The
trunk was corded and strapped and put away, and Priscilla stood by her
aunt’s side in the little parlor of Penywern Cottage.

“Well, I think I’ve told you everything,” said the aunt.

“Oh, yes, Aunt Raby, I sha’n’t forget. I’m to write once a week, and
I’m to try not to be nervous. I don’t suppose I shall be— I don’t see
why I should. Girls aren’t nervous nowadays, are they?”

“I don’t know, my dear. It seems to me that if they aren’t they ought
to be. I can understand girls doing hard things if they must. I can
understand any one doing anything that has to be done, but as to not
being nervous— well— there! Sit down, Prissie, child, and take your
tea.”

Priscilla was tall and slight. Her figure was younger than her years,
which were nearly nineteen, but her face was older. It was an almost
careworn face, thoughtful, grave, with anxious lines already deepening
the seriousness of the too serious mouth.

Priscilla cut some bread and butter and poured out some tea for her
aunt and for herself.

Miss Rachel Peel was not the least like her niece. She was short and
rather dumpy. She had a sensible, downright sort of face, and she took
life with a gravity which would have oppressed a less earnest spirit
than Priscilla’s.

“Well, I’m tired,” she said, when the meal was over. “I suppose I’ve
done a great deal more than I thought I had all day. I think I’ll go to
bed early. We have said all our last words, haven’t we, Priscilla?”

“Pretty nearly, Aunt Raby.”

“Oh, yes, that reminds me— there’s one thing more. Your fees will be
all right, of course, and your traveling, and I have arranged about
your washing money.”

“Yes, Aunt Raby, oh, yes; everything is all right.”

Priscilla fidgeted, moved her position a little and looked longingly
out of the window.

“You must have a little money over and above these things,” proceeded
Miss Peel in her sedate voice. “I am not rich, but I’ll allow you— yes,
I’ll manage to allow you two shillings a week. That will be for
pocket-money, you understand, child.”

The girl’s old-young face flushed painfully.

“I’ll want a few pence for stamps, of course,” she said. “But I sha’n’t
write a great many letters. I’ll be a great deal too busy studying. You
need not allow me anything like so large a sum as that, Aunt Raby.”

“Nonsense, child. You’ll find it all too small when you go out into the
world. You are a clever girl, Prissie, and I’m going to be proud of
you. I don’t hold with the present craze about women’s education. But I
feel somehow that I shall be proud of you. You’ll be learned enough,
but you’ll be a woman with it all. I wouldn’t have you stinted for the
world, Prissie, my dear. Yes, I’ll make it ten shillings a month— yes,
I will. I can easily screw that sum out of the butter money. Now, not
another word. I’m off to bed. Good night, my love.”

Priscilla kissed her aunt and went out. It was a lovely autumn evening.
She stepped on to the green sward which surrounded the little cottage,
and with the moonlight casting its full radiance on her slim figure,
looked steadily out over the sea. The cottage was on the top of some
high cliffs. The light of the moon made a bright path over the water,
and Priscilla had a good view of shining, silvered water and dark, deep
blue sky.

She stood perfectly still, gazing straight out before her. Some of the
reflection and brightness of the moonlight seemed to get into her
anxious eyes and the faint dawn of a new-born hope to tremble around
her lips. She thought herself rich with ten shillings a month
pocket-money. She returned to the house, feeling overpowered at Aunt
Raby’s goodness.

Upstairs in Prissie’s room there were two beds. One was small; in this
she herself slept. The other had now three occupants. Three heads were
raised when Prissie entered the room and three shrill voices exclaimed:

“Here we are, all wide awake, Prissie, darling!”

This remark, made simultaneously, was followed by prolonged peals of
laughter.

“Three of you in that small bed!” said Priscilla.

She stood still, and a smile broke all over her face. “Why, Hattie,”
she said, catching up the eldest of the three girls and giving her a
fervent hug— “how did you slip out of Aunt Raby’s room?”

“Oh, I managed to,” said Hattie in a stage whisper. “Aunt Raby came
upstairs half an hour ago, and she undressed very fast, and got into
bed, and I heard her snoring in about a minute. It was then I slipped
away. She never heard.”

“Hop up on the bed now, Prissie,” exclaimed Rose, another of the
children, “and let us all have a chat. Here, Katie, if you’ll promise
not to cry, you may get into the middle, between Hattie and me, then
you’ll be very close to darling Prissie.”

Katie was the youngest of the three occupants of the bed; she was about
eight years old; her small face was delicate in its outline, her mouth
peevish; she did not look a strong child, and self-control could
scarcely be expected of her.

Priscilla placed her candle on the chimney-piece, jumped on the bed
according to orders and looked earnestly at her three small sisters.

“Now, Prissie,” said Hattie in the important little voice which she
always used, “begin, go on— tell us all about your grand college life.”

“How can I, Hattie, when I don’t know what to say. I can’t _guess_ what
I am to do at college.”

“Oh, dear,” sighed Rose, “I only wish I were the one to go! It will be
very dull living with Aunt Raby when you are away, Priscilla. She won’t
let us take long walks, and if ever we go in for a real, jolly lark we
are sure to be punished. Oh, dear, oh, dear!”

“Even though it is for your good, I wish with all my heart you were not
going away, Prissie,” said Hattie in her blunt fashion.

Katie burst into sudden loud wails.

Priscilla colored. Then she spoke with firmness. “We have had enough of
this kind of talk. Katie, you shall come and sit in my lap, darling.
I’ll wrap you up quite warm in this big shawl. Now, girls,” she said,
“what _is_ the use of making things harder? You know, perfectly, you
two elder ones, why I must go away, and you, Katie, you know also,
don’t you, pet?”

“Yes, Prissie,” answered Katie, speaking in a broken, half-sobbing
voice, “only I _am_ so lonely.”

“But you’re not going to be selfish, darling. By and by I’ll come back
to you all. Once every year, at least, I’ll come back. And then, after
I’ve gone through my course of study, I’ll get a situation of some
sort— a good situation— and you three shall come and live with me.
There, what do you say to that? Only three years, and then such a jolly
time. Why, Katie will be only eleven then.”

Priscilla spoke in a remarkably cheerful voice, but the appalling
magnitude of three years could not be diminished, and the three little
sisters who were to stay behind with Aunt Raby were still disposed to
view things dismally.

“If _she_ wasn’t just what she is——” began Hattie.

“If she didn’t think the least tiny morsel of a lark wrong——” continued
Rose.

“Why, then we could pull along somehow,” sighed Hattie.

“Oh, you’ll pull along as it is,” said Priscilla “I’ll write to you as
often as ever I can. If possible I’ll keep a sort of journal and send
it to you. And perhaps there’ll be stories and larks in it. Now you
really must go to sleep, for I have to get up so early in the morning.
Katie, darling, I’ll make a corner for you in my bed to-night. Won’t
that be a treat?”

“Oh, yes, Prissie.”

Katie’s pale face was lit up by a radiant smile; Hattie and Rose lay
down side by side and closed their eyes. In a few moments they were
sound asleep.

As they lay in the sound, happy sleep of healthy childhood Priscilla
bent over them and kissed them. Then before she lay down herself she
knelt by the window, looked up at the clear, dark sky in which the moon
sailed in majesty, bent her head, murmured a few words of prayer, then
crept into bed by her little sister’s side.

Prissie felt full of courage and good resolves. She was going out into
the world to-morrow, and she was quite determined that the world should
not conquer her, although she knew that she was a very poor maiden with
a specially heavy load of care on her young shoulders.




CHAPTER II
THE DELIGHTS OF BEING A FRESHER


The college was quite shut away in its own grounds, and only from the
upper windows did the girls get a peep of the old university town of
Kingsdene. From these, however, particularly in the winter, they could
see the gabled colleges, the chapels with their rich glory of
architecture and the smooth lawns of the college gardens as they sloped
gently down to the river.

St. Benet’s, the college for women, was approached by a private road,
and high entrance gates obstructed the gaze of the curious. Inside
there were cheerful halls and pleasant gardens and gay, fresh,
unrestrained life. But the passer-by got no peep of these things unless
the high gates happened to be open.

This was the first evening of term, and most of the girls were back.
There was nothing very particular going on, and they were walking about
the gardens, and greeting old friends, and telling each other their
experiences, and more or less picking up the threads which had been
broken or loosened in the long vacation.

The evenings were drawing in, but the pleasant twilight which was soon
to be rendered brilliant by the full moon seemed to the girls even
nicer than broad daylight to linger about in. They did not want to go
into the houses; they flitted about in groups here and there, chatting
and laughing merrily.

St. Benet’s had three halls, each with its own vice-principal, and a
certain number of resident students. Each hall stood in its own grounds
and was more or less a complete home in itself. There were resident
lecturers and demonstrators for the whole college and one lady
principal, who took the lead and was virtually head of the college.

Miss Vincent was the name of the present principal. She was an old lady
and had a vice-principal under her at Vincent Hall, the largest and
newest of these spacious homes, where young women received the
advantages of university instruction to prepare them for the battle of
life.

Priscilla was to live at Heath Hall— a slightly smaller house, which
stood at a little distance away— its grounds being divided from the
grounds of Vincent Hall by means of a rustic paling. Miss Heath was the
very popular vice-principal of this hall, and Prissie was considered a
fortunate girl to obtain a home in her house. She sat now a forlorn and
rather scared young person, huddled up in one corner of the fly which
turned in at the wide gates, and finally deposited her and her luggage
at the back entrance of Heath Hall.

Priscilla looked out in the darkness of the autumn night with
frightened eyes. She hated herself for feeling nervous. She had told
Aunt Raby that, of course, she would have no silly tremors, yet here
she was trembling and scarcely able to pay the cabman his fare.

She heard a girl’s laugh in the distance, and it caused her to start so
violently that she dropped one of her few treasured sixpences, which
went rolling about aimlessly almost under the horse’s hoofs.

“Stop a minute, I’ll find it for you,” said a voice. A tall girl with
big, brown eyes suddenly darted into view, picked up the sixpence as if
by magic, popped it into Priscilla’s hand and then vanished. Priscilla
knew that this was the girl who had laughed; she heard her laughing
again as she turned to join some one who was standing beside a laurel
hedge. The two linked their arms together and walked off in the
darkness.

“Such a frightened poor fresher!” said the girl who had picked up the
sixpence to her companion.

“Maggie,” said the other in a warning voice, “I know you, I know what
you mean to do.”

“My dear, good Nancy, it is more than I know myself. What awful
indiscretion does your prophetic soul see me perpetrating?”

“Oh, Maggie, as if anything could change your nature! You know you’ll
take up that miserable fresher for about a fortnight, and make her
imagine that you are going to be excellent friends for the rest of your
life, and then— p—— f! you’ll snuff her out as if she had never
existed; I know you, Maggie, and I call it cruel.”

“Is not that Miss Banister I hear talking?” said a voice quite close to
the two girls.

They both turned, and immediately with heightened color rushed up
eagerly to shake hands with the vice-principal of their college.

“How do you do, my dears?” she said in a hearty voice. “Are you quite
well, Maggie, and you, Nancy? Had you a pleasant holiday? And did you
two great chums spend it together?”

The girls began answering eagerly; some other girls came up and joined
the group, all anxious to shake hands with Miss Heath and to get a word
of greeting from her.

At this moment the dressing-gong for dinner sounded, and the little
group moved slowly toward the house.

In the entrance hall numbers of girls who had recently arrived were
standing about; all had a nod, or a smile, or a kiss for Maggie
Oliphant.

“How do you do, Miss Oliphant? Come and see me to-night in my room,
won’t you, dear?” issued from many throats.

Maggie promised in her good-natured, affectionate, wholesale way.

Nancy Banister was also greeted by several friends. She, too, was gay
and bright, but quieter than Maggie. Her face was more reliable in its
expression, but not nearly so beautiful.

“If you accept all these invitations, Maggie,” she said as the two
girls walked down the corridor which led to their rooms, “you know you
will have to sit up until morning. Why will you say ‘yes’ to every one?
You know it only causes disappointment and jealousy.”

Maggie laughed.

“My dear, good creature, don’t worry your righteous soul,” she
answered. “I’ll call on all the girls I can, and the others must grin
and bear it. Now we have barely time to change our dresses for dinner.
Surely, though, Nance, there’s a light under Annabel Lee’s door. Who
have they dared to put into her room? It must be one of those wretched
freshers. I don’t think I can bear it. I shall have to go away into
another corridor.”

“Maggie, dear— you are far too sensitive. Could the college afford to
keep a room empty because poor, dear Annie Lee occupied it?”

“They could, they ought,” burst from Maggie. She stamped her foot with
anger. “That room is a shrine to me. It will always be a shrine. I
shall hate the person who lives in it.” Tears filled her bright brown
eyes. Her arched, proud lips trembled. She opened her door, and going
into her room, shut it with a bang, almost in Nancy Banister’s face.

Nancy stood still for a moment. A quick sigh came from her lips.

“Maggie is the dearest girl in the college,” she said to herself; “the
dearest, the sweetest, the prettiest, yet also the most tantalizing,
the most provoking, the most inconsequent. It is the greatest wonder
she has kept so long out of some serious scrape. She will never leave
here without doing something outrageous, and yet there isn’t a girl in
the place to be named with her. I wish—” here Nancy sighed again and
put her hand to her brow as if to chase away some perplexity.

Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she went up to the door of the room
next to Maggie’s and knocked.

There was a moment’s silence, then a constrained voice said:

“Come in.”

Nancy entered at once.

Priscilla Peel was standing in the center of the room. The electric
light was turned on, revealing the bareness and absence of all ornament
of the apartment; a fire was laid in the grate but not lit, and
Priscilla’s ugly square trunk, its canvas covering removed, stood in a
prominent position, half on the hearthrug, half on the square of carpet
which covered the center of the floor. Priscilla had taken off her
jacket and hat. She had washed her hands, and removed her muddy boots,
and smoothed out her straight, light brown hair. She looked what she
felt— a very stiff and unformed specimen of girlhood. There was a great
lump in her throat, brought there by mingled nervousness and
home-sickness, but that very fact only made her manner icy and
repellent.

“Forgive me,” said Nancy, blushing all over her rosy face. “I thought
perhaps you might like to know one or two things as you are quite
strange here. My name is Banister. I have a room in the same corridor,
but quite at the other end. You must come and visit me presently. Oh,
has no one lit your fire? Wouldn’t you like one? The evenings are
turning so chilly now, and a fire in one’s room gives one a home-like
feeling, doesn’t it? Shall I light it for you?”

“No, no, thank you,” said Priscilla stiffly. She longed to rush at
Nancy and smother her with kisses, but she could only stand in the
middle of her room, helpless and awkward, held in a terrible bondage of
shyness.

Nancy drew back a step, chilled in spite of herself.

“I see there are matches on the chimney-piece,” she said, “so you can
light the fire yourself whenever you like. The gong that will sound in
a minute will be for dinner, and Miss Heath always likes us to be
punctual for that meal. It does not matter about any other. Do you
think you can find your way to the dining-hall or shall I come and
fetch you?”

“No— thank you. I— I can manage.”

“But I’ll come with pleasure if you like me to.”

“No, I’d rather you didn’t trouble, please.”

“Very well; if you’re sure you know the way. You go down the broad
stairs, then turn to the right, then to the left. Good-by. I must rush
off, or I shall be late.”

Nancy shut the door behind her. She did it gently, although she did not
feel gentle, for she had a distinct sensation of being irritated.

Meanwhile Priscilla, clasping her hands together behind the closed
door, looked yearningly in the direction where the bright face and
trim, neat girlish figure had stood. She was trembling slightly and her
eyes slowly filled with tears.

“I feel sick and lonely and horrid,” she said under her breath. “Talk
of nerves; oh, if Aunt Raby could see me now! Why, I’m positively
shaking, I can scarcely speak, I can scarcely think properly. What
would the children say if they saw their Prissie now? And I’m the girl
who is to fight the world, and kill the dragon, and make a home for the
nestlings. Don’t I feel like it! Don’t I look like it! Don’t I just
loathe myself! How hideously I do my hair, and what a frightful dress I
have on. Oh, I wish I weren’t shaking so much. I know I shall get red
all over at dinner. I wish I weren’t going to dinner. I wish, oh, I
wish I were at home again.”

Crash! bang! pealed the great gong through the house. Doors were opened
all along the corridor; light steps passed Priscilla’s room. She heard
the rustle of silk and the sweet, high tinkle of girlish laughter.

She stayed in her room till the last footsteps had died away, then in
desperation made a rush for it, flew down the wide stairs in a bashful
agony, and, as a matter of course, entered the spacious dining-hall by
the door devoted to the dons.

A girl’s life at one of the women’s colleges is supposed to be more or
less an unfettered sort of existence. The broad rules guiding conduct
are few and little more than those which must be exercised in any
well-organized family. But there is the unspoken etiquette made chiefly
by the students themselves, which fills the place like an atmosphere,
and which can only be transgressed at the risk of surly glances and
muttered comments and even words of derision.

