A Sweet Girl Graduate

“The leading spirit of this college,” she said, “is almost perfect immunity from the bondage of rules. The Principals of these Halls have fully trusted the students who reside in them, and relied on their honour, their rectitude, their sense of sound principle. Hitherto we have had no reason to complain that the spirit of absolute trust which we have shown has been abused; but the circumstance which has just occurred has given Miss Eccleston and myself some pain.”

“It has surprised us; it has given us a blow,” interrupted Miss Eccleston.

“And Miss Eccleston feels,” proceeded Miss Heath, “and perhaps she is right, that the matter ought to be laid before the college authorities, who will decide what are the best steps to be taken.”

“You don’t agree with that view, do you, Miss Heath?” asked Maggie Oliphant suddenly.

“At first I did not. I leant to the side of mercy. I thought you might all have learnt a lesson in the distress which you have caused us, and that such an occurrence could not happen again.”

“Won’t Miss Eccleston adopt your views?” questioned Maggie. She glanced round at her fellow-students as she spoke.

“No – no,” interrupted Miss Eccleston. “I cannot accept the responsibility. The college authorities must decide the matter.”

“Remember,” said Maggie, stepping forward a pace or two, “that we are no children. If we were at school you ought to punish us, and, of course, you would. I hate what I have done, and I own it frankly. But you cannot forget, Miss Eccleston, that no girl here has broken a rule when she attended the auction, and bought Miss Singleton’s things; and that even Miss Singleton has broken no rule when she went in debt.”

There was a buzz of applause and even a cheer from the girls in the background. Miss Eccleston looked angry, but perplexed. Miss Heath again turned and spoke to her. She replied in a low tone. Miss Heath said something further. At last Miss Eccleston sat down, and Miss Heath came forward and addressed Maggie Oliphant.

“Your words have been scarcely respectful, Miss Oliphant,” she said, “but there is a certain justice in them which my friend, Miss Eccleston, is the first to admit. She has consented, therefore, to defer her final decision for twenty-four hours; at the end of that time the students of Katharine Hall and Heath Hall will know what we finally decide to do.”

After the meeting in Miss Eccleston’s drawing-room the affair of the auction assumed enormous proportions. There was no other topic of conversation. The students took sides vigorously in the matter: the gay, giddy, and careless ones voting the auction a rare bit of fun, and upholding those who had taken part in it with all their might and main. The more sober and high-minded girls, on the other hand, took Miss Heath’s and Miss Eccleston’s views of the matter. The principles of the college had been disregarded, the spirit of order had been broken; debt, which was disgraceful, was made light of. These girls felt that the tone of St. Benet’s was lowered. Even Maggie Oliphant sank in their estimation. A few went to the length of saying that they could no longer include her in their set.

Katharine Hall, the scene of the auction itself, was, of course, now the place of special interest. Heath Hall was also implicated in it, but Seymour Hall, which stood a little apart from its sister Halls, had sent no student to the scene of dissipation. Seymour Hall was the smallest of the three. It was completely isolated from the others, standing in its own lovely grounds on the other side of the road. It now held its head high, and the girls who belonged to the other Halls, but had taken no part in the auction, felt that their own beloved Halls were lowered, and their resentment was all the keener because the Seymour Hall girls gave themselves airs.

“I shall never live through it,” said Ida Mason, a Heath Hall girl to her favourite chum, Constance Field. “Nothing can ever be the same again. If my mother knew, Constance, I feel almost sure she would remove me. The whole thing is so small and shabby and horrid, and then to think of Maggie taking part in it! Aren’t you awfully shocked, Constance? What is your true opinion?”

“My true opinion,” said Constance, “is this: it is our duty to uphold our own Hall and our own chums. As to the best of us, if we are the best, going away because a thing of this sort has occurred, it is not to be thought of for a moment. Why, Ida,” Constance laughed as she spoke, “you might as well expect one of the leading officers to desert his regiment when going into battle. You know what Maggie Oliphant is, Ida. As to deserting her because she has had one of her bad half-hours, which she frankly confessed to, like the brave girl she is, I would as soon cut off my right hand. Now, Ida, my dear, don’t be a little goose. Your part, instead of grumbling and growling, and hinting at the place not being fit for you, is to go round to every friend you have in Heath Hall, and get them to rally round Maggie and Miss Heath.”

