A Sweet Girl Graduate

“Lucy, Lucy!” she said, “do come and look at Rosalind’s coral! Oh, poor Polly! you must miss your ornaments; but I am obliged frankly to confess, my dear, that they are more becoming to this little cherub than they ever were to you.”

Polly was loudly dressed in blue silk. She came up, and turned Rosalind round, and, putting her hand on her neck, lifted the necklace, and looked at it affectionately.

“I did love those ornaments,” she said; “but, of course, I can’t grudge them to you, Rose. You paid a good sum for them – didn’t you, dear? – although nothing like what they were worth, so, of course, they are yours by every right.”

“You have paid off the debt? I congratulate you, Rose,” said Annie Day.

“Yes,” said Rosalind, blushing.

“I am glad you were able to get the money, my dear.”

“And I wish she hadn’t got it,” retorted Polly. “Money is of no moment to me now. Dad is just rolling in wealth, and I have, in consequence, more money than I know what to do with. I confess I never felt crosser in my life than when you brought me that five-pound note last Monday night, Miss Merton.”

Rosalind coloured, then grew very pale; she saw Annie Day’s eyes blaze and darken. She felt that her friend was putting two and two together, and drawing a conclusion in her own mind. Annie turned abruptly from Rosalind, and, touching Lucy Marsh on the arm, walked with her out of the dressing-room. The unsuspecting Polly brought up the rear with Rosalind.

The four girls entered the drawing-room, and Rosalind tried to forget the sick fear which was creeping round her heart in the excitement of the moment.

Nearly an hour later Maggie Oliphant arrived. She was also in white, but without any ornament, except a solitary diamond star which blazed in the rich coils of her hair. The beautiful Miss Oliphant was received with enthusiasm. Until her arrival Rose had been the undoubted belle of the evening, but beside Maggie the petite charms which Rose possessed sank out of sight. Maggie herself never felt less conscious of beauty; the heaviness at her heart made her cheeks look pale, and gave her brown eyes a languid expression; she was indifferent to the admiration which greeted her. The admiration which greeted her gave her a momentary feeling of surprise – almost of displeasure.

Meta Elliot-Smith and her mother buzzed round Maggie, and expressed their gratitude to her for coming.

“We expect a friend of yours to arrive presently,” said Meta – “Mr Hammond. You know Mr Hammond, don’t you? I have had a note from him. He says he will look in as soon after ten as possible. I am so glad; I was dreadfully afraid he couldn’t come, for he had to go suddenly into the country at the beginning of this week. You know Mr Hammond very well, don’t you, Miss Oliphant?”

“Yes,” replied Maggie, in her careless voice; “he is quite an old friend of mine.”

“You will be glad to see him?”

“Very glad.”

Meta looked at her in a puzzled way. Reports of Hammond’s love affair had reached her ears. She had expected to see emotion and confusion on Maggie’s face; it looked bright and pleased. Her “very glad” had a genuine ring about it.

“I am so delighted he is coming!” repeated Meta. “I do trust he will be here in good time.”

She led Miss Oliphant to a prominent seat at the top of the room as she spoke.

“I shall have to leave soon after ten,” replied Maggie, “so, if Mr Hammond cannot arrive until after that hour, I shall not have the pleasure of seeing him.”

“Oh, but you must really stay later than that; it would be too cruel to leave us so early.”

“I am afraid I cannot. The gates are closed at St. Benet’s at eleven o’clock, and I do not care to remain out until the last moment.”

Meta was obliged, with great reluctance, to leave her guest, and a moment later Annie Day came up eagerly to Maggie’s side.

“It’s all right,” she said, drawing Miss Oliphant into the shelter of a window; “I have found out all I want to know.”

“What is that?” asked Maggie.

“Rosalind Merton is the thief.”

“Miss Day, how can you say such dreadful things?”

“How can Rosalind do them? I am awfully sorry – indeed, I am disgusted – but the facts are too plain.” Miss Day then in a few eager whispers, which Maggie in vain endeavoured to suppress, gave her chain of evidence. Rosalind’s distress; her passionate desire to keep the coral; her entreaties that Miss Day would lend her four guineas; her assurances that she had not a penny in the world to pay her debt; her fears that it was utterly useless for her to expect the money from her mother. Then the curious fact that, on that very same evening, Polly Singleton should have been given a five-pound note by her. “There is not the least doubt,” concluded Miss Day, “that Rosalind must have gone into your room, Miss Oliphant, and stolen the note while Priscilla was absent. You know Miss Peel said that she did leave your room for a moment or two to fetch her Lexicon. Rosalind must have seized the opportunity; there cannot be a doubt of it.”