No student was expected to enter the hall by the dons’ entrance, and
for this enormity to be perpetrated by a fresher immediately made her
the cynosure of all eyes. Poor Priscilla was unconscious of any
offense. She grew scarlet under the gaze of the merciless young eyes
and further added to her sins by sitting down at one of the tables at
the top of the hall.

No one reproved her in words or requested her to take a lower seat, but
some rude giggles were not inaudible; and Priscilla, who would
thankfully have taken her dinner in the scullery, heard hints about a
certain young person’s presumption, and about the cheek of those
wretched freshers, which must instantly be put down with a high hand.

Priscilla had choked over her soup, and was making poor way with the
fish that followed, when suddenly a sweet, low voice addressed her.

“This is your first evening at St. Benet’s,” said the voice. “I hope
you will be happy. I know you will, after a little.”

Priscilla turned and met the full gaze of lovely eyes, brown like a
nut, soft and deep as the thick pile of velvet, and yet with a latent
flash and glow in them which gave them a red, half-wild gleam now and
then. The lips that belonged to this face were slightly parted in a
smile; the smile and the expression in the eyes stole straight down
with a glow of delicious comfort into Priscilla’s heart.

“Thank you,” she said in her stiff, wooden tone; but her eyes did not
look stiff, and the girl began to talk again.

“I believe my room is next to yours. My name is Oliphant— Margaret
Oliphant, but every one calls me Maggie. That is, of course, I mean my
friends do. Would you like to come into my room and let me tell you
some of the rules?”

“Thank you,” said Priscilla again. She longed to add, “I should love
beyond words to come into your room”; but instead she remarked icily,
“I think Miss Heath has given me printed rules.”

“Oh, you have seen our dear Dorothea— I mean Miss Heath. Isn’t she
lovely?”

“I don’t know,” answered Priscilla. “I think she’s rather a plain
person.”

“My dear Miss”— I have not caught your name— “you really are too
deliciously prosaic. Stay here for a month, and then tell me if you
think Dorothea— I mean Miss Heath— plain. No, I won’t say any more. You
must find out for yourself. But now, about the rules. I don’t mean the
_printed_ rules. We have, I assure you, at St. Benet’s all kinds of
little etiquettes which we expect each other to observe. We are
supposed to be democratic and inclined to go in for all that is
advanced in womanhood. But, oh dear, oh dear! let any student dare to
break one of our own little pet proprieties, and you will see how
conservative we can be.”

“Have I broken any of them?” asked Priscilla in alarm. “I did notice
that every one stared at me when I came into the hall, but I thought it
was because my face was fresh, and I hoped people would get accustomed
to me by and by.”

“You poor, dear child, there are lots of fresh faces here besides
yours. You should have come down under the shelter of my wing, then it
would have been all right.”

“But what have I done? Do tell me. I’d much rather know.”

“Well, dear, you have _only_ come into the hall by the dons’ entrance,
and you have _only_ seated yourself at the top of the table, where the
learned students who are going in for a tripos take their august meals.
That is pretty good for a fresher. Forgive me, we call the new girls
freshers for a week or two. Oh, you have done nothing wrong. Of course
not, how could you know any better? Only I think it would be nice to
put you up to our little rules, would it not?”

“I should be very much obliged,” said Priscilla. “And please tell me
now where I ought to sit at dinner.”

Miss Oliphant’s merry eyes twinkled.

“Look down this long hall,” she said. “Observe that door at the further
end— that is the students’ door; through that door you ought to have
entered.”

“Yes— well, well?”

“What an impatient ‘well, well.’ I shall make you quite an enthusiastic
Benetite before dinner is over.”

Priscilla blushed.

“I am sorry I spoke too eagerly,” she said.

“Oh, no, not a bit too eagerly.”

“But please tell me where I ought to have seated myself.”

“There is a table near that lower entrance, Miss——”

“Peel,” interposed Priscilla. “My name is Priscilla Peel.”

“How quaint and great-grandmotherly. Quite delicious! Well, Miss Peel,
by that entrance door is a table, a table rather in a draught, and
consecrated to the freshers— there the freshers humbly partake of
nourishment.”

“I see. Then I am as far from the right place as I can be.”

“About as far as you can be.”

“And that is why all the girls have stared so at me.”

“Yes, of course; but let them stare. Who minds such a trifle?”

Priscilla sat silent for a few moments. One of the neat waiting-maids
removed her plate; her almost untasted dinner lay upon it. Miss
Oliphant turned to attack some roast mutton with truly British vigor.

By and by Priscilla’s voice, stiff but with a break in it, fell upon
her ear.

“I think the students at St. Benet’s must be very cruel.”

“My dear Miss Peel, the honor of the most fascinating college in
England is imperiled. Unsay those words.”

Maggie Oliphant was joking. Her voice was gay with badinage, her eyes
brimful of laughter. But Priscilla, unaccustomed to light repartee or
chaff in any form, replied to her with heavy and pained seriousness.

“I think the students here are cruel,” she repeated. “How can a
stranger know which is the dons’ entrance and which is the right seat
to take at table? If nobody shows her, how can a stranger know? I do
think the students are cruel, and I am sorry— very sorry I came.”




CHAPTER III
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-by, 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 any one present except Miss Banister,” nodding her head
in Nancy’s direction, “and perhaps one other girl. By-by, 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 mantel-piece 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 recognized 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 homelike 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 mantel-piece, 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
center 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, favoring 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 every one 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 backward and forward 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 any one 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
toward 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 at 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, No. 48.”

“But Spilman has much the most _recherche’_ 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 cozy 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 mantel-piece 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 meager 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 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
color mounting into her cheeks. She was glad that Maggie was alone; she
felt more at ease with her than with any one, 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 afterward 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
color, too, which added to her fascination. Sometimes the beautiful
oval of her face would he 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 cozy 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 sympathized 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 downward,
and burst into queer, silent, distressful tears.

Some one touched Priscilla softly an 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 IV
AN EAVESDROPPER


The students at St. Benet’s were accustomed to unlimited license in the
matter of sitting up at night. At a certain hour the electric light
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
cozy. 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 homesickness 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 some one 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:

“And the angels, not half so happy in heaven,
       Went envying her and me;
  Yes! that was the reason (as all men know
       In this kingdom by the sea)
  That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
       Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee!

 “But our love it was stronger by far than the love
       Of those who were older than we—
       Of many far wiser than we;
  And neither the angels in heaven above,
       Nor the demons down under the sea,
  Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
       Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.”


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.

Priscilla stretched out her hand for a box of matches. She would light
her candle, and, as there was no chance of her going to sleep, sit up,
put her dressing-jacket on and begin to write a long letter home to
Aunt Raby and to her little sisters. Such methodical work would calm
nerves not often so highly strung.

She rose, and fetching her neat little leather writing-case from where
she had placed it on the top of her bureau, prepared to open it.

The little case was locked. Priscilla went over to her curtained
wardrobe, pushed it aside and felt in the pocket of the dress she had
worn that day for her purse. It was not there. Within that purse the
little key was safely hiding, but the purse itself was nowhere to be
found.

Priscilla looked all around the room. In vain; the neat brown-leather
purse, which held the key, some very precious memoranda of different
sorts and her small store of worldly wealth, was nowhere to be found.

She stood still for a moment in perplexity. All her nervous fears had
now completely vanished; a real calamity and a grave one stared her in
the face. Suppose her purse were gone? Suppose it had been stolen? The
very small supply of money which that purse contained was most precious
to Priscilla. It seemed to her that nothing could well be more terrible
than for her now to have to apply to Aunt Raby for fresh funds. Aunt
Raby had stinted herself dreadfully to get Priscilla’s modest little
outfit together, and now— oh, she would rather starve than appeal to
her again.

Suddenly as she stood in the middle of her room a memory came back to
her. It was the recollection of a very trivial incident. She remembered
something dropping on the floor as she sat by Maggie’s side at dinner.
She had felt too nervous and miserable at the time to take any notice
of the slight sound made by the fall, but now it returned vividly to
her memory. She was sure that her purse must have dropped out of her
pocket at that moment, and was now convinced that it was now lying
quietly under the table where she had sat.

Priscilla felt far too excited to wait until the morning to make
herself sure on this point. No; happen what might, she would set her
fears at rest now and find her way somehow through the strange and
sleeping house until she discovered her lost treasure.

Partly re-dressing, she took her candle in her hand and softly unhasped
her door. It was a well-oiled lock and made no click or noise of any
kind as she turned the handle. When she opened the door wide it did not
creak. The long corridor outside had a stone floor and was richly
carpeted. No fear of treacherous, creaking boards here. Priscilla
prepared to walk briskly down the length of the corridor, when she was
arrested by seeing a light streaming out of Maggie Oliphant’s room.

The electric lights were all extinguished, and this light alone shone
like a ray in the darkness.

Prissie stood still, with a gasp of dismay. She did not want Maggie to
hear her now. She would have been distressed at Maggie being acquainted
with her carelessness. She felt sure that a girl like Maggie Oliphant
could never understand what a little purse, which only contained a
sovereign or two, would mean to her.

On tiptoe, and shading the candle with her hand, she stole past the
partly open door. A rich tapestry curtain hung at the other side, and
Maggie doubtless thought the door was shut.

Priscilla had almost gone past the open door, when her steps were again
arrested by the sound of voices. Some one said “Priscilla Peel,” and
then some one else laughed.

Priscilla stood perfectly still. Of course she had no right to listen,
but she did. She waited breathless, in an agony of expectation, for the
next words.

“I would not be jealous if I were you, Nancy,” said Maggie’s lazy,
sweet voice. “The poor girl is as queer as her name, but it gives me a
kind of aesthetic pleasure to be good to people. _You_ have no cause to
be jealous, sweet pet.”

Priscilla raised one trembling hand and noiselessly put out her candle.
Her feet seemed rooted to the spot.

Nancy murmured something which Priscilla could not hear. Then there was
the sound of one girl kissing another, and Maggie’s light laugh was
heard again.

“The unfortunate girl has fallen in love with you, there’s no doubt
about that, Maggie,” said Nancy.

“Well, my dear, she’ll get over that little fever presently. When I’m
kind to them, they all have it. I believe I am gracious to them just
because I like to see that grateful, affectionate expression in their
eyes. The fact is, Nance, I have a perfectly crazy desire to excite
love.”

“But do you give love, Maggie? Do you ever give it back in return?”

“Sometimes. I don’t know, I believe I am rather fond of you, for
instance.”

“Maggie, was Geoffrey Hammond at St. Hilda’s this afternoon?”

“I can’t possibly say,” replied Maggie in a cold voice. Then she added
excitedly, “I don’t believe the door is shut! You are so careless,
Nannie, so indifferent to the fact that there _may_ be eavesdroppers
about.”

Priscilla crept back to her room. She had forgotten all about her
purse; every other feeling was completely swallowed up in a burning,
choking sense of anger.




CHAPTER V
WHY PRISCILLA PEEL WENT TO ST. BENET’S


Priscilla had received a shock, and hers was not the sort of nature to
take such a blow easily. She was a reserved girl, but her feelings were
deep, her affections very strong. Priscilla had a rather commonplace
past, but it was the sort of past to foster and deepen the
peculiarities of her character. Her father had died when she was
twelve, her mother when she was fourteen. They were north-country folk,
and they possessed all the best characteristics of their class. They
were rigidly upright people, they never went in debt; they considered
luxuries bad for the soul and the smaller refinements of life
altogether unnecessary.

Mr. Peel managed to save a little money out of his earnings. He took
year by year these savings to the nearest county bank and invested them
to the best of his ability. The bank broke, and in one fell stroke he
lost all the savings of a life. This affected his health, and he never
held up his head or recovered his vigor of mind and body again.

He died and two years afterward his wife followed him. Priscilla was
then fourteen and there were three little sisters several years
younger. They were merry little children, strong, healthy, untouched by
care. Priscilla, on the contrary, was grave and looked much older than
her years.

On the night their mother was buried Aunt Rachel Peel, their father’s
sister, came from her home far away on the borders of Devonshire, and
told the four desolate children that she was going to take them away to
live on her little farm with her.

Aunt Raby spoke in a very frank manner. She concealed nothing.

“It’s only fair to tell you, Prissie,” she said, addressing the tall,
gawky girl, who stood with her hands folded in front of her— “it’s only
fair to tell you that hitherto I’ve just made two ends meet for one
mouth alone, and how I’m to fill four extra ones the Lord knows, but I
don’t. Still, I’m going to try, for it shall never be said that Andrew
Peel’s children wanted bread while his sister, Rachel Peel, lived.”

“We have none of us big appetites,” said Priscilla after a long, solemn
pause; “we can do with very little food— very little. The only one who
ever is _really_ hungry is Hattie.”

Aunt Raby looked up at the pale face, for Prissie was taller than her
aunt even then, and said in a shocked voice:

“Good gracious, child! do you think I’d stint one of you? You ought all
to be hearty, and I hope you will be. No, no, it isn’t that, Prissie,
but there’ll be no luxuries, so don’t you expect them.”

“I don’t want them,” answered Priscilla.

The children all went to Devonshire, and Aunt Raby toiled, as perhaps
no woman had ever toiled before, to put bread into their mouths. Katie
had a fever, which made her pale and thin and took away that look of
robustness which had characterized the little Yorkshire maiden. Nobody
thought about the children’s education, and they might have grown up
without any were it not for Priscilla, who taught them what she knew
herself. Nobody thought Priscilla clever; she had no brilliance about
her in any way, but she had a great gift for acquiring knowledge.
Wherever she went she picked up a fresh fact, or a fresh fancy, or a
new idea, and these she turned over and over in her active, strong,
young brain until she assimilated them and made them part of herself.

Among the few things that had been saved from her early home there was
a box of her father’s old books, and as these comprised several of the
early poets and essayists, she might have gone further and fared worse.

One day the old clergyman who lived at a small vicarage near called to
see Miss Peel. He discovered Priscilla deep over Carlyle’s “History of
the French Revolution.” The young girl had become absorbed in the
fascination of the wild and terrible tale. Some of the horror of it had
got into her eyes as she raised them to return Mr. Hayes’ courteous
greeting. His attention was arrested by the look she gave him. He
questioned her about her reading, and presently offered to help her.
From this hour Priscilla made rapid progress. She was not taught in the
ordinary fashion, but she was being really educated. Her life was full
now; she knew nothing about the world, nothing about society. She had
no ambitions and she did not trouble herself to look very far ahead.
The old classics which she studied from morning till night abundantly
satisfied her really strong intellectual nature.

Mr. Hayes allowed her to talk with him, even to argue points with him.
He always liked her to draw her own conclusions; he encouraged her
really original ideas; he was proud of his pupil, and he grew fond of
her. It was not Priscilla’s way to say a word about it, but she soon
loved the old clergyman as if he were her father.

Some time between her sixteenth and seventeenth birthday that awakening
came which altered the whole course of her life. It was a summer’s day
Priscilla was seated in the old wainscoted parlor of the cottage,
devouring a book lent to her by Mr. Hayes on the origin of the Greek
drama and occasionally bending to kiss little Katie, who sat curled up
in her arms, when the two elder children rushed in with the information
that Aunt Raby had suddenly lain flat down in the hayfield, and they
thought she was asleep.

Prissie tumbled her book in one direction and Katie in the other. In a
moment she was kneeling by Miss Peel’s side.

“What is it, Aunt Raby?” she asked tenderly. “Are you ill?”

The tired woman opened her eyes slowly.

“I think I fainted, dear love,” she said. “Perhaps it was the heat of
the sun.”

Priscilla managed to get her back into the house. She grew better
presently and seemed something like herself, but that evening the aunt
and niece had a long talk, and the next day Prissie went up to see Mr.
Hayes.

“I am interested,” he said when he saw her enter the room, “to see how
you have construed that passage in Cicero, Priscilla. You know I warned
you of its difficulty.”

“Oh, please, sir, don’t,” said Prissie, holding up her hand with an
impatient movement, which she now and then found herself indulging in.
“I don’t care if Cicero is at the bottom of the sea. I don’t want to
speak about him or think about him. His day is over, mine is— oh, sir,
I beg your pardon.”

“Granted, my dear child. Sit down, Prissie. I will forgive your profane
words about Cicero, for I see you are excited. What is the matter?”

“I want you to help me, Mr. Hayes. Will you help me? You have always
been my dear friend, my good friend.”

“Of course I will help you. What is wrong? Speak to me fully.”

“Aunt Raby fainted in the hayfield yesterday.”

“Indeed? It was a warm day; I am truly concerned. Would she like to see
me? Is she better to-day?”

“She is quite well to-day— quite well for the time.”

“My dear Priscilla, what a tragic face! Your Aunt Raby is not the first
woman who has fainted and got out of her faint again and been none the
worse.”

“That is just the point, Mr. Hayes. Aunt Raby has got out of her faint,
but she _is_ the worse.”