“There’s that poor Miss Peel, too,” said Ida, “Maggie’s new friend – that queer, plain girl; she’s sure to be frightfully bullied. I suppose I’d better stick up for her as well?”

“Of course, dear, you certainly ought. But as to Miss Peel being plain, Ida, I don’t think I quite agree with you. Her face is too clever for that. Have you watched her when she acts?”

“No, I don’t think I have. She seems to be very uninteresting.”

“Look at her next time, and tell me if you think her uninteresting afterwards. Now I’m off to find Maggie. She is sure to be having one of her bad times, poor darling.”

Constance Field was a girl whose opinion was always received with respect. Ida went off obediently to fulfil her behests; and Constance, after searching in Maggie’s room, and wandering in different parts of the grounds, found the truant at last, comfortably established with a pile of new books and magazines in the library. The library was the most comfortable room in the house, and Maggie was leaning back luxuriously in an easy-chair, reading some notes from a lecture on Aristotle aloud to Prissie, who sat at her feet, and took down notes of her own from Maggie’s lips.

The two looked up anything but gratefully when Constance approached. Miss Field, however, was not a person to be dismissed with a light and airy word, and Maggie sighed and closed her book when Constance sat down in an armchair, which she pulled close to her. There were no other girls in the library, and Prissie, seeing that Miss Field intended to be confidential, looked at Maggie with a disconsolate air.

“Perhaps I had better go up to my own room,” she said, timidly.

Maggie raised her brows, and spoke in an impatient voice.

“You are in no one’s way, Priscilla,” she said. “Here are my notes from the lecture. I read to the end of this page; you can make out the rest for yourself. Well, Constance, have you anything to say?”

“Not unless you want to hear me,” said Miss Field, in her dignified manner.

Maggie tried to stifle a yawn.

“Oh, my dear Connie, I’m always charmed, you know that.”

“Well, I thought I’d like to tell you that I admired the way you spoke last night.”

“Were you present?”

“No, but some friends of mine were. They repeated the whole thing verbatim.”

“Oh, you heard it second-hand. Highly coloured, no doubt, and not the least like its poor original.”

Maggie spoke with a kind of bitter, defiant sarcasm, and a delicate colour, came into Miss Field’s cheeks.

“At least, I heard enough to assure me that you spoke the truth and concealed nothing,” she said.

“It is the case that I spoke the truth, as far as it went; but it is not the case that I concealed nothing.”

“Well, Maggie, I have come to offer you my sincere sympathy.”

“Thank you,” said Maggie. She leant back in her chair, folded her hands, and a tired look came over her expressive face. “The fact is,” she said, suddenly, “I am sick of the whole thing. I am sorry I went; I made a public confession of my sorrow last night; now I wish to forget it.”

“How can you possibly forget it, until you know Miss Heath’s and Miss Eccleston’s decision?”

“Frankly, Constance, I don’t care what decision they come to.”

“You don’t care? You don’t mind the college authorities knowing?”

“I don’t care if every college authority in England knows. I have been humbled in the eyes of Miss Heath, whom I love; nothing else matters.”

When Maggie said these words, Prissie rose to her feet, looked at her with a queer, earnest glance, suddenly bent forward, kissed her frantically, and rushed out of the room.

“And I love that dear true-hearted child, too,” said Maggie. “Now, Constance, do let us talk of something else.”

“We’ll talk about Miss Peel. I don’t know her as you do, but I’m interested in her.”

“Oh, pray don’t; I want to keep her to myself.”

“Why? Is she such a rara avis?”

“I don’t care what she is. She suits me because she loves me without question. She is absolutely sincere; she could not say an untrue thing; she is so clever that I could not talk frivolities when I am with her; and so good, so really, simply good, that she keeps at bay my bad half-hours and my reckless moods.” Constance smiled. She believed part of Maggie’s speech; not the whole of it, for she knew the enthusiasm of the speaker.

“I am going to Kingsdene,” said Maggie suddenly. “Prissie is coming with me. Will you come, too, Constance? I wish you would.”

“Thank you,” said Constance. She hesitated for a moment. “It is the best thing in the world for Heath Hall,” she thought, “that the girls should see me walking with Maggie to-day.” Aloud she said, “All right, Maggie, I’ll go upstairs and put on my hat and jacket, and meet you and Miss Peel in the porch.”

“We are going to tea at the Marshalls’,” said Maggie. “You don’t mind that, do you? You know them, too?”

“Know them? I should think so. Isn’t old Mrs Marshall a picture? And Helen is one of my best friends.”