Maggie’s face turned white; her eyes were full of indignation and horror.

“Something must be done,” continued Annie. “I am no prude, but I draw the line at thieves. Miss Merton ought to be expelled; she is not fit to speak to one of us.”

“The affair is mine,” said Maggie, after a pause. “You must let me deal with it.”

“Will you?”

“I certainly will.”

“To-night?”

“I cannot say; I must think. The whole thing is terrible, it upsets me.”

“I thought you would feel it. I am a good bit upset myself, and so is Lucy Marsh.”

“Does Miss Marsh know, too? In that case, Miss Day, it will, I fear, be my duty to consult Miss Heath. Oh, I must think; I can do nothing hastily. Please, Miss Day, keep your own counsel for the present, and ask Miss Marsh to do the same.”

Annie Day ran off, and Maggie stood by the open window looking out at the starry night. Her head ached; her pulses beat; she felt sick and tired. The noise and laughter which filled the gaily thronged rooms were all discordant to her – she wished she had not come. A voice close by made her start – a hand not only clasped hers, but held it firmly for a moment. She looked up, and said with a sudden impulse, “Oh, Geoffrey! I am glad you are here.” Then, with a burning blush, she withdrew her hand from Hammond’s.

“Can I help you?” he asked. His heart was beating fast; her words were tingling in his ears, but his tone was quiet. “Can I help you?” he repeated. “Here is a seat.” He pulled a chair from behind a curtain, and Maggie dropped into it.

“Something is wrong,” she said; “something dreadful has happened.”

“May I know what it is?”

“I don’t think I have any right to tell you. It is connected with the college; but it has given me a blow, and I was tired beforehand. I came here against my will, and now I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

“That can be easily managed. I will stand here, and keep off all intruders.”

“Thank you.” Maggie put her hand to her forehead.

The headache, which had scarcely left her for a fortnight, was now so acute that all her thoughts were confused; she felt as if she were walking in a dream. It seemed perfectly right and natural that Hammond should stand by her side and protect her from the crowd; it seemed natural to her at that moment, natural, and even right, to appeal to him.

After a long pause, he said —

“I am afraid I also have bad news!”

“How?”

“I went to see my uncle, Mr Hayes.”

“Yes; it was good of you – I remember.”

“I failed in my mission. Mr Hayes says that Miss Peel, our Prissie’s aunt, would rather die than accept help from anyone.”

“Oh, how obstinate some people are!” replied Maggie, wearily. “Happiness, help, and succour come to their very door, and they turn these good things away.”

“That is true,” replied Hammond. “I am firmly convinced,” he added, “that the good angel of happiness is within the reach of most of us once at least in our lives; but for a whim – often for a mere whim – we tell him to go.”

Maggie’s face grew very white. “I must say ‘Good-bye’: I am going home,” she said, rising; then she added, looking full at Hammond, “Sometimes it is necessary to reject happiness; and necessity ought not to be spoken of as a whim.”

Chapter Thirty

“If I Had Known You Sooner.”

As Maggie was leaving the crowded drawing-room, she came face to face with Rosalind. One of those impulses which always guided her, more or less, made her stop suddenly and put her hand on the young girl’s shoulder.

“Will you come home with me?” she asked.

Rosalind was talking gaily at the moment to a very young undergraduate.

“I am obliged to you,” she began; “you are kind, but I have arranged to return to St. Benet’s with Miss Day and Miss Marsh.”

“I should like you to come now with me,” persisted Maggie in a grave voice.

Something in her tone caused Rosalind to turn pale. The sick fear, which had never been absent from her heart during the evening, became on the instant intolerable. She turned to the young lad with whom she had been flirting, bade him a hasty and indifferent “Good-night,” and followed Maggie out of the room.

Hammond accompanied the two girls downstairs, got their cab for them, and helped them in.

