A Sweet Girl Graduate

Chapter Twenty Eight

“Come and Kill the Bogie.”

Notwithstanding Nancy’s dismal prognostications, Maggie Oliphant played her part brilliantly that night. Her low spirits were succeeded by gay ones; the Princess had never looked more truly regal, nor had the Prince ever more passionately wooed her. Girls who did not belong to the society always flocked into the theatre to see the rehearsals. Maggie’s mood scarcely puzzled them. She was so erratic that no one expected anything from her but the unexpected: if she looked like a drooping flower one moment, her head was erect the next, her eyes sparkling, her voice gay. The flower no longer drooped, but blossomed with renewed vigour. After reading for an hour Nancy had left her friend asleep. She went downstairs, and, in reply to several anxious inquiries, pronounced it as her opinion that Maggie, with all the good will in the world, could scarcely take part in the rehearsals that night.

“I know Maggie is going to be ill,” said Nancy, with tears in her eyes. Miss Banister was so sensible and so little given to undue alarms, that her words had effect, and a little rumour spread in the college that Miss Oliphant could not take her part in the important rehearsals which were to take place that evening. Her appearance, therefore, in more than her usual beauty, with more vigour in her voice, more energy and brightness in her eyes, gave at once a pleasing sense of satisfaction. She was cheered when she entered the little theatre, but, if there was a brief surprise, it was quickly succeeded by the comment which generally followed all her doings – “This is just like Maggie; no one can depend on how she will act for a moment.”

At that rehearsal, however, people were taken by surprise. If the Princess did well, the young Prince did better. Priscilla had completely dropped her rôle of the awkward and gauche girl. From the first there had been vigour and promise in her acting. To-night there was not only vigour, but tenderness – there was a passion in her voice which arose now and then to power. She was so completely in sympathy with her part that she ceased to be Priscilla: she was the Prince who must win this wayward Princess or die.

Maggie came up to her when the rehearsals were over.

“I congratulate you,” she said. “Prissie, you might do well on the stage.”

Priscilla smiled. “No,” she said, “for I need inspiration to forget myself.”

“Well, genius would supply that.”

“No, Maggie, no. The motive that seems to turn me into the Prince himself cannot come again. Oh, Maggie, if I succeed! If I succeed!”

“What do you mean, you strange child?”

“I cannot tell you with my voice: don’t you guess?”

“I cannot say. You move me strangely; you remind me of – I quite forget that you are Priscilla Peel.”

Priscilla laughed joyously.

“How gay you look to-night, Prissie, and yet I am told you were miserable this morning. Have you forgotten your woes?”

“Completely.”

“Why is this?”

“I suppose because I am happy and hopeful.”

“Nancy tells me that you were quite in despair to-day. She said that some of those cruel girls insulted you.”

“Yes, I was very silly; I got a shock.”

“And you have got over it?”

“Yes; I know you don’t believe badly of me. You know that I am honest and – and true.”

“Yes, my dear,” said Maggie, with fervour, “I believe in you as I believe in myself. Now, have you quite disrobed? Shall we go into the library for a little?”

The moment they entered this cheerful room, which was bright with two blazing fires and numerous electric lights, Miss Day and Miss Marsh came up eagerly to Maggie.

“Well,” they said, “have you made up your mind?”

“About what?” she asked, raising her eyes in a puzzled way.

“You will come with us to the Elliot-Smiths’? You know how anxious Meta is to have you.”

“Thank you; but am I anxious to go to Meta?”

“Oh! you are, you must be; you cannot be so cruel as to refuse.”

After the emotion she had gone through in the morning, Maggie’s heart was in that softened, half-tired state when it could be most easily influenced; she was in no mood for arguing – or for defiance of any sort. “Peace at all hazards” was her motto just now. She was also in so reckless a mood as to be indifferent to what anyone thought of her. The Elliot-Smiths were not in her “set;” she disliked them and their ways, but she had met Meta at a friend’s house a week ago. Meta had been introduced to Miss Oliphant, and had pressed her invitation vigorously. It would be a triumph of triumphs to Meta Elliot-Smith to introduce the beautiful heiress to her own set. Maggie’s refusal was not listened to. She was begged to reconsider the question; implored to be merciful, to be kind; assured of undying gratitude if she would consent to come even for one short hour.

Miss Day and Miss Marsh were commissioned by Meta to secure Maggie at all costs.