“You shall make Helen happy this afternoon, dear Constance.”

Maggie ran gaily out of the room as she spoke, and a few minutes later the three girls, in excellent spirits, started for Kingsdene.

As they entered the town they saw Rosalind Merton coming to meet them. There was nothing in this, for Rosalind was a gay young person, and had many friends in Kingsdene. Few days passed that did not see her in the old town on her way to visit this friend or that, or to perpetrate some little piece of extravagance at Spilman’s or at her dressmaker’s.

On this occasion, however, Rosalind was neither at Spilman’s or the dressmaker’s. She was walking demurely down the High Street, daintily dressed and charming to look at, in Hammond’s company. Rosalind was talking eagerly and earnestly, and Hammond, who was very tall, was bending down to catch her words, when the other three girls came briskly round a corner, and in full view of the pair.

“Oh!” exclaimed Priscilla aloud, in her abrupt, startled way. Her face became suffused with a flood of the deepest crimson, and Maggie, who felt a little annoyed at seeing Hammond in Rosalind’s company, could not help noticing Prissie’s almost uncontrollable agitation.

Rosalind, too, blushed, but prettily, when she saw the other three girls come up.

“I will say good-bye, now, Mr Hammond,” she said, “for I must get back to St. Benet’s in good time to-night.”

She held out her hand, which the young man took, and shook cordially.

“I am extremely obliged to you,” he said.

Maggie was near enough to hear his words. Rosalind tripped past her three fellow-students with an airy little nod, and the faint beginning of a mocking curtsy.

Hammond came up to the three girls and joined them at once.

“Are you going to the Marshalls’?” he said to Maggie.

“Yes.”

“So am I. What a lucky rencontre.”

He said another word or two, and then the four turned to walk down the High Street. Maggie walked on in front with Constance. Hammond fell to Priscilla’s share.

“I am delighted to see you again,” she said, in her eager, agitated, abrupt way.

“Are you?” he replied in some astonishment. Then he hastened to say something polite. “I forgot, we had not ended our discussion. You almost convinced me with regard to the superior merits of the ‘Odyssey,’ but not quite. Shall we renew the subject now?”

“No, please don’t. That’s not why I’m glad to see you. It’s for something quite, quite different. I want to say something to you, and it’s most important. Can’t we just keep back a little from the others? I don’t want Maggie to hear.”

Now why were Miss Oliphant’s ears so sharp that afternoon? Why, even in the midst of her gay chatter to Constance, did she hear every word of Priscilla’s queer, garbled speech? And why did astonishment and even anger steal into her heart?

What she did, however, was to gratify Prissie immensely by hurrying on with her companion, so that she and Hammond were left comfortably in the background.

“I don’t quite know what you mean,” he said, stiffly. “What can you possibly have of importance to say to me?”

“I don’t want Maggie to hear,” repeated Prissie, in her earnest voice. She knew far too little of the world to be in the least alarmed at Hammond’s stately tones.

“What I want to say is about Maggie, and yet it isn’t.”

“About Miss Oliphant?”

“Oh, yes, but she’s Maggie to me. She’s the dearest, the best – there’s no one like her, no one. I didn’t understand her at first, but now I know how noble she is. I had no idea until I knew Maggie that a person could have faults, and yet be noble. It’s a new sort of experience to me.”

Prissie’s eyes, in which even in her worst moments there always sat the soul of a far-reaching sort of intelligence, were shining now through tears. Hammond saw the tears, and the lovely expression in the eyes, and said to himself —

“Good heavens, could I ever have regarded that dear child as plain?” Aloud, he said, in a softened voice, “I’m awfully obliged to you for saying these sorts of things of Miss – Miss Oliphant, but you must know, at least you must guess, that I – I have thought them for myself long, long ago.”

“Yes, of course, I know that. But have you much faith? Do you keep to what you believe?”

“This is a most extraordinary girl!” murmured Hammond. Then he said aloud, “I fail to understand you.”

They had now nearly reached the Marshalls’ door. The other two were waiting for them.

“It’s this,” said Prissie, clasping her hands hard, and speaking in her most emphatic and distressful way. “There are unkind things being said of Maggie, and there’s one girl who is horrid to her – horrid! I want you not to believe a word that girl says.”

“What girl do you mean?”

“You were walking with her just now.”

“Really, Miss Peel, you are the most extraordinary – ”

But Maggie Oliphant’s clear, sweet voice interrupted them.