Mr. Hayes looked hard into his pupil’s face. There was no beauty in it.
The mouth was wide, the complexion dull, the features irregular. Even
her eyes— and perhaps they were Prissie’s best point— were neither
large nor dark; but an expression now filled those eyes and lingered
round that mouth which made the old rector feel solemn.

He took one of the girl’s thin unformed hands between his own.

“My dear child,” he said, “something weighs on your mind. Tell your old
friend— your almost father— all that is in your heart.”

Thus begged to make a confidence, Priscilla did tell a commonplace, and
yet tragic, story. Aunt Raby was affected with an incurable illness. It
would not kill her soon; she might live for years, but every year she
would grow a little weaker and a little less capable of toil. As long
as she lived the little farm belonged to her, but whenever she died it
would pass to a distant cousin. Whenever Aunt Raby died, Priscilla and
her three sisters would be penniless.

“So I have come to you,” continued Prissie, “to say that I must take
steps at once to enable me to earn money. I must support Hattie and
Rose and Katie whenever Aunt Raby goes. I must earn money as soon as it
is possible for a girl to do so, and I must stop dreaming and thinking
of nothing but books, for perhaps books and I will have little to say
to each other in future.”

“That would be sad,” replied Mr. Hayes, “for that would be taking a
directly opposite direction to the path which Providence clearly
intends you to walk in.”

Priscilla raised her eyes and looked earnestly at the old rector. Then,
clasping her hands tightly together, she said with suppressed passion:

“Why do you encourage me to be selfish, Mr. Hayes?”

“I will not,” he replied, answering her look; “I will listen patiently
to all you have to say. How do you propose to earn bread for yourself
and your sisters?”

“I thought of dressmaking.”

“Um! Did you— make— the gown you have on?”

“Yes,” replied Priscilla, looking down at her ungainly homespun
garment.

The rector rose to his feet and smiled in the most sweet and benevolent
way.

“I am no judge of such matters,” he said, “and I may be wrong. But my
impression is that the style and cut of that dress would scarcely have
a large demand in fashionable quarters.”

“Oh, sir!” Prissie blushed all over. “You know I said I should have to
learn.”

“My dear child,” said Mr. Hayes firmly, “when it becomes a question of
a woman earning her bread, let her turn to that path where promise
lies. There is no promise in the fit of that gown, Prissie. But here—
here there is much.”

He touched her big forehead lightly with his hand.

“You must not give up your books, my dear,” he said, “for,
independently of the pleasure they afford, they will also give you
bread and butter. Go home now and let me think over matters. Come again
to-morrow. I may have important things to say to you.”

From this conversation came the results which, shortly after the
completion of her eighteenth year, made Priscilla an inmate of St.
Benet’s far-famed college for women. Mr. Hayes left no stone unturned
to effect his object. He thought Priscilla could do brilliantly as a
teacher, and he resolved that for this purpose she should have the
advantages which a collegiate life alone could offer to her. He himself
prepared her for her entrance examination, and he and Aunt Raby between
them managed the necessary funds to give the girl a three-years’ life
as a student in these halls of learning.

Prissie knew very little about the money part of the scheme. She only
guessed what had become of Aunt Raby’s watch and chain; and a spasm
crossed her face when one day she happened to see that Aunt Raby’s poor
little jewel case was empty. The jewels and the watch could certainly
not fetch much, but they provided Prissie with a modest little outfit,
and Mr. Hayes had got a grant from a loan society, which further
lightened expenses for all parties.

Priscilla bade her sisters, her aunt and the old rector good-by and
started on her new life with courage.




CHAPTER VI
COLLEGE LIFE


The routine of life at St. Benet’s was something as follows:

The dressing-bell was rung at seven, and all the students were expected
to meet in the chapel for prayers at eight. Nothing was said if they
did not appear; no reproofs were uttered and no inquiries made; but the
good-fellowship between the students and the dons was so apparent in
the three halls that known wishes were always regarded, and, as a rule,
there were few absentees.

The girls went to chapel in their white-straw sailor-hats, simply
trimmed with a broad band of ribbon of the college colors, green with a
narrow stripe of gold. Breakfast immediately followed chapel; tea and
coffee and different cold meats were placed on the side-tables, and the
girls helped themselves to what they pleased.

The great event at breakfast was the post. Each student, when she
entered the breakfast-hall, would make an eager rush to the side-table
where the letters were neatly placed. During breakfast these were read
and chatted over. The whole meal was most informal and seldom lasted
more than a quarter of an hour.

After breakfast the notice-board in the large entrance-hall was visited
and eagerly scanned, for it contained a detailed account of the hours
for the different lectures and the names of the lecturers who would
instruct the students during the day. By the side of the large official
notice-board hung another, which was read with quite as deep interest.
This contained particulars of the meetings of the different clubs and
societies for pleasure or profit got up by the girls themselves.

On the morning after her arrival Priscilla, with the other students,
read the contents of these two boards, and then, in the company of a
fresher nearly as shy as herself, she wandered about the lovely grounds
which surrounded Heath Hall until nine o’clock, when lectures began.

Lectures continued without interruption until lunchtime, a meal which
was taken very much when the girls pleased. The time allowed for this
light midday refreshment was from half-past twelve to two.
The-afternoons were mostly given up to games and gymnastics, although
occasionally there were more lectures, and the more studious of the
girls spent a considerable part of the time studying in their own
rooms.

Tea was the convivial meal of the day. To this the girls invited
outside friends and acquaintances, and, as a rule, they always took it
in their own rooms.

Dinner was at half-past six, and from half-past seven to half-past nine
was usually the time when the different clubs and societies met.

There was a regularity and yet a freedom about the life; invisible
bounds were prescribed, beyond which no right-minded or conscientious
girl cared to venture, but the rules were really very few. Students
might visit their friends in Kingsdene and receive them at the college.
They might entertain them at luncheon or dinner or at tea in their own
rooms at a fixed charge, and provided the friends left at a certain
hour, and the girls themselves asked for leave of absence when they
wished to remain out, and mentioned the place to which they proposed to
go, no questions were asked and no objections offered.

They were expected to return to the college not later than eleven at
night, and one invitation to go out in the week was, as a rule, the
most they ever accepted.

Into this life Priscilla came, fresh from the Devonshire farm and from
all the pursuits and interests which had hitherto formed her world. She
had made a very firm niche for herself in Aunt Raby’s old cottage, and
the dislodgment therefrom caused her for the time such mental disquiet
and so many nervous and queer sensations that her pain was often acute
and her sense of awkwardness considerable.

Priscilla’s best in her early life always seemed but a poor affair, and
she certainly neither looked nor was at her best at first here. After a
few days, however, she fitted into her new grooves, took up the line of
study which she intended to pursue and was quickly absorbed in all the
fascinations which it offered to a nature like hers.

Her purse was restored to her on the morning after her arrival, and
neither Maggie Oliphant nor Nancy Banister ever guessed that she had
overheard some words of theirs on the night of her arrival, and that
these had put bitterness into her heart and nearly destroyed her faith
in her fellow-students. Both Maggie and Nance made several overtures of
kindness to Prissie, but the cold manner which was more or less
habitual to her never thawed, and, after a time, they left her alone.
There is no saying what might have happened to Prissie had she never
overheard this conversation. As it was, however, after the first shock
it gave her courage.

She said to herself:

“I should think very little of myself if I did not despise a girl like
Miss Oliphant. Is it likely I should care to imitate one whom I
despise? There was a brief, dreadful hour when I absolutely pined to
have pretty things in my room as she has in hers; now I can do without
them. My room shall remain bare and unadorned. In this state it will at
least look unique.”

It did. The other students who lived in the same corridor came to visit
Priscilla in the free and easy manner which characterized them and made
remarks the reverse of flattering. When _was_ she going to put her
pictures up? Miss Day would be delighted to help her whenever she chose
to do it. When did she intend to go down to Kingsdene to order her
easy-chairs and little Japanese tables, and rugs, and the other small
but necessary articles which would be required to make her room
habitable?

For several days Priscilla turned these inquiries aside. She blushed,
stammered, looked awkward and spoke of something else. At last,
however, she summoned up courage, and, once for all, delivered herself
from her tormentors. She did that remarkably brave thing which
sometimes very nervous people can brace themselves to do.

It was evening and Miss Day, Miss Marsh and Nancy Banister had all come
in for a few minutes to see Priscilla on their way to their own rooms.

“Do come and cocoa with me to-night, Miss Peel,” said Miss Day. “You’re
so dreadfully unsociable, not a bit like an ordinary St. Benet’s girl.
If you go on in this fashion, you’ll be moped to death before your
first term is over.”

“I am accustomed to a very quiet life,” responded Priscilla, “and I
want to work; I have come here to work.”

“Dear, dear! any one would suppose you were going in for a tripos. If
this were your last term I could understand it— but your first!”

It was Miss Marsh who said these words. She was a bright-eyed,
merry-looking girl, the reverse of over-studious herself.

“Oh, come along, dear; I’ll give you such a delicious cup of cocoa,”
said Miss Day.

She crossed the room and tried to link her hand affectionately in
Prissie’s arm. Miss Peel drew back a step.

“Thank you,” she said, “but I— I— cannot come.”

“I must say you have a blunt way of refusing,” said Miss Day. She felt
inclined to be offended, but Nancy Banister, who was standing by and
had not hitherto spoken, bestowed a quick glance of approval on
Priscilla and then said something soothing to Miss Day.

“May I cocoa with you instead, Annie?” she said. “I am afraid no one
can accuse me of killing myself with work, but we all respect earnest
workers— we must. It is for them St. Benet’s is really meant. It was
endowed for them, and built for them, and we poor drones must not throw
disparaging remarks on the busy bees.”

“Oh, nonsense!” said Miss Marsh; “St. Benet’s was made for sociability
as well as study, and I have no patience with the students who don’t
try to combine the two. By the way,” she added, turning round and
speaking in a rather impertinent voice to Priscilla, “I sent you a
message to say I was going down to Kingsdene this afternoon and would
be happy to take you with me if you would care to visit Spilman’s.”

“Thank you,” said Priscilla, “I got your note just too late to answer
it. I was going to speak to you about it,” she added.

“Then you would have come?”

Priscilla’s face grew very red.

“No, I should not have come.”

It was Miss Marsh’s turn to get red.

“Come! Annie,” she exclaimed, turning to Miss Day, “we had better waste
no more time here. Miss Banister, we’ll see you presently, won’t we?
Good night, Miss Peel. Perhaps you don’t mind my saying something very
frank?”

“I do,” said Priscilla, “but that won’t prevent your saying it, will
it?”

“I don’t think it will. After you have been at St. Benet’s a little
longer you will know that we not only appreciate cleverness and
studious ways, but also obliging and sociable and friendly manners;
and— and— pretty rooms— rooms with easy-chairs, and comfortable
lounges, and the thousand and one things which give one a feeling of
home. Take my advice, Miss Peel, there’s no use fighting against the
tide. You’ll have to do as others do in the long run, and you may as
well do it at once. That is my plain opinion, and I should not have
given it to you if I had not thought you needed it. Good night.”

“No, stop a minute,” said Priscilla. Every scrap of color had left her
face, every trace of nervousness her manner. She walked before the two
girls to the door and closed it. “Please stay just for a minute longer,
Miss Day and Miss Marsh, and you too, Miss Banister, if you will.”

She went across the room again, and, opening the top drawer of her
bureau, took out her purse. Out of the purse she took a key. The key
fitted a small padlock and the padlock belonged to her trunk. She
unlocked her empty trunk and opened it.

“There,” she said, turning to the girls— “there,” she continued, “you
will be good enough to notice that there are no photographs concealed
in this trunk, no pictures, no prints.” She lifted the tray. “Empty,
you see,” she added, pointing with her hand to the lower portion of the
trunk— “nothing here to make my room pretty, and cozy, and home-like.”
Then she shut the trunk again and locked it, and going up to where the
three girls stood, gazing at her in bewilderment and some alarm, she
unfastened her purse and turned all its contents into the palm of her
hand.

“Look, Miss Marsh,” she said, turning to the girl who had spoken last.
“You may count what is here. One sovereign, one half-sovereign, two or
three shillings, some pence. Would this money go far at Spilman’s, do
you think?”

Priscilla put it all slowly back again into her purse. Her face was
still absolutely colorless. She laid the purse on the top of her
bureau.

“I do not suppose,” she said in a low, sad voice, “that I am the sort
of girl who often comes to a place of this sort. I am poor, and I have
got to work hard, and I have no time for pleasure. Nevertheless,” she
added— and now a great wave of color swept over her face, and her eyes
were lit up, and she had a sensation of feeling quite glad, and strong,
and happy— “I am not going away because I am poor, and I am not going
to mind what any one thinks of me as long as I do right. My room must
stay empty and bare, because I have no money to make it full and
beautiful. And do you think that I would ask those— those who sent me
here— to add one feather’s weight to their cares and expenses, to give
me money to buy beautiful things because I am afraid of you? No, I
should be _awfully_ afraid to do that; but I am not afraid of you.”

Priscilla opened the drawer of her bureau and put her little light
purse back again in its hiding-place.

“Good night, Miss Peel,” said Miss Day in a thin, small kind of voice.

“Good night, Miss Peel,” said Miss Marsh. The girls went gently out of
the room. They closed the door behind them, without making any noise.
Nancy Banister remained behind. She came up to Priscilla and kissed
her.

“You are brave,” she said. “I admire you. I— I— am proud of you. I am
glad to know that a girl like you has come to live here.”

“Don’t— don’t,” said poor Prissie. Her little burst of courage had
deserted her. She covered her face with her trembling hands. She did
not want Nancy Banister to see that her eyes were full of tears.




CHAPTER VII
IN MISS OLIPHANT’S ROOM


“My dear,” said Nancy Banister that same evening— “my dear and beloved
Maggie, we have both been guilty of a huge mistake.”

“What is that?” asked Miss Oliphant. She was leaning back in a deep
easy-chair, and Nancy, who did not care for luxurious seats, had
perched herself on a little stool at her feet. Nancy was a small,
nervous-looking person; she had a zealous face and eager, almost too
active movements. Nancy was the soul of bustling good nature, of
brightness and kindness. She often said that Maggie Oliphant’s laziness
rested her.

“What is it?” said Maggie again. “How are we in the wrong, Nance?”

She lifted her dimpled hand as she spoke and contemplated it with a
slow, satisfied sort of smile.

“We have made a mistake about Miss Peel, that is all; she is a very
noble girl.”

“Oh, my dear Nance! Poor little Puritan Prissie! What next?”

“It is all very fine to call her names,” replied Nancy— here she sprang
to her feet— “but _I_ couldn’t do what she did. Do you know that she
absolutely and completely turned the tables on that vulgar Annie Day
and that pushing, silly little Lucy Marsh. I never saw any two look
smaller or poorer than those two when they skedaddled out of her room.
Yes, that’s the word— they skedaddled to the door, both of them,
looking as limp as a cotton dress when it has been worn for a week, and
one almost treading on the other’s heels; and I do not think Prissie
will be worried by them any more.”

“Really, Nancy, you look quite pretty when you are excited! Now, what
did this wonderful Miss Peel do? Did she box the ears of those two
detestable girls? If so, she has my hearty congratulations.”

“More than that, Maggie— that poor, little, meek, awkward, slim
creature absolutely demolished them. Oh! she did it in such a fine,
simple, unworldly sort of way. I only wish you had seen her! They were
twitting her about not going in for all the fun here, and, above
everything, for keeping her room so bare and unattractive. You know she
has been a fortnight here to-day, and she has not got an extra thing—
not one. There isn’t a room in the hall like hers— it’s so bare and
unhomelike. What’s the matter, Maggie?”

“You needn’t go on, Nancy; if it’s about the room, I don’t want to hear
it. You know I can’t— I can’t bear it.”

Maggie’s lips were trembling, her face was white. She shaded her eyes
with her hand.

“Oh, my darling, I am so sorry. I forgot— I really did! There, you must
try and think it was any room. What she did was all the same. Well,
those girls had been twitting her. I expect she’s had a nice fortnight
of it! She turned very white, and at last her blood was up, and she
just gave it to them. She opened her little trunk. I really could have
cried. It was such a poor, pathetic sort of receptacle to be capable of
holding all one’s worldly goods, and she showed it to them— empty! ‘You
see,’ she said, ‘that I have no pictures nor ornaments here!’ Then she
turned the contents of her purse into her hand. I think, Maggie, she
had about thirty shillings in the world, and she asked Lucy Marsh to
count her money, and inquired how many things she thought it would
purchase at Spilman’s. Then, Maggie, Priscilla turned on them. Oh, she
did not look plain then, nor awkward either. Her eyes had such a
splendid good, brave sort of light in them. And she said she had come
here to work, and she meant to work, and her room must stay bare, for
she had no money to make it anything else. ‘But,’ she said, ‘I am not
afraid of you, but I _am_ afraid of hurting those’— whoever ‘those’
are— ‘those’— oh, with such a ring on the word— ‘who have sent me
here!’