“You will come?” said Miss Day; “you must come.” Then coming up close to Maggie, she whispered in an eager voice – “Would not you like to find out who has taken your five-pound note? Miss Peel is your friend; would it not gratify you to clear her?”

“Why should I clear one who can never possibly be suspected?” replied Miss Oliphant, in a voice of anger. Her words were spoken aloud, and so vehemently that Annie Day drew back a step or two in alarm.

“Well, but you would like to know who really took your money?” she reiterated, again speaking in a whisper.

Maggie was standing by one of the bookcases; she stretched up her hand to take down a volume. As she did so, her eyes rested for a moment on Priscilla.

“I would as soon suspect myself as her,” she thought, “and yet last night, for a moment, even I was guilty of an unworthy thought of you, Prissie, and if I could doubt, why should I blame others? If going to the Elliot-Smiths’ will establish your innocence, I will go.”

“Well,” said Miss Day, who was watching her face, “I am to see Meta to-morrow morning; am I to tell her to expect you?”

“Yes,” replied Maggie, “but I wish to say at once, with regard to that five-pound note, that I am not interested in it. I am so careless about my money matters, that it is quite possible I may have been mistaken when I thought I put it into my purse.”

“Oh! oh! but you spoke so confidently this morning.”

“One of my impulses. I wish I had not done it.”

“Having done it, however,” retorted Miss Day, “it is your duty to take any steps which may be necessary to clear the college of so unpleasant and disgraceful a charge.”

“You think I can do this by going to the Elliot-Smiths’?”

“Hush! you will spoil all by speaking so loud. Yes, I fully believe we shall make a discovery on Friday night.”

“You don’t suppose I would go to act the spy?”

“No, no, nothing of the sort; only come – only come!”

Maggie opened her book, and glanced at some of its contents before replying.

“Only come,” repeated Annie, in an imploring voice.

“I said I would come,” answered Maggie. “Must I reiterate my assurance? Tell Miss Elliot-Smith to expect me.”

Maggie read for a little in the library; then, feeling tired, she rose from her seat and crossed the large room, intending to go up at once to her own chamber. In the hall, however, she was attracted by seeing Miss Heath’s door slightly open. Her heart was full of compunction for having, even for a moment, suspected Priscilla of theft. She thought she would go and speak to Miss Heath about her.

She knocked at the Vice-Principal’s door.

“Come in,” answered the kind voice, and Maggie found herself a moment later seated by the fire: the door of Miss Heath’s room shut, and Miss Heath herself standing over her, using words of commiseration.

“My dear,” she said, “you look very ill.”

Maggie raised her eyes. Miss Heath had seen many moods on that charming face; now the expression in the wide-open, brown eyes caused her own to fill with sudden tears.

“I would do anything to help you, my love,” she said, tenderly, and, stooping down, she kissed Maggie on her forehead.

“Perhaps, another time,” answered Miss Oliphant. “You are all that is good, Miss Heath, and I may as well own frankly that I am neither well nor happy, but I have not come to speak of myself just now. I want to say something about Priscilla Peel.”

“Yes, what about her?”

“She came to you last night. I know what she came about.”

“She told me she had confided in you,” answered the Vice-Principal, gravely.

“Yes. Well, I have come to say that she must not be allowed to give up her Greek and Latin.”

“Why not?”

“Miss Heath, how can you say, ‘why not’? Prissie is a genius; her inclination lies in that direction. It is in her power to become one of the most brilliant classical scholars of her day.”

Miss Heath smiled. “Well, Maggie,” she said, slowly, “even suppose that is the case – and you must own that, clever as Priscilla is, you make an extreme statement when you say such words – she may do well, very well, and yet turn her attention to other subjects for the present.”

“It is cruel!” said Maggie, rising and stamping her foot, impatiently. “Priscilla has it in her to shed honour on our college; she will take a first-class when she goes in for her tripos, if her present studies are not interfered with.”

Miss Heath smiled at Maggie in a pitying sort of way. “I admit,” she said, “that first-class honours would be a very graceful crown of bay to encircle that young head; and yet, Maggie, yet – surely Priscilla can do better?”

“What do you mean? How can she possibly do better?”

“She can wear a nobler crown. You know, Maggie, there are crowns to be won which cannot fade.”

“Oh!” Maggie’s lips trembled; she looked down.