“Had we not better come into the house?” she said. “The door has been open for quite half a minute.”

Poor Prissie rushed in first, covered with shame; Miss Field hastened after, to bear her company; and Hammond and Maggie brought up the rear.

Chapter Twenty

A Painter

The Marshalls were always at home to their friends on Friday afternoons, and there were already several guests in the beautiful, quaint old drawing-room when the quartette entered. Mrs Marshall, her white hair looking lovely under her soft lace cap, came forward to meet her visitors. Her kind eyes looked with appreciation and welcome at one and all. Blushing and shamefaced Prissie received a pleasant word of greeting, which seemed in some wonderful way to steady her nerves. Hammond and Maggie were received as special and very dear friends, and Helen Marshall, the old lady’s pretty grand-daughter, rushed forward to embrace her particular friend, Constance Field.

Maggie felt sore; she scarcely knew why. Her voice was bright, her eyes shining, her cheeks radiant in their rich and lovely bloom. But there was a quality in her voice which Hammond recognised – a certain ring which meant defiance, and which prophesied to those who knew her well that one of her bad half-hours was not very far off.

Maggie seated herself near a girl who was a comparative stranger and began to talk. Hammond drew near, and made a third in the conversation. Maggie talked in the brilliant, somewhat reckless fashion which she occasionally adopted. Hammond listened, now and then uttered a short sentence, now and then was silent, with disapproval in his eyes.

Maggie read their expression like a book.

“He shall be angry with me,” she said to herself. Her words became a little wilder. The sentiments she uttered were the reverse of those Hammond held.

Soon a few old friends came up. They were jolly, merry, good-humoured girls, who were all prepared to look up to Maggie Oliphant, and to worship her beauty and cleverness if she would allow them. Maggie welcomed the girls with effusion, let them metaphorically sit at her feet, and proceeded to disenchant them as hard as she could.

Some garbled accounts of the auction at St. Benet’s had reached them, and they were anxious to get a full report from Miss Oliphant. Did she not think it a scandalous sort of thing to have occurred?

“Not at all,” answered Maggie in her sweetest tones; “it was capital fun, I assure you.”

“Were you really there?” asked Miss Duncan, the eldest of the girls. “We heard it, of course, but could scarcely believe it possible.”

“Of course I was there,” replied Maggie. “Whenever there is anything really amusing going on, I am always in the thick of it.”

“Well!” Emily Duncan looked at her sister Susan. Susan raised her brows. Hammond took a photograph from a table which stood near, and pretended to examine it.

“Shall I tell you about the auction?” asked Maggie.

“Oh, please, if you would be so kind. I suppose, as you were present, such a thing could not really lower the standard of the college?” These words came from Susan Duncan, who looked at Hammond as she spoke. She was his cousin, and very fond of him.

“Please tell us about the auction,” he said, looking full at Maggie.

“I will,” she replied, answering his gaze with a flash of repressed irritation. “The auction was splendid fun! One of our girls was in debt, and she had to sell her things. Oh, it was capital! I wish you could have seen her acting as her own auctioneer. Some of us were greedy, and wanted her best things. I was one of those. She sold a sealskin jacket, an expensive one, quite new. There is a legend in the college that eighty guineas were expended on it. Well, I bid for the sealskin, and it was knocked down to me for ten. It is a little too big for me, of course, but when it is cut to my figure, it will make a superb winter garment.”

Maggie was clothed now in velvet and sable; nothing could be richer than her attire; nothing more mocking than her words.

“You were fortunate,” said Susan Duncan. “You got your sealskin a great bargain. Didn’t she, Geoffrey?”

“I don’t think so,” replied Hammond.

“Why not? Oh, do tell us why not,” cried the sisters, eagerly.

He bowed to them, laughed as lightly as Maggie would have done, and said, in a careless tone: “My reasons are complex, and too many to mention. I will only say now that what is objectionable to possess can never be a bargain to obtain. In my opinion, sealskin jackets are detestable.”

With these words he strode across the room, and seated himself with a sigh of relief by Priscilla’s side.

“What are you doing all by yourself?” he said, cheerfully. “Is no one attending to you? Are you always to be left like a poor little forsaken mouse in the background?”

“I am not at all lonely,” said Prissie.

“I thought you hated to be alone.”

“I did, the other day, in that drawing-room; but not in this. People are all kind in this.”