After Rosalind consented to come home, Miss Oliphant did not address another word to her. Rosalind sat huddled up in a corner of the cab; Maggie kept the window open, and looked out. The clear moonlight shone on her white face and glistened on her dress. Rosalind kept glancing at her; the guilty girl’s terror of the silent figure by her side grew greater each moment.

The girls reached Heath Hall, and Maggie again touched Rosalind on her arm.

“Come to my room,” she said; “I want to say something to you.”

Without waiting for a reply she went on herself in front. Rosalind followed abjectly; she was shaking in every limb.

The moment Maggie closed her room door, Rosalind flung her cloak off her shoulders, and, falling on her knees, caught the hem of Maggie’s dress and covered her face with it.

“Don’t, Rosalind; get up,” said Miss Oliphant, in a tone of disgust.

“Oh, Maggie, Maggie, do be merciful! Do forgive me! Don’t send me to prison, Maggie – don’t!”

“Get off your knees at once, or I don’t know what I shall do,” replied Maggie.

Rosalind sprang to her feet; she crouched up against the door; her eyes were wide open. Maggie came and faced her.

“Oh, don’t!” said Miss Merton, with a little shriek, “don’t look at me like that!” She put up her hand to her neck and began to unfasten her coral necklace. She took it off, slipped her bracelets from her arms, took her earrings out, and removed her pins.

“You can have them all,” she said, holding out the coral; “they are worth a great deal more – a great deal more than the money I —took!”

“Lay them down,” said Maggie. “Do you think I could touch that coral? Oh, Rosalind,” she added, a sudden rush of intense feeling coming into her voice, “I pity you! I pity any girl who has so base a soul.”

Rosalind began to sob freely. “You don’t know how I was tempted,” she said. “I went through a dreadful time, and you were the cause – you know you were, Maggie. You raised the price of that coral so wickedly, you excited my feelings. I felt as if there was a fiend in me. You did not want the sealskin jacket, but you bid against me, and won it. Then I felt mad, and, whatever you had offered for the coral, I should have bidden higher. It was all your fault; it was you who got me into debt. I would not be in the awful, awful plight I am in to-night but for you, Maggie.”

“Hush!” said Maggie. The pupils of her eyes dilated curiously; she put her hand before them.

“The fruits of my bad half-hours,” she murmured under her breath. After a long pause, she said —

“There is some truth in your words, Rosalind; I did help you to get into this false position. I am sorry; and when I tell Miss Heath the whole circumstance – as I must to-morrow – you may be sure I shall not exonerate myself.”

“Oh, Maggie, Maggie, you won’t tell Miss Heath! If you do, I am certain to be expelled, and my mother – my mother will die; she is not over strong just now, and this will kill her. You cannot be so cruel as to kill my mother, Maggie Oliphant, particularly when you yourself got me into this.”

“I did not get you into this,” retorted Maggie. “I know I am not blameless in the matter; but could I imagine for a moment that any girl, any girl who belonged to this college, could debase herself to steal, and then throw the blame on another. Nancy Banister has told me, Rose, how cruelly you spoke to Priscilla – what agony your cruel words cost her. I did wrong I own, but no act of mine would have tempted another girl to do what you have done. Now, stop crying; I have not brought you here to discuss your wickedness with you. I shall tell the whole circumstance to Miss Heath in the morning. It is my plain duty to do so, and no words of yours can prevent me.”

With a stifled cry, Rosalind Merton again fell on her knees.

“Get up,” said Maggie, “get up at once, or I shall bring Miss Heath here now. Your crime, Rosalind, is known to Miss Day and to Miss Marsh. Even without consulting Miss Heath, I think I can take it upon me to say that you had better leave St. Benet’s by the first train in the morning.”

“Oh, yes – yes! that would be much the best thing to do.”

“You are to go home, remember.”

“Yes, I will certainly go home. But, Maggie, I have no money – I have literally no money.”

“I will ask Priscilla Peel to go with you to the railway-station, and I will give her sufficient money to pay your fare to London – you live in London, don’t you?”

“Yes, at Bayswater.”

“What is your address?”

“19, Queen Street, Bayswater.”

“Priscilla shall telegraph to your mother, when you start, and ask her to meet you at. King’s Cross.”

Rosalind’s face grew paler and paler. “What excuse am I to give to mother?” she asked.

“That is your own affair; I have no doubt you will find something to say. I should advise you, Rosalind, to tell your poor mother the truth, for she is certain to hear all about it from Miss Heath the following morning.”