“After that the two girls skedaddled; they had had enough of her, and I
expect, Maggie, your little Puritan Prissie will be left in peace in
the future.”

“Don’t call her my little Puritan,” said Maggie. “I have nothing to say
to her.”

Maggie was leaning back again in her chair now; her face was still pale
and her soft eyes looked troubled.

“I wish you wouldn’t tell me heroic stories, Nancy,” she remarked after
a pause. “They make me feel so uncomfortable. If Priscilla Peel is
going to be turned into a sort of heroine, she’ll be much more
unbearable than in her former character.”

“Oh, Maggie, I wish you wouldn’t talk in that reckless way nor pretend
that you hate goodness. You know you adore it— you know you do! You
know you are far and away the most lovable and bewitching, and the— the
very best girl at St. Benet’s.”

“No, dear little Nance, you are quite mistaken. Perhaps I’m bewitching—
I suppose to a certain extent I am, for people always tell me so— but
I’m _not_ lovable and I’m _not_ good. There, my dear, do let us turn
from that uninteresting person— Maggie Oliphant. And so, Nancy, you are
going to worship Priscilla Peel in future?”

“Oh, dear no! that’s not my way. But I’m going to respect her very
much. I think we have both rather shunned her lately, and I _did_ feel
sure at first that you meant to be very kind to her, Maggie.”

Miss Oliphant yawned. It was her way to get over emotion very quickly.
A moment before her face had been all eloquent with feeling; now its
expression was distinctly bored, and her lazy eyes were not even open
to their full extent.

“Perhaps I found her stupid,” she said, “and so for that reason dropped
her. Perhaps I would have continued to be kind if she had reciprocated
attentions, but she did not. I am glad now, very glad, that we are
unlikely to be friends, for, after what you have just told me, I should
probably find her insupportable. Are you going, Nancy?”

“Yes, I promised to have cocoa with Annie Day. I had almost forgotten.
Good night, Maggie.”

Nancy shut the door softly behind her, and Maggie closed her eyes for a
moment with a sigh of relief.

“It’s nice to be alone,” she said softly under her breath, “it’s nice
and yet it isn’t nice. Nancy irritated me dreadfully this evening. I
don’t like stories about good people. I don’t wish to think about good
people. I am determined that I will not allow my thoughts to dwell on
that unpleasant Priscilla Peel, and her pathetic poverty, and her burst
of heroics. It is too trying to hear footsteps in that room. No, I will
not think of that room nor of its inmate. Now, if I could only go to
sleep!”

Maggie curled herself up in her luxurious chair, arranged a soft pillow
under her head and shut her eyes. In this attitude she made a charming
picture: her thick black lashes lay heavily on her pale cheeks; her red
lips were slightly parted; her breathing came quietly. By and by repose
took the place of tension— her face looked as if it were cut out of
marble. The excitement and unrest, which her words had betrayed,
vanished utterly; her features were beautiful, but almost
expressionless.

This lasted for a short time, perhaps ten minutes; then a trivial
circumstance, the falling of a coal in the grate, disturbed the light
slumber of the sleeper. Maggie stirred restlessly and turned her head.
She was not awake, but she was dreaming. A faint rose tint visited each
cheek, and she clenched one hand, then moved it, and laid it over the
other. Presently tears stole from under the black eyelashes and rolled
down her cheeks. She opened her eyes wide; she was awake again;
unutterable regret, remorse, which might never be quieted, filled her
face.

Maggie rose from her chair, and, going across the room, sat down at her
bureau. She turned a shaded lamp, so that the light might fall upon the
pages of a book she was studying, and, pushing her hands through her
thick hair, she began to read a passage from the splendid _Prometheus
Vinctus_ of Æschylus:

“O divine ether, O swift-winged winds!”


She muttered the opening lines to herself, then turning the page began
to translate from the Greek with great ease and fluency:

“O divine ether, and swift-winged winds,
O flowing rivers, and ocean with countless-dimpling smile,
Earth, mother of all, and the all-seeing circle of the sun, to you I
call;
Behold me, and the things that I, a god, suffer at the hands of gods.
Behold the wrongs with which I am worn away, and which I shall suffer
through endless time.
Such is the shameful bondage which the new ruler of the Blessed Ones
has invented for me.
Alas! Alas! I bewail my present and future misery——”


Any one who had seen Maggie in her deep and expressionless sleep but a
few minutes before would have watched her now with a sensation of
surprise. This queer girl was showing another phase of her complex
nature. Her face was no longer lacking in expression, no longer
stricken with sorrow nor harrowed with unavailing regret. A fine fire
filled her eyes; her brow, as she pushed back her hair, showed its
rather massive proportions. Now, intellect and the triumphant delight
of overcoming a mental difficulty reigned supreme in her face. She read
on without interruption for nearly an hour. At the end of that time her
cheeks were burning like two glowing crimson roses.

A knock came at her door; she started and turned round petulantly.

“It’s just my luck,” muttered Maggie. “I’d have got the sense of that
whole magnificent passage in another hour. It was beginning to fill me:
I was getting satisfied— now it’s all over! I’d have had a good night
if that knock hadn’t come— but now— now I am Maggie Oliphant, the most
miserable girl at St. Benet’s, once again.”

The knock was repeated. Miss Oliphant sprang to her feet.

“Come in,” she said in a petulant voice.

The handle of the door was slowly turned, the tapestry curtain moved
forward and a little fair-haired girl, with an infantile expression of
face and looking years younger than her eighteen summers, tripped a few
steps into the room.

“I beg your pardon, Maggie,” she said. “I had not a moment to come
sooner— not one really. That stupid Miss Turner chose to raise the
alarm for the fire brigade. Of course I had to go, and I’ve only just
come back and changed my dress.”

“You ought to be in bed, Rosalind; it’s past eleven o’clock.”

“Oh, as if that mattered! I’ll go in a minute. How cozy you look here.”

“My dear, I am not going to keep you out of your beauty sleep. You can
admire my room another time. If you have a message for me, Rosalind,
let me have it, and then— oh, cruel word, but I must say it, my love—
Go!”

Rosalind Merton had serene baby-blue eyes; they looked up now full at
Maggie. Then her dimpled little hand slid swiftly into the pocket of
her dress, came out again with a quick, little, frightened dart and
deposited a square envelope with some manly writing on it on the
bureau, where Maggie had been studying _Prometheus Vinctus._ The letter
covered the greater portion of the open page. It seemed to Maggie as if
the Greek play had suddenly faded and gone out of sight behind a
curtain.

“There,” said Rosalind, “that’s for you. I was at Kingsdene to-day—
and— I— I said you should have it, and I— I promised that I’d _help_
you, Maggie. I— yes— I promised. I said I would help you, if you’d let
me.”

“Thank you,” replied Miss Oliphant in a lofty tone. The words came out
of her lips with the coldness of ice. “And if I need you— I— promise—
to ask your help. Where did you say you met Mr. Hammond?”

Maggie took up her letter and opened it slowly.

“At Spilman’s. He was buying something for his room. He——” Rosalind
blushed all over her face.

Maggie took her letter out of its envelope. She looked at the first two
or three words, then laid it, open as it was, on the table.

“Thank you, Rosalind,” she said in her usual tone. “It was kind of you
to bring this, certainly; but Mr. Hammond would have done better— yes,
undoubtedly better— had he sent his letter by post. There would have
been no mystery about it then, and I should have received it at least
two hours ago. Thank you, Rosalind, all the same— good night.”

Rosalind Merton stepped demurely out of the room. In the corridor,
however, a change come over her small childish face. Her blue eyes
became full of angry flame and she clenched her baby hand and shook it
in the direction of the closed door.

“Oh, Maggie Oliphant, what a deceiver you are!” she murmured. “You
think that I’m a baby and notice nothing, but I’m on the alert now, and
I’ll watch— and watch. I don’t love you any longer, Maggie Oliphant.
Who loves being snubbed? Oh, of course, you pretend you don’t care
about that letter! But I know you _do_ care; and I’ll get hold of all
your secrets before many weeks are over, see if I don’t!”




CHAPTER VIII
THE KINDEST AND MOST COMFORTING WAY


Maggie was once more alone. She stood quite still for nearly half a
minute in the center of her room. Her hands were clasped tightly
together. The expression of her face and her attitude showed such
intense feeling as to be almost theatrical. This was no acting,
however; it was Maggie’s nature to throw herself into attitudes before
spectators or alone. She required some vent for all her passionate
excitement, and what her girl friends called Miss Oliphant’s poses may
have afforded her a certain measure of relief.

After standing still for these few seconds, she ran to the door and
drew the bolt; then, sinking down once more in her easy-chair, she took
up the letter which Rosalind Merton had brought her and began to read
the contents. Four sides of a sheet of paper were covered with small,
close writing, the neat somewhat cramped hand which at that time
characterized the men of St. Hilda’s College.

Maggie’s eyes seemed to fly over the writing; they absorbed the sense,
they took the full meaning out of each word. At last all was known to
her, burnt in, indeed, upon her brain.

She crushed the letter suddenly in one of her hands, then raised it to
her lips and kissed it; then fiercely, as though she hated it, tossed
it into the fire. After this she sat quiet, her hands folded meekly,
her head slightly bent. The color gradually left her cheeks. She looked
dead tired and languid. After a time she arose, and, walking very
slowly across her room, sat down by her bureau and drew a sheet of
paper before her. As she did so her eyes fell for a moment on the Greek
play which had fascinated her an hour ago. She found herself again
murmuring some lines from _Prometheus Vinctus:_

“O divine ether, and swift-winged winds——”


She interrupted herself with a petulant movement.

“Folly!” she murmured, pushing the book aside. “Even glorious, great
thoughts like those don’t satisfy me. Whoever supposed they would? What
was I given a heart for? Why does it beat so fiercely, and long, and
love? and why is it wrong— wrong of me to love? Oh, Annabel Lee! oh,
darling! if only your wretched Maggie Oliphant had never known you!”

Maggie dashed some heavy tears from her eyes. Then, taking up her pen,
she began to write.

“HEATH HALL,
“ST. BENET’S.


“DEAR MR. HAMMMOND: I should prefer that you did not in future give
letters for me to any of my friends here. I do not wish to receive them
through the medium of any of my fellow-students. Please understand
this. When you have anything to say to me, you can write in the
ordinary course of post. I am not ashamed of any slight correspondence
we may have together; but I refuse to countenance, or to be in any
sense a party to, what may even seem underhand.
    “I shall try to be at the Marshalls’ on Sunday afternoon, but I
    have nothing to say in reply to your letter. My views are
    unalterable.


“Yours sincerely,
“MARGARET OLIPHANT.”


Maggie did not read the letter after she had written it. She put it
into an envelope and directed it. Here was a large and bold hand and
the address was swiftly written

“GEOFFREY HAMMOND, ESQ.,
    “St. Hilda’s,
        “Kingsdene.”


She stamped her letter and, late as it was, took it down herself and
deposited it in the post-bag.

The next morning, when the students strolled in to breakfast, many
pairs of eyes were raised with a new curiosity to watch Priscilla Peel.
Even Maggie, as she drank her coffee and munched a piece of dry toast,
for she was a very poor eater, could not help flashing a keen and
interested glance at the young girl as she came into the room.

Prissie was the reverse of fashionable in her attire; her neat brown
cashmere dress had been made by Aunt Raby. The hemming, the stitching,
the gathering, the frilling which went to make up this useful garment
were neat, were even exquisite; but then, Aunt Raby was not gifted with
a stylish cut. Prissie’s hair was smoothly parted, but the thick plait
on the back of the neck was by no means artistically coiled.

The girl’s plain, pale face was not set off by the severity of her
toilet; there was no touch of spring or brightness anywhere, no look or
note which should belong to one so young, unless it was the extreme
thinness of her figure.

The curious eyes of the students were raised when she appeared and one
or two laughed and turned their heads away. They had heard of her
exploit of the night before. Miss Day and Miss Marsh had repeated this
good story. It had impressed them at the time, but they did not tell it
to others in an impressive way, and the girls, who had not seen
Prissie, but had only heard the tale, spoke of her to one another as an
“insufferable little prig.”

“Isn’t it too absurd,” said Rosalind Merton, sidling up to Maggie and
casting some disdainful glances at poor Priscilla, “the conceit of some
people! Of all forms of conceit, preserve me from the priggish style.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Maggie, raising her eyes and speaking in
her lazy voice. “Are there any prigs about? I don’t see them. Oh, Miss
Peel”— she jumped up hastily— “won’t you sit here by me? I have been
reserving this place for you, for I have been so anxious to know if you
would do me a kindness. Please sit down, and I’ll tell you what it is.
You needn’t wait, Rosalind. What I have got to say is for Miss Peel’s
ears.”

Rosalind retired in dudgeon to the other end of the room, and, if the
laughing and muttering continued, they now only reached Maggie and
Priscilla in the form of very distant murmurs.

“How pale you look,” said Maggie, turning to the girl, “and how cold
you are! Yes, I am quite sure you are bitterly cold. Now you shall have
a good breakfast. Let me help you. Please do. I’ll go to the side-table
and bring you something so tempting; wait and see.”

“You mustn’t trouble really,” began Prissie.

Miss Oliphant flashed a brilliant smile at her. Prissie found her words
arrested, and, in spite of herself, her coldness began to thaw. Maggie
ran over to the side-table and Priscilla kept repeating under her
breath:

“She’s not true— she’s beautiful, but she’s false; she has the kindest,
sweetest, most comforting way in the world, but she only does it for
the sake of an aesthetic pleasure. I ought not to let her. I ought not
to speak to her. I ought to go away, and have nothing to do with her
proffers of goodwill, and yet somehow or other I can’t resist her.”

Maggie came back with some delicately carved chicken and ham and a hot
cup of delicious coffee.

“Is not this nice?” she said. “Now eat it all up and speak to me
afterward. Oh, how dreadfully cold you do look!”

“I feel cold— in spirit as well as physically,” retorted Priscilla.

“Well, let breakfast warm you— and— and— a small dose of the tonic of
sympathy, if I may dare to offer it.”

Priscilla turned her eyes full upon Miss Oliphant.

“Do you mean it?” she said in a choked kind of voice. “Is that quite
true what you said just now?”

“True? What a queer child! Of course it is true. What do you take me
for? Why should not I sympathize with you?”

“I want you to,” said Prissie. Tears filled her eyes; she turned her
head away. Maggie gave her hand a squeeze.

“Now eat your breakfast,” she said. “I shall glance through my letters
while you are busy.”

She leaned back in her chair and opened several envelopes. Priscilla
ate her chicken and ham, drank her coffee and felt the benefit of the
double tonic which had been administered in so timely a fashion. It was
one of Miss Oliphant’s peculiarities to inspire in those she wanted to
fascinate absolute and almost unreasoning faith for the time being.
Doubts would and might return in her absence, but in the sunshine of
her particularly genial manner they found it hard to live.

After breakfast the girls were leaving the room together when Miss
Heath, the principal of the hall in which they resided, came into the
room. She was a tall, stately woman of about thirty-five and had seen
very little of Priscilla since her arrival, but now she stopped to give
both girls a special greeting. Her manners were very frank and
pleasant.

“My dear,” she said to Prissie, “I have been anxious to cultivate your
acquaintance. Will you come and have tea with me in my room this
afternoon? And, Maggie, dear, will you come with Miss Peel?”

She laid her hand on Maggie’s shoulder as she spoke, looked swiftly
into the young girl’s face, then turned with a glance of great interest
to Priscilla.

“You will both come,” she said. “That is right. I won’t ask any one
else. We shall have a cozy time together, and Miss Peel can tell me all
about her studies, and aims, and ambitions.”

“Thank you,” said Maggie, “I’ll answer for Miss Peel. We’ll both come;
we shall be delighted.”

Miss Heath nodded to the pair and walked swiftly down the long hall to
the dons’ special entrance, where she disappeared.

“Is not she charming?” whispered Maggie. “Did I not tell you you would
fall in love with Dorothea?”

“But I have not,” said Priscilla, coloring. “And I don’t know whether
she is charming or not.”

Maggie checked a petulant exclamation which was rising to her lips. She
was conscious of a curious desire to win her queer young companion’s
goodwill and sympathy.

“Never mind,” she said, “the moment of victory is only delayed. You
will tell a very different story after you have had tea with Dorothea
this evening. Now, let us come and look at the notice-boards and see
what the day’s program is. By the way, are you going to attend any
lectures this morning?”

“Yes, two,” said Prissie— “one on Middle History, from eleven to
twelve, and I have a French lecture afterward.”

“Well, I am not doing anything this morning. I wish you were not. We
might have taken a long walk together. Don’t you love long walks?”

“Oh, yes; but there is no time for anything of that sort here— nor——”
Priscilla hesitated. “I don’t think there’s space for a very long walk
here,” she added. The color rushed into her cheeks as she spoke and her
eyes looked wistful.

Maggie laughed.