After a pause, she said, “Priscilla told me something of her home and her family. I suppose she has also confided in you, Miss Heath?”

“Yes, my dear.”

“Well, I have come to-night to say that it is in my power to use some of that money which I detest in helping Prissie – in helping her family. I mean to help them; I mean to put them all in such a position that Priscilla shall not need to spend her youth in uncongenial drudgery. I have come to say this to you, Miss Heath, and I beg of you – yes, I beg of you – to induce my dear Prissie to go on with her classical studies. It will now be in your power to assure her that the necessity which made her obliged to give them up no longer exists.”

“In short,” said Miss Heath, “you will give Miss Peel of your charity, and take her independence away?”

“What do you mean?”

“Put yourself in her place, Maggie. Would you take money for yourself and those dear to you from a comparative stranger?”

Maggie’s face grew very red. “I think I would oblige my friend, my dear friend,” she said.

“Is Prissie really your dear friend?”

“Why do you doubt me? I love her very much. Since – since Annabel died, no one has come so close to me.”

“I am glad of that,” replied Miss Heath. She went up to Maggie and kissed her.

“You will do what I wish?” asked the girl, eagerly.

“No, my dear: that matter lies in your hands alone. It is a case in which it is absolutely impossible for me to interfere. If you can induce Priscilla to accept money from you, I shall not say a word; and, for the sake of our college, I shall, perhaps, be glad, for there is not the least doubt that Prissie has it in her to win distinction for St. Benet’s. But, on the other hand, if she comes to me for advice, it will be impossible for me not to say to her – ‘My dear, character ranks higher than intellect. You may win the greatest prizes and yet keep a poor and servile soul. You may never get this great earthly distinction, and yet you may be crowned with honour – the honour which comes of uprightness, of independence, of integrity.’ Prissie may never consult me, of course, Maggie; but, if she does, I must say words something like these. To tell the truth, my dear, I never admired Priscilla more than I did last night I encouraged her to give up her classics for the present, and to devote herself to modern languages, and to those accomplishments which are considered more essentially feminine. As I did so I had a picture before me, in which I saw Priscilla crowned with love, the support and blessing of her three little sisters. The picture was a very bright one, Maggie, and your crown of bay looks quite tawdry beside the other crown which I hope to see on Prissie’s brow.”

Maggie rose from her chair. “Good-night,” she said.

“I am sorry to disappoint you, my love.”

“I have no doubt you are right,” said Maggie, “but,” she added, “I have not made up my mind, and I still long for Priscilla to wear the crown of bay.”

“You will win that crown yourself, my dear.”

“Oh, no, it is not for me.”

“I am very anxious about you, Maggie. Why do you speak in that reckless tone? Your position and Prissie’s are not the least alike: it is your duty to do your very utmost with those talents which have been bestowed upon you.”

“Perhaps,” answered Maggie, shrugging her shoulders, “but I am tired of stretching out my hand like a baby to catch soap-bubbles. I cannot speak of myself at all to-night, Miss Heath. Thank you for what you have said, and again good-night.”

Maggie had scarcely left the room before Priscilla appeared.

“Are you too tired to see me to-night, Miss Heath?”

“No, my love; come in and sit down. I was sorry to miss you this morning.”

“But I am glad as it turned out,” replied Priscilla.

“You were in great trouble, Prissie. The servant told me how terribly upset you were.”

“I was. I felt nearly mad.”

“But you look very happy now.”

“I am; my trouble has all vanished away. It was a great bogie. As soon as I came boldly up to it, it vanished into smoke.”

“Am I to hear the name of the bogie?”

“I think I would rather not tell you – at least not now. If Maggie thinks it right, she will speak to you about it; but, as far as I am concerned, it cannot touch me again.”

“Why have you come to see me then to-night, Priscilla?”

“I want to speak about Maggie.”

“What about her? She has just been here to speak of you.”

“Has she?”

“It is possible that she may make you a proposition which will affect your whole future, but I am not at liberty to say any more. Have you a proposition to make about her?”

“I have, and it will affect all Maggie’s life. It will make her so good – so very, very happy. Oh, Miss Heath! you ought to do it: you ought to make her marry Mr Hammond at once.”

“My dear Priscilla!” Miss Heath’s face turned crimson. “Are you alluding to Geoffrey Hammond? I know great friends of his; he is one of the cleverest men at St. Hilda’s.”

