A Sweet Girl Graduate

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 anyone else. We shall have a cosy 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, colouring. “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 programme 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 afterwards.”

“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 colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke, and her eyes looked wistful.

Maggie laughed.

“What are your ideas with regard to space, Miss Peel? The whole of Kingsdene-shire lies before us. We are untrammelled, 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 Kingsdene-shire.”

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 afterwards 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 Nine

A New Like

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 cosy 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 spiritualised. They have a glamour 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 honourable 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 discreetly into the background. The two girls conversed for a long time together.

Chapter Ten

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 coloured 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 worshipper 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 favourite 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 anyone 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’s girls had come to the afternoon service. Amongst 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 Marshalls’ 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. “Good-bye.” 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 colour 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 colour rushed into her cheeks. Mrs Marshall looked at her affectionately.

“Helen,” she called to her grand-daughter 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 anyone 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 anyone’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 colourless, and tears were lying wet on her eyelashes.

Maggie made a swift remark, a passing jest, and hurried past the two into the outer 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 centre 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 Eleven

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.