“What _are_ your ideas in regard to space, Miss Peel? The whole of
Kingsdeneshire lies before us. We are untrammeled and can go where we
please. Is not that a sufficiently broad area for our roamings?”

“But there is no sea,” said Priscilla. “We should never have time to
walk from here to the sea, and nothing— nothing else seems worth
while.”

“Oh, you have lived by the sea?”

“Yes, all my life. When I was a little girl, my home was near Whitby,
in Yorkshire, and lately I have lived close to Lyme— two extreme points
of England, you will say; but no matter, the sea is the same. To walk
for miles on the top of the cliffs, that means exercise.”

“Ah,” said Maggie with a sigh, “I understand you— I know what you
mean.”

She spoke quickly, as she always did under the least touch of
excitement. “Such a walk means more than exercise; it means thought,
aspiration. Your brain seems to expand then and ideas come. Of course
you don’t care for poor flat Kingsdeneshire.”

Priscilla turned and stared at Miss Oliphant. Maggie laughed; she
raised her hand to her forehead.

“I must not talk any more,” she said, turning pale and shrinking into
herself. “Forgive my rhapsodies. You’ll understand what they are worth
when you know me better. Oh, by the way, will you come with me to
Kingsdene on Sunday? We can go to the three o’clock service at the
chapel and afterward have tea with some friends of mine— the Marshalls—
they’d be delighted to see you.”

“What chapel is the service at?” inquired Priscilla.

“What chapel? Is there a second? Come with me, and you will never ask
that question again. Get under the shade of St. Hilda’s— see once those
fretted roofs and those painted windows. Listen but once to that angel
choir, and then dare to ask me what chapel I mean when I invite you to
come and taste of heaven beforehand.”

“Thank you,” said Priscilla, “I’ll come. I cannot be expected to know
about things before I have heard of them, can I? But I am very much
obliged to you, and I shall be delighted to come.”




CHAPTER IX
A NEW LIFE


The vice-principal’s room at Heath Hall was double the size of those
occupied by the students. Miss Heath had, of course, a separate
sleeping apartment. Her delightful sitting-room, therefore, had not the
curtained-off effect which took slightly from the charm of the
students’ rooms. In summer Miss Heath’s room was beautiful, for the two
deep bay windows— one facing west, the other south— looked out upon
smoothly kept lawns and flower-beds, upon tall elm trees and also upon
a distant peep of the river, for which Kingsdene was famous, and some
of the spires and towers of the old churches. In winter, too, however—
and winter had almost come now— the vice-principal’s room had a unique
effect, and Priscilla never forgot the first time she saw it. The young
girl stepped across the threshold of a new life on this first evening.
She would always remember it.

It was getting dark, and curtains were drawn round the cozy bays, and
the firelight blazed cheerfully.

Prissie was a little before rather than behind her time, and there was
no one in the room to greet her when she entered. She felt so
overmastered by shyness, however, that this was almost a relief, and
she sank down into one of the many comfortable chairs with a feeling of
thankfulness and looked around her.

The next moment a servant entered with a lamp, covered with a gold silk
shade. She placed it on a table near the fire, and lit a few candles,
which stood on carved brackets round the walls. Then Prissie saw what
made her forget Miss Heath and her shyness and all else— a great bank
of flowers, which stretched across one complete angle of the room.
There were some roses, some chrysanthemums, some geraniums. They were
cunningly arranged in pots, but had the effect at a little distance of
a gay, tropical garden. Prissie rushed to them, knelt down by a tall,
white Japanese chrysanthemum and buried her face in its long, wavy
petals.

Prissie had never seen such flowers, and she loved all flowers. Her
heart swelled with a kind of wonder; and when, the next moment, she
felt a light and very soft kiss on her forehead she was scarcely
surprised.

“My dear child,” said Miss Heath, “I am so sorry I was not in the room
when you came in; but never mind, my flowers gave you welcome.”

“Yes,” said Prissie, standing up pale and with a luminous light in her
eyes.

“You love flowers?” said Miss Heath, giving her a keen glance.

“Oh, yes; but I did not know— I could not guess— that any flower could
be as beautiful as this,” and she touched the great white chrysanthemum
with her finger.

“Yes, and there are some flowers even more wonderful. Have you ever
seen orchids?”

“No.”

“Then you have something to live for. Orchids are ordinary flowers
spiritualized. They have a glamor over them. We have good orchid shows
sometimes at Kingsdene. I will take you to the next.”

The servant brought in tea, and Miss Heath placed Prissie in a
comfortable chair, where she was neither oppressed by lamplight nor
firelight.

“A shy little soul like this will love the shade,” she said to herself.
“For all her plainness this is no ordinary girl, and I mean to draw her
out presently. What a brow she has, and what a light came into her eyes
when she looked at my white chrysanthemum.”

There came a tap at the door, and Maggie Oliphant entered, looking
fresh and bright. She gave Prissie an affectionate glance and nod and
then began to busy herself, helping Miss Heath with the tea. During the
meal a little pleasant murmur of conversation was kept up. Miss Heath
and Maggie exchanged ideas. They even entered upon one or two delicate
little skirmishes, each cleverly arguing a slight point on which they
appeared to differ. Maggie could make smart repartees, and Miss Heath
could parry her graceful young adversary’s home thrusts with excellent
effect.

They talked of one or two books which were then under discussion; they
said a little about music and a word or two with regard to the pictures
which were just then causing talk among the art critics in London. It
was all new to Prissie, this “light, airy, nothing” kind of talk. It
was not study; could it be classed under the head of recreation?

Prissie was accustomed to classify everything, but she did not know
under what head to put this pleasant conversation. She was bewildered,
puzzled. She listened without losing a word. She forgot herself
absolutely.

Miss Heath, however, who knew Maggie Oliphant, but did not know
Prissie, was observant of the silent young stranger through all the
delights of her pleasant talk. Almost imperceptibly she got Prissie to
say a word or two. She paused when she saw a question in Prissie’s
eyes, and her timid and gentle words were listened to with deference.
By slow degrees Maggie was the silent one and Priscilla and Miss Heath
held the field between them.

“No, I have never been properly educated,” Prissie was saying. “I have
never gone to a high school. I don’t do things in the regular fashion.
I was so afraid I should not be able to pass the entrance examination
for St. Benet’s. I was delighted when I found that I had done so.”

“You passed the examination creditably,” said Miss Heath. “I have
looked through your papers. Your answers were not stereotyped. They
were much better; they were thoughtful. Whoever has educated you, you
have been well taught. You can think.”

“Oh, yes, my dear friend, Mr. Hayes, always said that was the first
thing.”

“Ah, that accounts for it,” replied Miss Heath. “You have had the
advantage of listening to a cultivated man’s conversation. You ought to
do very well here. What do you mean to take up?”

“Oh, everything. I can’t know too much.”

Miss Heath laughed and looked at Maggie. Maggie was lying back in her
easy-chair, her head resting luxuriously against a dark velvet cushion.
She was tapping the floor slightly with her small foot; her eyes were
fixed on Prissie. When Miss Heath laughed Maggie echoed the sound, but
both laughs were in the sweetest sympathy.

“You must not overwork yourself, my dear,” said Miss Heath. “That would
be a very false beginning. I think— I am sure— that you have an earnest
and ardent nature, but you must avoid an extreme which will only end in
disaster.”

Prissie frowned.

“What do you mean?” she said. “I have come here to study. It has been
done with such, such difficulty. It would be cruel to waste a moment. I
mustn’t; it wouldn’t be right. You can’t mean what you say.”

Miss Heath was silent. She thought it kinder to look away from Prissie.
After a moment she said in a voice which she on purpose made intensely
quiet and matter of fact:

“Many girls come to St. Benet’s, Miss Peel, who are, I fancy,
circumstanced like you. Their friends find it difficult to send them
here, but they make the sacrifice, sometimes in one way, sometimes in
another— and the girls come. They know it is their duty to study; they
have an ulterior motive, which underlies everything else. They know by
and by they must pay back.”

“Oh, yes,” said Priscilla, starting forward and a flush coming into her
face. “I know that— that is what it is for. To pay back worthily— to
give back a thousandfold what you have received. Those girls can’t be
idle, can they?” she added in a gentle, piteous sort of way.

“My dear, there have been several such girls at St. Benet’s, and none
of them has been idle; they have been best and first among our
students. Many of them have done more than well— many of them have
brought fame to St. Benet’s. They are in the world now and earning
honorable livelihoods as teachers or in other departments where
cultivated women can alone take the field. These girls are all paying
back a thousandfold those who have helped them.”

“Yes,” said Prissie.

“You would like to follow their example?”

“Oh, yes; please tell me about them.”

“Some of them were like you and thought they would take up everything—
everything I mean in the scholastic line. They filled their days with
lectures and studied into the short hours of the night. Maggie, dear,
please tell Miss Peel about Good-night and Good-morning.”

“They were such a funny pair,” said Maggie. “They had rooms next to
each other in our corridor, Miss Peel. They were both studying for a
tripos, and during the term before the examination one went to bed at
four and one got up at four. Mary Joliffe used to go into Susan
Martin’s room and say good morning to her. Susan used to raise such a
white face and say, ‘Good night, my dear.’ Well, poor things, neither
of them got a tripos; they worked too hard.”

“The simple English of all this,” said Miss Heath, “is that the
successful girl here is the girl who takes advantage of the whole life
mapped out for her, who divides her time between play and work, who
joins the clubs and enters heartily into the social life of the place.
Yes,” she added, looking suddenly full at Priscilla, “these last words
of mine may seem strange to you, dear. Believe me, however, they are
true. But I know,” she added with a sigh, “that it takes rather an old
person to believe in the education of _play.”_

Priscilla looked unconvinced.

“I must do what you wish,” she said, “for, of course, you ought to
know.”

“What a lame kind of assent, my love! Maggie, you will have to gently
lure this young person into the paths of frivolity. I promise you, my
dear, that you shall be a very cultivated woman some day; but I only
promise this if you will take advantage of all sides of the pleasant
life here. Now tell me what are your particular tastes? What branch of
study do you like best?”

“I love Latin and Greek better than anything else in the world.”

“Do you truly?” said Maggie, suddenly starting forward. “Then in one
thing we have a great sympathy. What have you read? Do tell me.”

Miss Heath stepped directly into the background. The two girls
conversed for a long time together.




CHAPTER X
ST. HILDA’S CHAPEL


“Here we are now,” said Maggie Oliphant, touching her young companion;
“we are in good time; this is the outer chapel. Yes, I know all that
you are thinking, but you need not speak; I did not want to speak the
first time I came to St. Hilda’s. Just follow me quickly. I know this
verger; he will put us into two stalls; then it will be perfect.”

“Yes,” answered Priscilla. She spoke in an awed kind of voice. The cool
effect of the dark oak, combined with the richness of the many shafts
of colored light coming from the magnificent windows, gave her own face
a curious expression. Was it caused by emotion or by the strange lights
in the chapel?

Maggie glanced at her, touched her hand for a moment and then hurried
forward to her seat.

The girls were accommodated with stalls just above the choir. They
could read out of the college prayer-books and had a fine view of the
church.

The congregation streamed in, the choir followed; the doors between the
chapel and ante-chapel were shut, the curtains were dropped and the
service began.

There is no better musical service in England than that which Sunday
after Sunday is conducted at St. Hilda’s Chapel at Kingsdene. The
harmony and the richness of the sounds which fill that old chapel can
scarcely be surpassed. The boys send up notes clear and sweet as
nightingales into the fretted arches of the roof; the men’s deeper
notes swell the music until it breaks on the ears in a full tide of
perfect harmony; the great organ fills in the breaks and pauses. This
splendid service of song seems to reach perfection. In its way earth
cannot give anything more perfect.

Maggie Oliphant did not come very often to St. Hilda’s. At one time she
was a constant worshiper there, but that was a year ago, before
something happened which changed her. Then Sunday after Sunday two
lovely girls used to walk up the aisle side by side. The verger knew
them and reserved their favorite stalls for them. They used to kneel
together and listen to the service, and, what is more, take part in it.

But a time came when one of the girls could never return to St. Hilda’s
and the other, people said, did not care to sit in the old seat without
her. They said she missed her friend and was more cut up than any one
else at the sudden death of one so fair and lovely.

When Maggie took her place in the old stall to-day more than one person
turned to look at her with interest.

Maggie always made a picturesque effect; she wore a large hat, with a
drooping plume of feathers; her dress was very rich and dark; her fair
face shone in the midst of these surroundings like an exquisite flower.

The service went on. During the prayers Maggie wept, but, when a great
wave of song filled the vast building, she forgot all her sorrow; her
voice rose with the other singers, clear, sweet and high. Her soul
seemed to go up on her voice, for all the sadness left her face; her
eyes looked jubilant.

Prissie had never been in any place like St. Hilda’s before. It had
been one of her dreams to go to the cathedral at Exeter, but year after
year this desire of hers had been put off and put off, and this was the
first time in her life that she had ever listened to cathedral music.
She was impressed, delighted, but not overpowered.

“The organ is magnificent,” she said to herself, “but not grander than
the sea. The sea accompanies all the service at the dear little old
church at home.”

People met and talked to one another in the green quadrangle outside
the chapel. Several other St. Benet girls had come to the afternoon
service. Among them was Miss Day and that fair, innocent-looking little
girl, Rosalind Merton.

Miss Day and Miss Merton were together. They were both stepping back to
join Maggie and Prissie, when a tall, dark young man came hastily
forward, bowed to Rosalind Merton, and, coming up to Maggie Oliphant,
shook hands with her.

“I saw you in chapel,” he said. “Are you coming to the Marshall’s to
tea?”

“I am. Let me introduce to you my friend, Miss Peel. Miss Peel, this is
Mr. Hammond.”

Hammond raised his hat to Prissie, said a courteous word to her and
then turned to speak again to Maggie.

The three walked through the gates of the quadrangle and turned up the
narrow, picturesque High Street. It would soon be dusk; a wintry light
was over everything. Rosalind Merton and Miss Day followed behind.
Maggie, who was always absorbed with the present interest, did not heed
or notice them, but Priscilla heard one or two ill-bred giggles.

She turned her head with indignation and received scornful glances from
both girls. The four met for a moment at a certain corner. Maggie said
something to Annie Day and introduced Mr. Hammond to her. As she did
so, Rosalind took the opportunity to come up to Priscilla and whisper
to her:

“You’re not wanted, you know. You had much better come home with us.”

“What do you mean?” replied Prissie in her matter-of-fact voice. “Miss
Oliphant has asked me to go with her to the Marshalls’.”

“Oh, well— if you care to be in the——” resumed Rosalind.

Maggie suddenly flashed round on her.

“Come, Miss Peel, we’ll be late,” she said. “Goodby.” She nodded to
Rosalind; her eyes were full of an angry fire; she took Prissie’s hand
and hurried down the street.

The two girls walked away, still giggling; a deep color mantled
Maggie’s cheeks. She turned and began to talk desperately to Mr.
Hammond. Her tone was flippant; her silvery laughter floated in the
air. Priscilla turned and gazed at her friend. She was seeing Maggie in
yet another aspect. She felt bewildered.

The three presently reached a pleasant house standing in its own
grounds. They were shown into a large drawing-room, full of young
people. Mrs. Marshall, a pretty old lady, with white hair, came forward
to receive them. Maggie was swept away amid fervent embraces and
handshakes to the other end of the room. Mrs. Marshall saw that
Priscilla looked frightened; she took her under her wing, sat down by
her on a sofa and began to talk.

Prissie answered in a sedate voice. Mrs. Marshall had a very gentle
manner. Prissie began to lose her shyness; she almost imagined that she
was back again with Aunt Raby.

“My dear, you will like us all very much,” the old lady said. “No life
can be so absolutely delightful as that of a girl graduate at St.
Benet’s. The freedom from care, the mixture of study with play, the
pleasant social life, all combine to make young women both healthy and
wise. Ah, my love, we leave out the middle of the old proverb. The
girls at St. Benet’s are in that happy period of existence when they
need give no thought to money-making.”

“Some are,” said Prissie. She sighed and the color rushed into her
cheeks. Mrs. Marshall looked at her affectionately.

“Helen,” she called to her granddaughter who was standing near, “bring
Miss Peel another cup of tea— and some cake, Helen— some of that nice
cake you made yesterday. Now, my love, I insist. You don’t look at all
strong. You really must eat plenty.”

Helen Marshall supplied Prissie’s wants, was introduced to her, and,
standing near, joined in the talk.

“I am so glad you know Miss Oliphant,” said Mrs. Marshall. “She will
make a delightful friend for you.”

“And isn’t she lovely?” said Helen Marshall. “I don’t think I know any
one with such a beautiful face. You ought to be very proud to have her
as a friend. Aren’t you very proud?”

“No,” said Prissie, “I don’t know that I am. I am not even sure that
she is my friend.”