“Yes, and one of the best,” pursued Prissie, clasping her hands and speaking in that excited way which she always did when quite carried out of herself. “You don’t know how good he is, Miss Heath. I think he is one of the best of men. I would do anything in the world for him – anything.”

“Where have you met him, Priscilla?”

“At the Marshalls’, and once at the Elliot-Smiths’, and to-day, when I was so miserable, when the bogie ran after me, you know, at St. Hilda’s, just outside the chapel. Mr Hammond asked me to come to the service, and I went, and afterwards he chased the bogie away. Oh, he is good, he is kind, and he loves Maggie with all his heart. He has loved her for a long time, I am sure, but she is never nice to him.”

“Then, of course,” said Miss Heath, “if Miss Oliphant does not care for Mr Hammond, there is an end of the matter. You are a very innocent and very young girl, Priscilla; but this is a subject in which you have no right to interfere. Far from me to say that I disapprove of marriage for our students, but, while at St. Benet’s, it is certainly best for them to give their attention to other matters.”

“For most of us,” replied Prissie, “but not for Maggie. No one in the college thinks Maggie happy.”

“That is true,” replied Miss Heath, thoughtfully.

“And everyone knows,” pursued Prissie, “that Mr Hammond loves her.”

“Do they? I was not aware that such reports had got abroad.”

“Oh, yes: all Maggie’s friends know that, but they are so dreadfully stupid they cannot guess the other thing.”

“What other thing?”

“That dear Maggie is breaking her heart on account of Mr Hammond.”

“Then you think she loves him?”

“I do – I know it. Oh, won’t you do something to get them to marry each other?”

“My dear child, these are subjects in which neither you nor I can interfere.”

“Oh!” Prissie’s eyes filled with sudden tears. “If you won’t do anything, I must.”

“I don’t see what you can do, Priscilla; I don’t know what you have a right to do. We do not care that our students should think of love and courtship while here, but we have never limited their freedom in the matter. If Miss Oliphant cares for Mr Hammond, and he cares for her, they know perfectly that they can become engaged. Miss Oliphant will be leaving St. Benet’s at the end of the summer term, she is completely, in every sense of the word, her own mistress.”

“Oh, no, she is not her own mistress, she is oppressed by a bogie. I don’t know the name of the bogie, or anything about it; but it is shadowing all Maggie’s life; it is taking the sunshine away from her, and it is making it impossible for her to marry Mr Hammond. They are both so fond of each other; they have both noble hearts, but the dreadful bogie spoils everything – it keeps them apart. Dear Miss Heath, I want you to come and kill the bogie.”

“I must find out its name first,” said Miss Heath.

Chapter Twenty Nine

At the Elliot-Smiths’ Party

Rosalind Merton had been in the wildest spirits all day; she had laughed with the gayest, joined in all the games, thrown herself heart and soul into every project which promised fun, which gave a possibility for enjoyment. Rosalind’s mood might have been described as reckless. This was not her invariable condition; she was a girl who, with all her gay spirits, took life with coolness. She was not given to over-excitement; her nerves were too well balanced for anything of this kind.

To-day, however, something seemed wrong with these equable nerves of hers: she could not keep still; her voice was never quiet; her laugh was constant. Once or twice she saw Annie Day’s eyes fixed upon her; she turned from their glance; a more brilliant red than usual dyed her cheeks; her laugh grew louder and more insolent.

On this evening the Elliot-Smiths would give their long-promised party. The wish of Annie Day’s heart was gratified; she had angled for an invitation to this merry-making and obtained it. Lucy Marsh was also going, and several other St. Benet’s girls would be present.

Early in the evening Rosalind retired to her own room, locked her door, and, taking out her new white dress, laid it across her bed. It was a very pretty dress, made of soft silk, which did not rustle, but lay in graceful puffs and folds on body and skirt. It was just the dress to make this young, slight figure of Rosalind’s look absolutely charming. She stood over it now and regarded it lovingly. The dress had been obtained, like most of Rosalind’s possessions, by manoeuvres. She had made up a piteous story, and her adoring mother had listened and contrived to deny herself and some of Rosalind’s younger sisters to purchase the white robe on which the young girl’s heart was set.