“You are right. Our hostess is most genial and sympathetic.”

“And the guests are nice, too,” said Prissie; “at least, they look nice.”

“Ay, but you must not be taken in by appearances. Some of them only look nice.”

“Do you mean?” began Prissie in her abrupt, anxious voice.

Hammond took alarm. He remembered her peculiar outspokenness.

“I don’t mean anything,” he said, hastily. “By the way, are you fond of pictures?”

“I have scarcely ever seen any.”

“That does not matter. I know by your face that you can appreciate some pictures.”

“But, really, I know nothing of art.”

“Never mind. If the painter who paints knows you– ”

“The painter knows me? I have never seen an artist in my life.”

“Nevertheless, there are some artists in the world who have conceived of characters like yours. There are some good pictures in this house – shall I show you one or two?”

Prissie sprang to her feet.

“You are most kind,” she said, effusively. “I really don’t know how to thank you.”

“You need not thank me at all; or, at any rate, not in such a loud voice, nor so impressively. Our neighbours will think I have bestowed half a kingdom upon you.”

Prissie blushed, and looked down.

“Don’t be shocked with me,” said Hammond; “I can read your grateful heart. Come this way.” They passed Maggie Oliphant and her two or three remaining satellites. Prissie looked at her with longing, and tripped awkwardly against her chair. Hammond walked past Maggie as if she did not exist to him. Maggie nodded affectionately to Priscilla, and followed the back of Hammond’s head and shoulders with a supercilious, amused smile.

Hammond opened the outer drawing-room door. “Where are we going?” asked Priscilla. “Are not the pictures here?”

“Some are here, but the best are in the picture gallery – here to the left, and down these steps. Now, I’m going to introduce to you a new world.”

He pushed aside a heavy curtain, and Prissie found herself in a rather small room, lighted from the roof. It contained in all about six or eight pictures, each the work of a master.

Hammond walked straight across the gallery to a picture which occupied a wall by itself at the further end. It represented a summer scene of deep repose. There was water in the foreground; in the back, tall forest trees in the fresh, rich foliage of June. Overhead was a sunset sky, its saffron and rosy tints reflected in the water below. The master who painted the picture was Corot.

Hammond motioned Priscilla to sit down opposite to it.

“There is summer,” he said; “peace, absolute repose. You have not to go to it; it comes to you.”

He did not say any more, but walked away to look at another picture in a different part of the gallery.

Prissie clasped her hands; all the agitation and eagerness went out of her face. She leant back in her chair. Her attitude partook of the quality of the picture, and became restful. Hammond did not disturb her for several moments.

“I am going to show you something different now,” he said, coming up to her almost with reluctance. “There is one sort of rest; I will now show you a higher. Here, stand so. The light falls well from this angle. Now, what do you see?”

“I don’t understand it,” said Prissie, after a long, deep gaze.

“Never mind, you see something. Tell me what you see.”

Priscilla looked again at the picture.

“I see a woman,” she said at last, in a slow, pained kind of voice. “I can’t see her face very well, but I know by the way she lies back in that chair, that she is old, and dreadfully tired. Oh, yes, I know well that she is tired – see her hand stretched out there – her hand and her arm – how thin they are – how worn – and – ”

“Hard worked,” interrupted Hammond. “Anyone can see by the attitude of that hand, by the starting veins and the wrinkles, that the woman has gone through a life of labour. Well, she does not occupy the whole of the picture. You see before you a tired-out worker. Don’t be so unhappy about her. Look up a little higher in the picture. Observe for yourself that her toils are ended.”

“Who is that other figure?” said Priscilla. “A woman too, but young and strong. How glad she looks, and how kind. She is carrying a little child in her arms. Who is she? What does she mean?”

“That woman, so grand and strong, represents Death, but not under the old metaphor. She comes with renewed life – the child is the type of that – she comes as a deliverer. See, she is touching that poor worn-out creature, who is so tired that she can scarcely hold her head up again. Death, with a new aspect, and a new grand strength in her face, is saying to this woman, ‘Come with me now to your rest. It is all over,’ Death says: ‘all the trouble and perplexity and strife. Come away with me and rest.’ The name of that picture is ‘The Deliverer.’ It is the work of a painter who can preach a sermon, write a book, deliver an oration, and sing a song, all through the medium of his brush. I won’t trouble you with his name just now. You will hear plenty of him and his wonderful, great pictures by-and-by, if you love art as I do.”