“Oh, what a miserable, miserable girl I am, Maggie!”

“You are a very miserable and sinful girl. It was a wretched day for St. Benet’s when a girl such as you are came to live here. But I don’t want to speak of that now, Rosalind; there is something you must do before you leave.”

“What is that?”

“You must go to Priscilla Peel, and humbly beg her pardon.”

“Oh, I cannot, I cannot! You have no idea how I hate Priscilla.”

“I am not surprised; the children of darkness generally hate those who walk in the light.”

“Maggie, I can’t beg her pardon.”

“You can please yourself about that: I certainly shall not force you; but, unless you beg Priscilla’s pardon, and confess to her the wicked deed you have done, I shall lend you no money to go home. You can go to your room now, Rosalind; I am tired, and wish to go to bed. You will be able to let me know your decision in the morning.”

Rosalind turned slowly away. She reached her room before the other girls had arrived home, and tossing the coral ornaments on her dressing-table, she flung herself across her bed, and gave way to the most passionate, heart-broken sobs that had ever rent her baby frame.

She was still sobbing, but more quietly, for the force of her passion had exhausted her, when a very light touch on her shoulder caused her to raise herself, and look up wildly. Prissie was bending over her.

“I knocked several times,” she said, “but you did not hear me, so I came in. You will be sick if you cry like this, Rose. Let me help you to go to bed.”

“No, no; please don’t touch me. I don’t want you, of all people, to do anything for me.”

“I wish you would let me undress you. I have often helped Aunt Raby to go to bed when she was very tired. Come, Rose, don’t turn away from me. Why should you?”

“Priscilla, you are the last person in the world who ought to be kind to me just now; you don’t know, you can never, never guess, what I did to you.”

“Yes, I can partly guess, but I don’t want to think of it.”

“Listen, Prissie: when I stole that money, I hoped people would accuse you of the theft.”

Prissie’s eyes filled with tears. “It was a dreadful thing to do,” she said, faintly.

“Oh, I knew you could never forgive me.”

“I do forgive you.”

“What! aren’t you angry? Aren’t you frantic with rage and passion?”

“I don’t wish to think of myself at all: I want to think of you. You are the one to be pitied.”

“I? Who could pity me?”

“Well, Rosalind, I do,” answered Priscilla in a slow voice; “you have sunk so low, you have done such a dreadful thing, the kind of thing that the angels in heaven would grieve over.”

“Oh, please don’t talk to me of them.”

“And then, Rosalind,” continued Prissie, “you look so unlike a girl who would do this sort of thing. I have a little sister at home – a dear, little innocent sister, and her eyes are blue like yours, and she is fair, too, as you are fair. I love her, and I think all good things of her. Rosalind, I fancy that your mother thinks good things of you. I imagine that she is proud of you, and that she loves to look at your pretty face.”

“Oh, don’t – don’t?” sobbed Rosalind. “Oh, poor mother, poor mother!” she burst into softened and sorrowful weeping. The hardness of her heart had melted for the time under the influence of Priscilla’s tender words.

“I wish I had known you sooner,” whispered Rose when Prissie bent down and kissed her before leaving her for the night. “Perhaps I might have been a good girl if I had really known you sooner, Priscilla Peel.”

Chapter Thirty One

A Message

Early the next morning Rosalind Merton left St. Benet’s College never to come back. She took all her possessions with her, even the pink coral, which, to their credit be it spoken, not a girl in the college would have accepted at her hands. Annie Day and Lucy Marsh were not the sort of people to keep their secret long, and before the day of her departure had expired nearly everyone at Heath Hall knew of Rosalind’s crime. Miss Heath was made acquainted with the whole story at an early hour that morning.

“I may have done very wrong to let her go without obtaining your permission, Miss Heath,” said Maggie, when the story was finished. “If so, please forgive me, and also allow me to say that, were the same thing to occur again, I fear I should act in the same way. I think my primary object in giving Rosalind money to go home this morning was to save the college from any open slur being cast upon it.”

Miss Heath’s face had grown very pale while Maggie was speaking. She was quite silent for a moment or two after the story was finished; then, going up to Miss Oliphant, she took her hand and kissed her.