“Of course she is— she wrote most affectionately of you to grandmother.
You can’t think how nicely she spoke. We were glad, we were delighted,
because Maggie— dear Maggie— has had no great friends lately. Now, if
you have had your tea, Miss Peel, I’ll take you about the room and
introduce you to one or two people.”

Priscilla rose from her seat at once, and the two girls began to move
about the crowded drawing-room. Helen Marshall was very slight and
graceful; she piloted Prissie here and there without disturbing any
one’s arrangements. At last the two girls found themselves in an
immense conservatory, which opened into the drawing-room at one end.

A great many of the guests were strolling about here. Priscilla’s eyes
sparkled at the sight of the lovely flowers. She forgot herself and
made eager exclamations of ecstasy. Helen, who up to now had thought
her a dull sort of girl, began to take an interest in her.

“I’ll take you into our fern-house, which is just beyond here,” she
said. “We have got such exquisite maidenhairs and such a splendid
Killarney fern. Come; you shall see.”

The fern-house seemed to be deserted. Helen opened the door first and
ran forward. Prissie followed. The fern-house was not large; they had
almost reached the end when a girl stood up suddenly and confronted
them. The girl was Maggie Oliphant. She was sitting there alone. Her
face was absolutely colorless and tears were lying wet on her
eyelashes.

Maggie made a swift remark, a passing jest, and hurried past the two
into the conservatory.

Priscilla could scarcely tell why, but at that moment she lost all
interest in both ferns and flowers. The look of misery on Maggie’s face
seemed to strike her own heart like a chill.

“You look tired,” said Helen Marshall, who had not noticed Maggie’s
tearful eyes.

“Perhaps I am,” answered Prissie.

They went back again into the drawing-room. Prissie still could see
nothing but Miss Oliphant’s eyes and the look of distress on her pale
face.

Helen suddenly made a remark.

“Was there ever such a merry creature as Maggie?” she said. “Do look at
her now.”

Prissie raised her eyes. Miss Oliphant was the center of a gay group,
among whom Geoffrey Hammond stood. Her laugh rang out clear and joyous;
her smile was like sunshine, her cheeks had roses in them and her eyes
were as bright as stars.




CHAPTER XI
CONSPIRATORS


Annie Day and her friend Rosalind ceased to laugh as soon as they
turned the corner. Annie now turned her eyes and fixed them on
Rosalind, who blushed and looked uncomfortable.

“Well,” said Annie, “you are a humbug, Rose! What a story you told me
about Mr. Hammond— how he looked at you and was so anxious to make use
of you. Oh, you know all you said. You told me a charming story about
your position as gooseberry.’ You expected a little fun for yourself,
didn’t you, my friend? Well, it seems to me that if any one 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 pleasure. We usedn’t 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 among 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
any one 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
rumor but for the tragedy which immediately followed. Annabel, who had
been as gay and well as any one 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 afterward 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 the
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. Any one 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 around 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 recognized
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 XII
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 every one 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 color.

Prissie, standing miserable and forgotten by the tall, handsome girl’s
side, could see the light in her eyes and the glow on her cheeks 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 vigor.

“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 color 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 learned 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 chamelon has colors. 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 fervor.

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 XIII
CAUGHT IN A TRAP


College life is school life over again, but with wide differences. The
restraints which characterize the existence of a schoolgirl are
scarcely felt at all by the girl graduates. 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 ardor 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, toward 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 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 notebook, 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 am 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?”

“Yes,” answered Priscilla, just glancing at it. “But what connection
has that with my doing anything for you?”

“Oh, a great deal; I’m coming to that part. Miss Forbes wants me to pay
her for making this dress before she goes to London. I can only do this
by going to Kingsdene this afternoon.”

“Well?” said Priscilla.

“I want to know if you will come with me. Miss Heath does not like our
going to the town alone, particularly at this time of year, when the
evenings are so short. Will you come with me, Miss Peel? It will be
awfully good-natured of you, and I really do want poor Miss Forbes to
have her money before she goes to London.”

“But cannot some of your own friends go with you?” returned Priscilla.
“I don’t wish to refuse, of course, if it is necessary; but I want to
work up my Greek notes this afternoon. The next lecture is a very stiff
one, and I sha’n’t he ready for it without some hard work.”

“Oh, but you can study when you come back. _Do_ come with me. I would
not ask you, only I know you are so good-natured, and Annie Day and
Lucy Marsh have both to attend lectures this afternoon. I have no one
to ask— no one, really if you refuse. I have not half so many friends
as you think, and it would be quite too dreadful for poor Miss Forbes
not to have her money when she wants to spend it on her sick mother.”

Priscilla hesitated for a moment. Two or three other girls were walking
down the corridor to the lecture-room; the door was flung open.

“Very well,” she said as she entered the room, followed by Rosalind, “I
will go with you. At what hour do you want to start?”

“At three o’clock. I’m awfully grateful. A thousand thanks, Miss Peel.”

Prissie nodded, seated herself at the lecture-table and in the interest
of the work which lay before her soon forgot all about Rosalind and her
troubles.

The afternoon of that day turned out not only foggy but wet. A
drizzling rain shrouded the landscape, and very few girls from St.
Benet’s were venturing abroad.

At half-past two Nancy Banister came hastily into Priscilla’s room.

“Maggie and I are going down to the library,” she said, “to have a cozy
read by the fire; we want you to come with us. Why, surely you are
never going out, Miss Peel?”

“Yes, I am,” answered Prissie in a resigned voice. “I don’t like it a
bit, but Miss Merton has asked me to go with her to Kingsdene, and I
promised.”

“Well, you sha’n’t keep your promise. This is not a fit day for you to
go out, and you have a cough, too. I heard you coughing last night.”

“Yes, but that is nothing. I must go, Miss Banister,”, I must keep my
word. I dare say it won’t take Miss Merton and me very long to walk
into Kingsdene and back again.”

“And I never knew that Rosalind Merton was one of your friends,
Prissie,” continued Nancy in a puzzled voice.

“Nor is she— I scarcely know her; but when she asked me to go out with
her, I could not very well say no.”

“I suppose not; but I am sorry, all the same, for it is not a fit day
for any one to be abroad, and Rosalind is such a giddy pate. Well, come
back as soon as you can. Maggie and I are going to have a jolly time,
and we only wish you were with us.”

Nancy nodded brightly and took her leave, and Priscilla, putting on her
waterproof and her shabbiest hat, went down into the hall to meet
Rosalind.

Rosalind was also in waterproof, but her hat was extremely pretty and
becoming, and Priscilla fancied she got a glimpse of a gay silk dress
under the waterproof cloak.

“Oh, how quite too sweet of you to be ready!” said Rosalind with
effusion. She took Prissie’s hand and squeezed it affectionately, and
the two girls set off.

The walk was a dreary one, for Kingsdene, one of the most beautiful
places in England in fine weather, lies so low that in the winter
months fogs are frequent, and the rain is almost incessant, so that
then the atmosphere is always damp and chilly. By the time the two
girls had got into the High Street Prissie’s thick, sensible boots were
covered with mud and Rosalind’s thin ones felt very damp to her feet.

They soon reached the quarter where the dressmaker, Miss Forbes, lived.
Prissie was asked to wait downstairs, and Rosalind ran up several
flights of stairs to fulfil her mission. She came back at the end of a
few minutes, looking bright and radiant.

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Peel,” she said, “but my
boots were so muddy that Miss Forbes insisted on polishing them up for
me.”

“Well, we can go home now, I suppose?” said Prissie.

“Ye— es; only as we _are_ here, would you greatly mind our going round
by Bouverie Street? I want to inquire for a friend of mine, Mrs.
Elliot-Smith. She has not been well.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” said Priscilla. “Will it take us much out of our
way?”

“No, only a step or two. Come, we have just to turn this corner, and
here we are. What a dear— quite too good-natured girl you are, Miss
Peel!”

Prissie said nothing. The two started forth again in the drizzling mist
and fog, and presently found themselves in one of the most fashionable
streets of Kingsdene and standing before a ponderous hall-door, which
stood back in a portico.

Rosalind rang the bell, which made a loud peal. The door was opened
almost immediately; but, instead of a servant appearing in answer to
the summons, a showily dressed girl, with a tousled head of flaxen
hair, light blue eyes and a pale face, stood before Rosalind and
Prissie.

“Oh, you dear Rose!” she said, clasping her arms round Miss Merton and
dragging her into the house; “I had almost given you up. Do come in— do
come in, both of you. You are more than welcome. What a miserable,
horrid, too utterly depressing afternoon it is!”

“How do you do, Meta?” said Rosalind, when she could interrupt this
eager flow of words. “May I introduce my friend, Miss Peel? Miss Peel,
this is my very great and special friend and chum, Meta Elliot-Smith.”

“Oh, you charming darling!” said Meta, giving Rose a fresh hug and
glancing in a supercilious but friendly way at Prissie.

“We came to inquire for your mother, dear Meta,” said Rose in a demure
tone. “Is she any better?”

“Yes, my dear darling, she’s much better.” Meta’s eyes flashed
interrogation into Rose’s: Rose’s returned back glances which spoke
whole volumes of meaning.

“Look here,” said Meta Elliot-Smith, “now that you two dear, precious
girls have come, you mustn’t go away. Oh, no, I couldn’t hear of it. I
have perfect oceans to say to you, Rose— and it is absolutely centuries
since we have met. Off with your waterproof and up you come to the
drawing-room for a cup of tea. One or two friends are dropping in
presently, and the Beechers and one or two more are upstairs now. You
know the Beechers, don’t you, Rosalind? Here, Miss Peel, let me help
you to unburden yourself. Little Rose is so nimble in her ways that she
doesn’t need any assistance.”

“Oh, but indeed I can’t stay,” said Prissie. “It is quite impossible!
You know, Miss Merton, it is impossible. We are due at St. Benet’s now.
We ought to be going back at once.”

Rosalind Merton’s only answer was to slip off her waterproof cloak and
stand arrayed in a fascinating toilet of silk and lace— a little too
dressy, perhaps, even for an afternoon party at Kingsdene, but vastly
becoming to its small wearer.

Priscilla opened her eyes wide as she gazed at her companion. She saw
at once that she had been entrapped into her present false position,
and that Rosalind’s real object in coming to Kingsdene was not to pay
her dressmaker but to visit the Elliot-Smiths.

“I can’t possible stay,” she said in a cold, angry voice. “I must go
back to St. Benet’s at once.”

She began to button up her waterproof as fast as Miss Elliot-Smith was
unbuttoning it.

“Nonsense, you silly old dear!” said Rosalind, who, having gained her
way, was now in the best of spirits. “You mustn’t listen to her, Meta;
she studies a great deal too hard, and a little relaxation will do her
all the good in the world. My dear Miss Peel, you can’t be so rude as
to refuse a cup of tea, and I know I shall catch an awful cold if I
don’t have one. Do come upstairs for half an hour; _do,_ there’s a dear
Prissie!”

Priscilla hesitated. She had no knowledge of so-called “society.” Her
instincts told her it was very wrong to humor Rose. She disliked Miss
Elliot-Smith and felt wild at the trick which had been played on her.
Nevertheless, on an occasion of this kind, she was no match for Rose,
who knew perfectly what she was about, and stood smiling and pretty
before her.

“Just for a few moments,” said Rosalind, coming up and whispering to
her. “I really won’t keep you long. You _will_ just oblige me for a few
minutes.”

“Well, but I’m not fit to be seen in this old dress!” whispered back
poor Prissie.

“Oh, yes, you are; you’re not bad at all, and I am sure Meta will find
you a secluded corner if you want it— won’t you, Meta?”

“Yes, of course, if Miss Peel wants it,” answered Meta. “But she looks
all right, so deliciously quaint— I simply _adore_ quaint people! Quite
the sweet girl graduate, I do declare. You don’t at all answer to the
_role,_ you naughty Rosalind!”

So Prissie, in her ill-made brown dress, her shabbiest hat and her
muddy boots, had to follow in the wake of Rosalind Merton and her
friend. At first she had been too angry to think much about her attire,
but she was painfully conscious of it when she entered a crowded
drawing-room, where every one else was in a suitable afternoon toilet.
She was glad to shrink away out of sight into the most remote corner
she could find; her muddy boots were pushed far in under her chair and
hidden as much as possible by her rather short dress; her cheeks burnt
unbecomingly; she felt miserable, self-conscious, ill at ease and very
cross with every one. It was in vain for poor Priscilla to whisper to
herself that Greek and Latin were glorious and great and dress and
fashion were things of no moment whatever. At this instant she knew all
too well that dress and fashion were reigning supreme.

Meta Elliot-Smith was elusive, loud and vulgar, but she was also
good-natured. She admired Rosalind, but in her heart of hearts she
thought that her friend had played Prissie a very shabby trick. She
brought Prissie some tea, therefore, and stood for a moment or two by
her side, trying to make things a little more comfortable for her. Some
one soon claimed her attention, however, and poor Prissie found herself
alone.




CHAPTER XIV
IN THE ELLIOT-SMITH’S DRAWING-ROOM


The fun and talk rose fast and furious. More and more guests arrived;
the large drawing-rooms were soon almost as full as they could hold.
Priscilla, from her corner, half-hidden by a sheltering window curtain,
looked in vain for Rosalind. Where had she hidden herself? When were
they going away? Surely Rosalind would come to fetch her soon? They had
to walk home and be ready for dinner.

Dinner at St. Benet’s was at half-past six, and Prissie reflected with
a great sensation of thankfulness that Rosalind and she must go back in
good time for this meal, as it was one of the rules of the college that
no girl should absent herself from late dinner without getting
permission from the principal.

Prissie looked in agony at the clock which stood on a mantel-piece not
far from where she had ensconced herself. Presently it struck five; no
one heard its silver note in the babel of sound, but Priscilla watched
its slowly moving hands in an agony.

Rose must come to fetch her presently. Prissie knew— she reflected to
her horror that she had not the moral courage to walk about those
drawing-rooms hunting for Rose.

Two or three exquisitely dressed but frivolous-looking women stood in a
group not far from the window where Priscilla sat forlorn. They talked
about the cut of their mantles and the price they had given for their
new winter bonnets. Their shrill laughter reached Prissie’s ears, also
their words. They complimented one another, but talked scandal of their
neighbors. They called somebody— who Prissie could not imagine—“a
certain lady,” and spoke of how she was angling to get a footing in
society, and how the good set at Kingsdene would certainly never have
anything to do with her or hers.

“She’s taking up those wretched girl graduates,” said one of these
gossips to her neighbor. Then her eye fell upon Prissie. She said
“Hush!” in an audible tone, and the little party moved away out of
earshot.

The minute hand of the clock on the mantel-piece pointed to nearly
half-past five. Poor Prissie felt her miseries grow almost intolerable.
Tears of mortification and anguish were forcing themselves to her eyes.
She felt that, in addition to having lost so many hours of study, she
would get into a serious scrape at St. Benet’s for breaking one of the
known rules of the college.

At this moment a quiet voice said, “How do you do?”

She raised her tearful eyes. Geoffrey Hammond was standing by her side.
He gave her a kind glance, shook hands with her and stood by her window
uttering commonplaces until Priscilla had recovered her
self-possession. Then, dropping into a chair near, he said abruptly:

“I saw you from the other end of the room. I was surprised. I did not
suppose you knew our hostess.”

“Nor do I really,” said Priscilla with sudden vehemence. “Oh, it’s a
shame!” she added, her face reddening up woefully; “I have been
entrapped!”

“You must not let the people who are near us hear you say words of that
kind,” said Hammond; “they will crowd around to hear your story. Now, I
want it all to myself. Do you think you can tell it to me in a low
voice?”

To poor Hammond’s horror Prissie began to whisper.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, interrupting her, “but do you know that
the buzzing noise caused by a whisper carries sound a long way? That is
a well authenticated fact. Now, if you will try to speak low.”

“Oh, thank you; yes, I will,” said Prissie. She began a garbled
account. Hammond looked at her face and guessed the truth. The miseries
of her present position were depriving the poor girl of the full use of
her intellect. At last he ascertained that Priscilla’s all-absorbing
present anxiety was to be in time for the half-past six dinner at St.
Benet’s.

“I know we’ll be late,” she said, “and I’ll have broken the rules, and
Miss Heath will be so much annoyed with me.”

Hammond volunteered to look for Miss Merton.

“Oh, thank you,” said Prissie, the tears springing to her eyes. “How
very, very kind you are.”

“Please don’t speak of it,” said Hammond. “Stay where you are. I’ll
soon bring the young truant to your side.”

He began to move about the drawing-rooms, and Prissie from her
hiding-place watched him with a world of gratitude in her face. “Talk
of my stirring from this corner,” she said to herself, “why, I feel
glued to the spot! Oh, my awful muddy boots. I daren’t even think of
them. Now I do hope Mr. Hammond will find Miss Merton quickly. How kind
he is! I wonder Maggie does not care for him as much as he cares for
her. I do not feel half as shy with him as I do with every one else in
this dreadful— dreadful room. Oh, I do trust he’ll soon come back and
bring Miss Merton with him. Then, if we run all the way, we may,
perhaps, be in time for dinner.”