Deliberately and slowly Rosalind made her toilet, her golden, curling hair was brushed out, and then carefully coiled round her head. Rosalind had no trouble with her hair: a touch or two, a pin stuck here, a curl arranged there, and the arrangement became perfect – the glistening mass lay in natural waves over the small, graceful head.

Rosalind’s hair arranged to her satisfaction, she put on her lovely white dress. She stood before her long glass, a white-robed little figure, smiles round her lips, a sweet, bright colour in her cheeks, a dewy look in her baby-blue eyes. Rosalind’s toilet was all but finished; she stood before her glass now and hesitated. Should she go to the Elliot-Smiths’ as she was, or should she give the last finishing touch to render herself perfect? Should she wear her beautiful coral ornaments?

The coral was now her own, paid for to the uttermost farthing; Polly Singleton could not come up to Rosalind now, and disgrace her in public by demanding her coral back again. The coral was no longer Polly’s; it was Rosalind’s. The debt was cleared off; the exquisite ornaments were her own. Unlocking a drawer in her bureau she took out a case, which contained her treasures; she touched the spring of the case, opened it, and looked at them lovingly. The necklace, the bracelets, the earrings, and pins for the hair looked beautiful on their velvet pillow. For the sake of the pink coral, Rosalind had manoeuvred for her white dress; for its sake she had knowingly stinted her mother and sisters; for its sake she had also stolen a five-pound note from Maggie Oliphant. She dreamt many times of the triumphs which would be hers when she appeared at the Elliot-Smiths’ in her white silk dress, just tipped with the slight colour which the pink coral ornaments would bestow. Rosalind had likened herself to all kinds of lovely things in this beautiful yet simple toilet – to a daisy in the field, to a briar-rose: in short, to every flower which denoted the perfection of baby innocence.

Yet, as she held the coral necklace in her hand to-night, she hesitated deeply whether it would be wise to appear at the Elliot-Smiths’ in her treasured ornaments.

Rose had not felt comfortable all day. She had banished thought with the usual device of extra hilarity; she had crushed the little voice in her heart which would persistently cry, “Shame! shame!” which would go on telling her, “You are the meanest, the most wicked girl in St. Benet’s; you have done something for which you could be put in prison.” The voice had little opportunity of making itself heard that day, and, as Maggie Oliphant evidently did not intend to investigate the matter, Rosalind had every hope that her sin would never be found out. Nevertheless, she could not help feeling uneasy; for why did Annie Day, her own chosen and particular friend, so persistently avoid her? Why had Lucy Marsh refused to walk with her yesterday? and why did Annie so often look at her with meaning and inquiry in her eyes? These glances of Annie’s caused Rosalind’s heart to beat too quickly; they gave her an undefined sense of uneasiness.

She felt as she stood now before her glass that, after all, she was doing a rash thing in wearing her coral. Annie Day knew of her money difficulties; Annie knew how badly Rosalind had wanted four guineas to pay the debt she still owed for the ornaments. If Rosalind wore them to-night, Annie would ask numerous questions. Oh, yes, there was a risk – there was a decided risk – but Rosalind’s vanity was greater than her fears.

There came a knock at her room door. To Rosalind’s surprise, Annie Day’s voice, with an extremely friendly tone in it, was heard outside.

“Are you ready, Rosie?” she cried; “for, if you are, there is just room for you in the fly with Lucy Marsh and Miss Singleton and myself.”

“Oh, thank you!” cried Rosalind from the other side of the door; “just wait one moment, Annie, and I will be with you.”

Both fear and hesitation vanished at the friendly tones of Annie’s voice. She hastily fastened on her necklace and earrings, slipped on her bracelets, and stuck the coral pins in her hair. She saw a dazzling little image in the glass, and turned away with a glad, proud smile.

“We can’t be kept waiting; are you ready?” called Miss Day’s voice in the passage.

“Yes, yes; in one moment, Annie, dear,” replied Rosalind. She wrapped herself from head to foot in a long white opera cloak, pulled the hood over her head, seized her gloves and fan, and opened the door. The coral could not be seen now, and Annie, who was also in white, took her hand and ran with her down the corridor.

A few moments later the four girls arrived at the Elliot-Smiths’ and were shown into a dressing-room on the ground floor to divest themselves of their wraps. They were amongst the earliest of the arrivals, and Annie Day had both space and opportunity to rush up to Rosalind and exclaim at the perfect combination of white silk and pink coral.