Hammond was absent about ten minutes; they seemed like so many hours to
anxious Prissie. To her horror she saw him returning alone, and now she
so far forgot her muddy boots as to run two or three steps to meet him.
She knocked over a footstool as she did so, and one or two people
looked round and shrugged their shoulders at the poor _gauche_ girl.

“Where is she?” exclaimed Prissie, again speaking in a loud voice. “Oh,
haven’t you brought her? What shall I do?”

“It’s all right, I assure you, Miss Peel. Let me conduct you back to
that snug seat in the window. I have seen Miss Merton, and she says you
are to make yourself happy. She asked Miss Heath’s permission for you
both to be absent from dinner to-day.”

“She did? I never heard of anything so outrageous. _I_ won’t stay. I
shall go away at once.”

“Had you not better just think calmly over it? If you return to St.
Benet’s without Miss Merton, you will get her into a scrape.”

“Do you think I care for that? Oh, she has behaved disgracefully! She
has told Miss Heath a lie. I shall explain matters the very moment I go
back.”

Priscilla was not often in a passion, but she felt in one now. She lost
her shyness and her voice rose without constraint.

“I am not supposed to know the ways of society,” she said, “but I don’t
think I want to know much about this sort of society.” And she got up,
prepared to leave the room.

The ladies, who had been gossiping at her side, turned at the sound of
her agitation. They saw a plain, badly dressed girl, with a frock
conveniently short for the muddy streets, but by no means in tone with
her present elegant surroundings, standing up and contradicting, or at
least appearing to contradict, Geoffrey Hammond, one of the best known
men at St. Hilda’s, a Senior Wrangler, too. What did this _gauche_ girl
mean? Most people were deferential to Hammond, but she seemed to be
scolding him.

Prissie for the time being became more interesting even than the winter
fashions. The ladies drew a step or two nearer to enjoy the little
comedy.

Priscilla noticed no one, but Hammond felt these good ladies in the
air. His cheeks burned and he wished himself well out of his present
position.

“If you will sit down, Miss Peel,” he said in a low, firm voice, “I
think I can give you good reasons for not rushing away in this headlong
fashion.”

“Well, what are they?” said Prissie. Hammond’s voice had a sufficiently
compelling power to make her sit down once more on her window-ledge.

“Don’t you think,” he said, seating himself in front of her, “that we
may as well keep this discussion to ourselves?”

“Oh, yes; was I speaking too loud? I wouldn’t vex _you_ for anything.”

“Pardon me; you are still speaking a little loud.”

“Oh!” Poor Prissie fell back, her face crimson. “Please say anything
you wish,” she presently piped in a voice as low as a little mouse
might have used.

“What I have to say is simply this,” said Hammond: “You will gain
nothing now by rushing off to St. Benet’s. However hard you struggle,
you cannot get there in time for dinner. Would it not be best, then, to
remain here quietly until Miss Merton asks you to accompany her back to
the college? Then, of course, it will remain with you to pay her out in
any way you think well.”

“Thank you; perhaps that is best. It is quite hopeless now to think of
getting back in time for dinner. I only hope Miss Merton won’t keep me
waiting very long, for it is very, very dull sitting here and seeing
people staring at you.”

“I would not look at them if I were you, Miss Peel; and, if you will
permit me, I shall be only too pleased to keep you company.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Prissie. “Then I sha’n’t mind staying at all.”

The next half-hour seemed to pass on the wings of the wind.

Priscilla was engaged in an animated discussion with Hammond on the
relative attractions of the “Iliad” and the “Odyssey;” her opinion
differed from his, and she was well able to hold her ground. Her face
was now both eloquent and attractive, her eyes were bright, her words
terse and epigrammatic. She looked so different a girl from the cowed
and miserable little Prissie of an hour ago that Rosalind Merton as she
came up and tapped her on the shoulder, felt a pang of envy.

“I am sorry to interrupt you,” she said, “but it is time for us to be
going home. Have you given Mr. Hammond his message?”

“What do you mean?” asked Priscilla. “I have not any message for Mr.
Hammond.”

“You must have forgotten. Did not Miss Oliphant give you a letter for
him?”

“Certainly not. What do you mean?”

“I felt sure I saw her,” said Rosalind. “I suppose I was mistaken.
Well, sorry as I am to interrupt a pleasant talk, I fear I must ask you
to come home with me now.”

She raised her pretty baby eyes to Hammond’s face as she spoke. He
absolutely scowled down at her, shook hands warmly with Priscilla and
turned away.

“Come and bid Mrs. Elliot-Smith good-by,” said Rosalind, her eyes still
dancing. “She is at the other end of the drawing-room; come, you can
follow me.”

“How disgracefully you have behaved, Miss Merton!” began Priscilla at
once. “You cannot expect me ever to speak to you again, and I shall
certainly tell Miss Heath.”

They were walking across the crowded drawing-room now. Rosalind turned
and let her laughing eyes look full at Prissie.

“My dear Miss Peel, pray reserve any little scolding you intend to
bestow upon me until we get out into the street, and please do not
tread upon my dress!”




CHAPTER XV
POLLY SINGLETON


Miss Day was having quite a large party for cocoa in her room. She had
invited not only her own chosen friends from Heath Hall, but also two
or three congenial spirits from Katharine Hall. Five or six
merry-looking girls were now assembled in her room. Miss Day’s room was
one of the largest in the college; it was showily furnished, with an
intention to produce a Japanese effect. Several paper lanterns hung
from the ceiling and were suspended to wire supports, which were
fastened to different articles of furniture.

In honor of Miss Day’s cocoa, the lanterns were all lit now, and the
effect, on fans and pictures and on brilliant bits of color, were
grotesque and almost _bizarre._

Miss Day thought her room lovely. It was dazzling, but the reverse of
reposeful.

The girls were lounging about, chatting and laughing; they were having
a good time and were absolutely at their ease. One, a red-haired girl,
with frank, open blue eyes and a freckled face, an inmate of Katharine
Hall, was sending her companions into fits of laughter.

“Yes,” she was saying in a high, gay voice, “I’m not a bit ashamed of
it; there’s never the least use in not owning the truth. I’m used up,
girls: I haven’t a pennypiece to bless myself with, and this letter
came from Spilman to-night. Spilman says he’ll see Miss Eccleston if I
didn’t pay up. Madame Clarice wrote two nights ago, declaring _her_
intention of visiting Miss Eccleston if I didn’t send her some money. I
shall have no money until next term. There’s a state of affairs!”

“What do you mean to do, Polly?” asked Lucy Marsh in a sympathizing
tone.

“Do? My dear creature, there’s only one thing to be done. I must have
an auction on the quiet. I shall sell my worldly all. I can buy things
again, you know, after dad sends me his next allowance.”

“Oh, Polly, but you cannot really mean it!” Miss Marsh, Miss Day and
two or three more crowded around Polly Singleton as they spoke.

“You can’t mean to have an auction,” began Miss Day; “no one ever heard
of such a thing at St. Benet’s. Why, it would be simply disgraceful!”

“No, it wouldn’t— don’t turn cross, Annie. I’ll have an auction first
and then a great feed in the empty room. I can go on tick for the feed;
Jones, the confectioner, knows better than not to oblige me. He’s not
like that horrid Spilman and that mean Madame Clarice.”

“But, Polly, if you write to your father, he’ll be sure to send you
what you want to clear off those two debts. You have often told us he
has lots of money.”

“My dears, he has more tin than he knows what to do with; but do you
think I am going to have the poor old dear worried? When I was coming
here he said, Polly, you shall have thirty pounds every term to spend
as pocket money; not a penny more, not a penny less. And you must keep
out of debt on it; mind that, Polly Singleton.’ I gave the dear old dad
a hug. He’s the image of me— only with redder hair and more freckles.
And I said, I’ll do my best, dad, and, anyhow, you sha’n’t be put out
whatever happens.’”

“Then you didn’t tell him you’d keep out of debt?”

“No, for I knew I’d break my word. I’ve always been in debt ever since
I could remember. I wouldn’t know how it felt not to owe a lot of
money. It’s habit, and I don’t mind it a bit. But I don’t want dad to
know, and I don’t want Miss Eccleston to know, for perhaps she would
write to him. If those old horrors won’t wait for their money till next
term, why there’s nothing for it but an auction. I have some nice
things and they’ll go very cheap, so there’s a chance for you all,
girls.”

“But if Miss Eccleston finds out?” said Miss Day.

“What if she does? There’s no rule against auctions, and, as I don’t
suppose any of you will have one, it isn’t worth making a rule for me
alone. Anyhow, I’m resolved to risk it. My auction will be on Monday,
and I shall make out an inventory of my goods tomorrow.”

“Will you advertise it on the notice-board in your hall, dear?” asked
Lucy Marsh.

“Why not? A good idea! _The great A. will be held in Miss Singleton’s
room, from eight to ten o’clock on the evening of Monday next. Great
Bargains! Enormous Sacrifice! Things absolutely given away!_ Oh, what
fun! I’ll be my own auctioneer.”

Polly lay back in her armchair and laughed loudly.

“What is all this noise about?” asked a refined little voice, and
Rosalind Merton entered the room.

Two or three girls jumped up at once to greet her.

“Come in, Rosie; you’re just in time. What _do_ you think Miss
Singleton is going to do now?”

“I can’t tell; what?” asked Rosalind. “Something _outre’,_ I feel
certain.”

Polly made a wry face and winked her eyes at her companions.

“I know I’m not refined enough for you, Miss Merton,” she drawled. “I’m
rough, like my dad, rough and ready; but, at any rate, I’m honest— at
least, I think I’m honest. When I owe money, I don’t leave a stone
unturned to pay what I owe. Having sinned, I repent. I enter the Valley
of Humiliation and give up all. Who can do more?”

“Oh, dear, Polly, I don’t think I’d call owing a little money sinning,”
said Lucy Marsh, whose ideas were known to be somewhat lax.

“Well, my dear, there’s nothing for those in debt but to sell their
possessions. My auction is on Monday. Will you come, Rosalind?”

“You don’t mean it,” said Rose, her blue eyes beginning to sparkle.

“Yes, I do, absolutely and truly mean it.”

“And you will sell your things— your lovely things?”

“My things, my lovely, lovely things must be sold.”

“But not your clothes? Your new sealskin jacket, for instance?”

Polly made a wry face for a moment. Putting her hand into her pocket,
she pulled out Spilman’s and Madame Clarice’s two bills.

“I owe a lot,” she said, looking with a rueful countenance at the sum
total. “Yes, I even fear the sealskin must go. I don’t want to part
with it. Dad gave it me just before I came here.”

“It’s a lovely seal,” said Annie Day, “and it seems a sin to part with
it; it’s cut in the most stylish way too, with those high shoulders.”

“Don’t praise it, please,” said Polly, lying back in her chair and
covering her eyes with her hand. “It cuts like a knife to part with
dad’s last present. Well, I’m rightly punished. What a fool I was to
get all those Japanese things from Spilman and that fancy ball-dress
for the theatricals. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!”

“Perhaps you won’t want to part with your seal, dear,” said Lucy, who
was not so greedy as some of the other girls and really pitied Polly.
“You have so many beautiful things without that, that you will be sure
to realize a good bit of money.”

“No, Lucy, I owe such a lot; the seal must go. Oh, what a worry it is!”

“And at auctions of this kind,” said Rosalind in her low voice, “even
beautiful things don’t realize much. How can they?”

“Rosalind is after that seal,” whispered Lucy to Annie Day.

“The seal would swallow you up, Rosie,” said Annie in a loud voice.
“Don’t aspire to it; you’d never come out alive.”

“The seal can be brought to know good manners,” retorted Rose angrily.
“His size can be diminished and his strength abated. But I have not
said that I want him at all. You do so jump to conclusions, Miss Day.”

“I know what I want,” said a girl called Hetty Jones who had not yet
spoken. “I’m going in for some of Polly’s ornaments. You won’t put too
big a price upon your corals, will you, Poll?”

“I shall bid for your American rocking-chair, Polly,” exclaimed Miss
Day.

“I tell you what you must do, Miss Singleton,” shouted another girl,
“you must get those inventories ready as soon as possible, and send
them around the college for every one to read, for you have got such
nice things that there will be sure to be a great rush at your
auction.”

“Don’t sell any of the college possessions by mistake, my dear,” said
Lucy Marsh. “You would get into trouble then. Indeed, as it is, I don’t
see how you are to keep out of it.”

Polly pushed her hands impatiently through her bright red hair.

“Who’s afraid?” she said, and laughed.

“When are we to see your things, Polly?” asked Miss Jones. “If the
auction is on Monday, there must be a show day, when we can all go
round and inspect. I know that’s always done at auctions, for I’ve been
at several in the country. The show day is the best fun of all. The
farmers’ wives come and pinch the feather-beds between their thumbs and
forefingers and hold the blankets up to the light to see if the moths
have got in.”

“Hetty, how vulgar!” interposed Miss Day. “What has Polly’s auction of
her _recherche’_ things to do with blankets and feather-beds? Now the
cocoa is ready. Who will help me to carry the cups round?”

“I had some fun to-day?” said Rosalind, when each of the girls,
provided with their cups of cocoa, sat round and began to sip. “I took
Miss Propriety to town with me.”

“Oh, did you, darling? Do tell us all about it!” said Annie Day,
running up to Rosalind and taking her hand.

“There isn’t much to tell. She behaved as I expected; her manners are
not graceful, but she’s a deep one.”

“Anybody can see that who looks at her,” remarked Lucy Marsh.

“We went to the Elliot-Smiths’,” continued Rosalind.

“Good gracious, Rosie!” interrupted Hetty Jones. “You don’t mean to say
you took Propriety to _that_ house?”

“Yes; why not? It’s the jolliest house in Kingsdene.”

“But fancy taking poor Propriety there. What did she say?”

“Say? She scolded a good deal.”

“Scolded! Poor little proper thing! How I should have liked to have
seen her. Did she open her purse and exhibit its emptiness to the
company at large? Did she stand on a chair and lecture the frivolous
people who assemble in that house on the emptiness of life? Oh, how I
wish I could have looked on at the fun!”

“You’d have beheld an edifying sight then, my dear,” said Rosalind.
“Prissie’s whole behavior was one to be copied. No words can describe
her tact and grace.”

“But what did she do, Rosie? I wish you would speak out and tell us.
You know you are keeping something back.”

“Whenever she saw me she scolded me, and she tripped over my dress
several times.”

“Oh, you dear, good, patient Rosalind, what a bore she must have been.”

“No, she wasn’t, for I scarcely saw anything of her. She amused herself
capitally without me, I can tell you.”

“Amused herself? Propriety amused herself? How diverting! Could she
stoop to it?”

“She did. She stooped and— conquered. She secured for herself an
adorer.”

“Rosalind, how absurd you are! Poor, Plain Propriety!”

“As long as I live I shall hate the letter P,” suddenly interrupted
Annie Day, “for since that disagreeable girl has got into the house we
are always using it.”

“Never mind, Rosalind; go on with your story,” said Miss Jones. “What
did Plain Propriety do?”

Rosalind threw up her hands, rolled her eyes skyward and uttered the
terse remark:

“She flirted!”

“Oh, Rosie! who would flirt with her? I suppose she got hold of some
old rusty, musty don. But then I do not suppose you’d find that sort of
man at the Elliot-Smiths’.”

This remark came from Lucy Marsh. Rosalind Merton, who was leaning her
fair head against a dark velvet cushion, looked as if she enjoyed the
situation immensely.

“What do you say to a Senior Wrangler?” she asked in a gentle voice.

“Rosalind, what— not _the_ Senior Wrangler?”

Rosalind nodded.

“Oh! oh! oh! what could he see— Geoffrey Hammond, of all people! He’s
so exclusive too.”

“Well,” said Hetty Jones, standing up reluctantly, for she felt it was
time to return to her neglected studies, “wonders will never cease! I
could not have supposed that Mr. Hammond would condescend to go near
the Elliot-Smiths’, and most certainly I should never have guessed that
he would look at a girl like Priscilla Peel.”

“Well, he flirted with her,” said Rosalind, “and she with him. They
were so delighted with one another that I could scarcely get Prissie
away when it was time to leave. They looked quite engrossed— you know
the kind of air— there was no mistaking it!”

“Miss Peel must have thanked you for taking her.”

“Thanked me? That’s not Miss Prissie’s style. I could see she was
awfully vexed at being disturbed.”

“Well, it’s rather shabby,” said Polly Singleton, speaking for the
first time. “Every one at St. Benet’s know whom Mr. Hammond belongs.”

“Yes, yes, of course, of course,” cried several voices.

“And Maggie has been so kind to Miss Peel,” continued Polly.

“Yes— shame!— how mean of little Propriety!” the voices echoed again.

Rosalind gave a meaning glance at Annie Day. Annie raised her eyebrows,
looked interrogative, then her face subsided into a satisfied
expression. She asked no further questions, but she gave Rosalind an
affectionate pat on the shoulder.

Soon the other girls came up one by one to say good night. Rosalind,
Annie and Lucy were alone. They drew their chairs together and began to
talk.




CHAPTER XVI
PRETTY LITTLE ROSALIND


“I have done it now,” said Rosalind; “the estrangement will come about
naturally. Propriety won’t head a party at this college, for she will
not have Miss Oliphant’s support. My dear girls, we need do nothing
further. The friendship we regretted is at an end.”

“Did you take Priscilla Peel to the Elliot-Smiths’ on purpose, then?”
asked Miss Day.

“I took her there for my own purposes,” replied Rosalind. “I wanted to
go. I could not go alone, as it is against our precious rules. It was
not convenient for any of my own special friends to come with me, so I
thought I’d play Prissie a nice little trick. Oh, wasn’t she angry! My
dear girls, it was as good as a play to watch her face.”

Rosalind lay back in her chair and laughed heartily. Her laughter was
as melodious as the sound of silver bells.

“Well,” said Miss Marsh after a pause, “I wish you would stop laughing
and go on with your story, Rose.”

Rosalind resumed her grave deportment.

“That’s all,” she said; “there’s nothing more to tell.”

“Did you know, then, that Mr. Hammond would be there?”

“No, I had not the least idea that piece of luck would fall in my way.
Meta managed that for me most delightfully. You know, girls, how
earnestly the poor dear Elliot-Smiths aspire, and how vain are their
efforts, to get into what we are pleased to call the ‘good set’ here.
It isn’t their fault, poor things, for, though they really have no
talent nor the smallest literary desires, they would give their eyes to
be ‘hail-fellows-well-met’ with some of our intellectual giants. Well,
Meta got to know Mr. Hammond at a tennis party in the summer, and when
she met him last week she asked him to come to her house to-day. She
told me she was dying to have him, of course, but when she asked him
she could see by his face and manner that he was searching his brains
for an excuse to get out of it. All of a sudden it flashed into her
head to say, ‘Some of our friends from St. Benet’s will be present.’
The moment she said this he changed and got very polite and said he
would certainly look in for a little while. Poor Meta was so delighted!
You can fancy her chagrin when he devoted himself all the time to
Prissie.”

“He thought he’d meet Maggie Oliphant,” said Annie Day; “it was a shame
to lure him on with a falsehood. I don’t wonder at people not
respecting the Elliot-Smiths.”

“My dear,” responded Rosalind, “Meta did not tell a lie. I never could
have guessed that you were straight-laced, Annie.”

“Nor am I,” responded Annie with a sigh, which she quickly suppressed.

“The whole thing fitted in admirably with our wishes,” continued Rose,
“and now we need not do anything further in the matter. Rumor, in the
shape of Hetty Jones’ tongue and Polly Singleton’s hints, will do the
rest for us.”

“Do you really think that Maggie Oliphant cares for Mr. Hammond?” asked
Lucy Marsh.

“Cares for him!” said Rosalind. “Does a duck swim? Does a baby like
sweet things? Maggie is so much in love with Mr. Hammond that she’s
almost ill about it— there!”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed the other two girls.

“She is, I know she is. She treats him shamefully, because of some whim
of hers. I only wish she may never get him.”

“He’d do nicely for you, wouldn’t he, Rose?” said Annie Day.

A delicate pink came into Rosalind’s cheeks. She rose to leave the
room.

“Mr. Hammond is not in my style,” she said. “Much too severe and too
learned. Good night, girls. I must look over the notes of that wretched
French lecture before I go to bed.”

Rosalind sought her own room, which was in another corridor. It was
late now— past eleven o’clock. The electric light had been put out. She
was well supplied with candles, however, and lighting two on the
mantel-piece and two on her bureau, she proceeded to stir up her fire
and to make her room warm and cozy.

Rosalind still wore the pretty light silk which had given her such an
elegant appearance at the Elliot-Smiths’ that afternoon. Securing the
bolt of her door, she pushed aside a heavy curtain, which concealed the
part of her room devoted to her wardrobe, washing apparatus, etc.
Rosalind’s wardrobe had a glass door, and she could see her _petite_
figure in it from head to foot. It was a very small figure, but
exquisitely proportioned. Its owner admired it much. She turned herself
round, took up a hand-glass and surveyed herself in profile and many
other positions. Then, taking off her pretty dress, she arrayed herself
in a long white muslin dressing-robe, and letting down her golden hair,
combed out the glittering masses. They fell in showers below her waist.
Her face looked more babyish and innocent than ever as it smiled to its
own fair image in the glass.

“How he did scowl at me!” said Rosalind, suddenly speaking aloud. “But
I had to say it. I was determined to find out for myself how much or
how little he cares for Maggie Oliphant, and, alas! there’s nothing of
the ‘little’ in his affection. Well, well! I did not do badly to-day. I
enjoyed myself and I took a nice rise out of that disagreeable Miss
Peel. Now _must_ I look through those horrid French notes? Need I?” She
pirouetted on one toe in front of the glass. The motion exhilarated
her, and, raising her white wrapper so as to get a peep at her small,
pretty feet, she waltzed slowly and gracefully in front of the mirror.

“I can’t and won’t study to-night,” she said again.

“I hate study, and I will not spoil my looks by burning the midnight
oil.”

Suddenly she clasped her hands and the color rushed into her cheeks.

“How fortunate that I remembered! I must write to mother this very
night. This is Thursday. The auction is on Monday. I have not a post to
lose.”

Hastily seating herself in front of her bureau, Rosalind scribbled a
few lines:

DEAREST, PRECIOUS MAMSIE:
Whatever happens, please send me a postal order for £10 by return. One
of the richest girls in the place is going to have an auction, and I
shall pick up some _treasures._ If you could spare £15, or even £20,
the money would be well spent, but ten at least I must have. There is a
sealskin jacket, which cost at least eighty pounds, and _such_ coral
ornaments— you know, that lovely pink shade. Send me all you can,
precious mamsie, and make your Baby happy.


“Your own little ROSE.


“P. S.— Oh, mamsie, _such_ a sealskin! and _such_ coral!”


This artless epistle was quickly enclosed in an envelope, addressed and
deposited in the post-box. Afterward pretty little Rosalind spent a
night of dreamless slumber and awoke in the morning as fresh and
innocent-looking as the fairest of the babies she compared herself to.




CHAPTER XVII
SEALSKIN AND PINK CORAL


Monday arrived. It wanted now less than three weeks to the end of the
term. A good many of the girls were talking about home and Christmas,
and already the hard-worked, the studious, the industrious were owning
to the first symptoms of that pleasant fatigue which would entitle them
to the full enjoyment of their merited holiday.

Priscilla was now a happy girl. She had found her niche in the college;
her work was delightful. Under Maggie’s advice she became a member of
the Debating Society and rather reluctantly allowed her name to be
entered in the Dramatic Club. She felt very shy about this, but that
was because she did not know her own power. To her astonishment,
Priscilla found that she could act. If the part suited her she could
throw herself into it so that she ceased to be awkward, ungainly
Priscilla Peel. Out of herself she was no longer awkward, no longer
ungainly. She could only personate certain characters; light and airy
parts she could not attempt, but where much depended on passion and
emotion Priscilla could do splendidly. Every day her friends found
fresh points of interest in this queer girl. Nancy Banister was really
attached to her, Maggie was most faithful in her declared friendship
and Miss Heath took more notice of Priscilla than of any other girl in
the hall. The different lecturers spoke highly of Miss Peel’s
comprehension, knowledge and ability. In short, things were going well
with her, and she owned to her own heart that she had never felt
happier in her life.

Prissie, too, was looking forward to the Christmas holidays. She was to
return home then, and her letters to her three little sisters, to Aunt
Raby and to Mr. Hayes were full of the delights of her college life.

No one could have been more angry than poor Prissie during that
miserable time at the Elliot-Smiths’. Many complaints did she resolve
to make, and dire was the vengeance which she hoped would fall on
Rose’s devoted head. But, during her talk with Mr. Hammond, some of her
anger had cooled down. He had touched on great subjects, and Prissie’s
soul had responded like a musical instrument to the light and skilled
finger of the musician. All her intellectual powers were aroused to
their utmost, keenest life during this brief little talk. She found
that Hammond could say better and more comprehensive things than even
her dear old tutor, Mr. Hayes. Hammond was abreast of the present-day
aspect of those things in which Prissie delighted. Her short talk with
him made up for all the tedium of the rest of that wretched afternoon.

On her walk home Priscilla made up her mind to have nothing further to
say to Rose, but also not to make a complaint about her. She would pass
the matter over in silence. If questioned, she would tell her own
friends where she had been; if not questioned, she would volunteer no
information.

Maggie and Nancy did ask her casually what had kept her out so long.

“I was at the Elliot-Smiths’ with Miss Merton,” replied Priscilla.

They both started when she said this and looked at her hard. They were
too well-bred, however, to give utterance to the many comments which
crowded to their lips. Prissie read their thoughts like a book.

“I did not like it at all,” she said; “but I’d rather say nothing about
it, please. After Mr. Hammond came I was happy.”

“Mr. Hammond was there?” said Nancy in an eager voice. “Geoffrey
Hammond was at the Elliot-Smiths’? Impossible!”

“He was there,” repeated Prissie. She glanced nervously at Maggie, who
had taken up a book and was pretending to read. “He came and he spoke
to me. He was very, very kind, and he made me so happy.”

“Dear Prissie,” said Maggie suddenly. She got up, went over to the
young girl, tapped her affectionately on the shoulder and left the
room.

Prissie sat, looking thoughtfully before her. After a time she bade
Nancy Banister “good night” and went off to her own room to study the
notes she had taken that morning at the French lecture.

The next few days passed without anything special occurring. If a
little rumor were already beginning to swell in the air, it scarcely
reached the ears of those principally concerned. Maggie Oliphant
continued to make a special favorite of Miss Peel. She sat near her at
breakfast and at the meetings of the Dramatic Society was particularly
anxious to secure a good part for Prissie. The members of the society
intended to act _The Princess_ before the end of the term, and as there
was a great deal to work up and many rehearsals were necessary, they
met in the little theater on most evenings.

Maggie Oliphant had been unanimously selected to take the part of the
Princess. She electrified every one by drawing Miss Peel toward her and
saying in an emphatic voice:

“You must be the Prince, Priscilla.”

A look of dismay crept over several faces. One or two made different
proposals.

“Would not Nancy Banister take the part better, Maggie?” said Miss
Claydon, a tall, graceful girl, who was to be Psyche.

“No; Nancy is to be Cyril. She sings well and can do the part
admirably. Miss Peel must be the Prince: I will have no other lover.
What do you say, Miss Peel?”

“I cannot; it is impossible,” almost whispered Prissie.

“‘Cannot’ is a word which must not be listened to in our Dramatic
Society,” responded Maggie. “I promise to turn you out a most
accomplished Prince, my friend; no one shall be disappointed in you.
Girls, do you leave this matter in my hands? Do you leave the Prince to
me?”

“We cannot refuse you the privilege of choosing your own Prince,
Princess,” said Miss Claydon with a graceful curtsy.

The others assented, but unwillingly. Miss Oliphant was known to be
more full of whims than any one else in the college. Her extraordinary
and sudden friendship for Prissie was regarded as her latest caprice.

Rosalind Merton was not a particularly good actress, but her face was
too pretty not to be called into requisition. She was to take the part
of Melissa.

The society had a grand meeting on the day of Polly Singleton’s
auction. Matters were still very much in a state of chaos, but the
rehearsal of some of the parts was got through with credit under the
directions of the clever stage-manager, one of the nicest and best
girls in the college, Constance Field. She had a knack of putting each
girl at her ease— of discovering the faintest sparks of genius and
fanning them into flame.

Priscilla had learned her speeches accurately: her turn came; she stood
up trembling and began. Gradually the stony (or was it yearning?) look
in Maggie’s face moved her. She fancied herself Hammond, not the
Prince. When she spoke to Maggie she felt no longer like a feeble
schoolgirl acting a part. She thought she was pleading for Hammond, and
enthusiasm got into her voice, and a light filled her eyes. There was a
little cheer when Priscilla got through her first rehearsal. Nancy
Banister came up to Rosalind.

“I do believe Maggie is right,” she said, “and that Miss Peel will take
the part capitally.”

“Miss Oliphant is well known for her magnanimity,” retorted Rosalind,
an ugly look spoiling the expression of her face.

“Her magnanimity? What do you mean, Rose?”

“To choose _that_ girl for her Prince!” retorted Rosalind. “Ask Mr.
Hammond what I mean. Ask the Elliot-Smiths.”

“I don’t know the Elliot-Smiths,” said Nancy in a cold voice. She
turned away; she felt displeased and annoyed.

Rose glanced after her. Then she ran up to Maggie Oliphant, who was
preparing to leave the little theater.

“Don’t you want to see the auction?” she said in a gay voice. “It’s
going to be the best fun we have had for many a long day.”

Maggie turned and looked at her.

“The auction? What auction do you mean?” she asked.

“Why, Polly Singleton’s, of course. You’ve not heard of it? It’s _the_
event of the term!”

Maggie laughed.

“You must be talking nonsense, Rose,” she said. “An auction at St.
Benet’s! A real auction? Impossible!”

“No, it’s not impossible. It’s true. Polly owes for a lot of things,
and she’s going to pay for them in that way. Did you not get a notice?
Polly declared she would send one without fail to every girl in the
college.”

“Now I remember,” said Miss Oliphant, laughing. “I got an extraordinary
type-written production. I regarded it as a hoax and consigned it to
the wastepaper basket.”

“But it wasn’t a hoax; it was true. Come away, Miss Oliphant, do. Polly
has got some lovely things.”

“I don’t think I even know who Polly is,” said Maggie. “She surely is
not an inmate of Heath Hall?”

“No, no— of Katharine Hall. You must know her by sight, at least. A
great big, fat girl, with red hair and freckles.”

“Yes, now I remember. I think she has rather a pleasant face.”

“Oh, do you really? Isn’t she awfully common and vulgar-looking?”

“Common and vulgar-looking people are often pleasant, nevertheless,”
retorted Maggie.

“You’ll come to her auction?” insisted Rose.

“I don’t know. She has no right to have an auction. Such a proceeding
would give great displeasure to our principals.”

“How can you tell that? There never was an auction at the college
before.”

“How can I tell, Rose? Instinct is my guide in a matter of this sort.”

Maggie stepped back and looked haughty.

“Well,” said Rose, “the principals won’t ever know; we are taking good
care of that.”

“Oh! I hope you may be successful. Good night.”

Maggie turned to walk away. She saw Priscilla standing not far off.

“Come, Prissie,” she said affectionately, “you did admirably to-night,
but you must have another lesson. You missed two of the best points in
that last speech. Come back with me into the theater at once.”

Rose bit her lips with vexation. She was wildly anxious to be at the
auction. The sealskin might be put up for sale, and she not present.
The corals might go to some other happy girl; but she had made a
resolve to bring some of the very best girls in the college to this
scene of rioting. Her reckless companions had dared her to do this, and
she felt what she called “her honor” at stake. Nancy Banister had
declined her invitation with decision; Constance Field had withered her
with a look. Now she _must_ secure Maggie.

“I wish you’d come,” she said, following Maggie and Prissie to the door
of the theater. “It will be an awful disappointment if you don’t! We
all reckoned on having you.”

“What _do_ you mean, Rose?”

“We thought you wouldn’t be above a bit of fun. You never used to be,
you know. You never used to be strict and proper and over-righteous,
used you?”

Priscilla was startled to see the queer change these few words made on
Maggie. Her cheeks lost their roses; her eyes grew big, pathetic,
miserable. Then a defiant expression filled them.

“If you put it in that way,” she said, “I’ll go and peep at the thing.
It isn’t my taste nor my style, but goodness knows I’m no better than
the rest of you. Come, Prissie.”

Maggie seized Priscilla’s hand; her clasp was so tight as to be almost
painful. She hurried Prissie along so fast that Rose could scarcely
keep up with them.

They entered the hall. Maggie seized a hat for herself and another for
Prissie from the hat-stand; then the three girls crossed the garden to
Katharine Hall. A moment or two later they had reached the scene of the
evening’s amusement

Loud voices and laughter greeted them; they entered a large room
crowded to overflowing. The atmosphere here was hot and stifling and
chaos reigned supreme. Pictures, ornaments of all kinds had been
removed roughly and hastily from the walls; clothes and even jewels
were piled on the tables, and a tall girl, standing on a chair, was
declaiming volubly for the benefit of her companions.

When Maggie, Rose and Priscilla entered the room Polly was exhibiting
the charms of a yellow silk dress somewhat the worse for wear. Laughter
choked her voice; her bright blue eyes shone with excitement and
amusement.

“Who’ll try this?” she began. “It has a double charm. Not only has it
reposed round this fair and lovely form, but the silk of which it is
made was gi

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