“On the whole, my dear,” she said, “I am obliged to you. Had this story been told me while Miss Merton was in the house, I should have been obliged to detain her until all the facts of this disgraceful case were laid before the college authorities, and then, of course, there would have been no course open but to publicly expel her. This, at least, you have spared St. Benet’s, and I am relieved from the terrible responsibility. I’ll say nothing now about the rule you have broken, for, of course, you had no right to assist Rosalind to go home without permission. It lies within my discretion to forgive you, Maggie, however, so take my kiss, dear.”

The Vice-Principal and Miss Oliphant talked for some little time longer over Rosalind’s terrible fall, and, as Miss Heath felt confident that the story would get abroad in the college, she said she would be forced to mention the circumstances to their Principal, Miss Vincent, and also to say something in public to the girls of Heath Hall on the subject.

“And now we will turn to something else,” she said. “I am concerned at those pale cheeks, Maggie. My dear,” as the young girl coloured brightly, “your low spirits weigh on my heart.”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” said Maggie, hastily.

“It is scarcely kind to say this to one who loves you. I have been many years Vice-Principal of this Hall, and no girl, except Annabel Lee, has come so close to my heart as you have, Maggie. Some girls come here, spend the required three years, and go away again without making much impression on anyone. In your case this will not be so. I have not the least doubt that you will pass your tripos examination with credit in the summer; you will then leave us, but not to be forgotten. I, for one, Maggie, can never forget you.”

“How good you are!” said Maggie.

Tears trembled in the eyes, which were far too proud to weep except in private.

Miss Heath looked attentively at the young student, for whom she felt so strong an interest. Priscilla’s words had scarcely been absent from her night or day since they were spoken.

“Maggie ought to marry Mr Hammond. Maggie loves him, and he loves her, but a bogie stands in the way.” Night and day Miss Heath had pondered these words. Now, looking at the fair face, whose roundness of outline was slightly worn, at the eyes which had looked at her for a moment through a veil of sudden tears, she resolved to take the initiative in a matter which she considered quite outside her province.

“Sit down, Maggie,” she said. “I think the time has come for me to tell you something which has lain as a secret on my heart for over a year.”

Maggie looked up in surprise, then dropped into a chair, and folded her hands in her lap. She was slightly surprised at Miss Heath’s tone, but not as yet intensely interested.

“You know, my dear,” she said, “that I never interfere with the life a student lives outside this Hall. Provided she obeys the rules and mentions the names of the friends she visits, she is at liberty, practically, to do as she pleases in those hours which are not devoted to lectures. A girl at St. Benet’s may have a great, a very great, friend at Kingsdene or elsewhere, of whom the Principals of the college know nothing. I think I may add with truth that were the girl to confide in the Principal of her college in case of any friendship developing into – into love, she would receive the deepest sympathy and the tenderest counsels that the case would admit of. The Principal who was confided in would regard herself for the time being as the young girl’s mother.”

Maggie’s eyes were lowered now; her lips trembled; she played nervously with a flower which she held in her hand.

“I must apologise,” continued Miss Heath, “for having alluded to a subject which may not in the least concern you, my dear. My excuse for doing so is that what I have to tell you directly bears on the question of marriage. I would have spoken to you long ago, but, until lately, until a few days ago, I had not the faintest idea that such a subject had even distantly visited your mind.”

“Who told you that it had?” questioned Maggie; she spoke with anger. “Who has dared to interfere – to spread rumours? I am not going to marry. I shall never marry.”

“It is not in my power at present to tell you how the rumour has reached me,” continued Miss Heath, “but, having reached me, I want to say a few words about – about Annabel Lee.”

“Oh, don’t!” said Maggie, rising to her feet, her face pale as death. She put her hand to her heart as she spoke; a pang, not so much mental as bodily, had gone through it.

“My dear, I think you must listen to me while I give you a message from one whom you dearly loved, whose death has changed you, Maggie, whose death we have all deeply mourned.”

“A message?” said Maggie; “a message from Annabel! What message?”

“I regarded it as the effects of delirium at the time,” continued Miss Heath, “and, as you had fever immediately afterwards, dreaded referring to the subject. Now I blame myself for not having told you sooner, for I believe that Annabel was conscious, and that she had a distinct meaning in her words.”

“What did she say? Please don’t keep me in suspense.”

“It was shortly before she died,” continued Miss Heath; “the fever had run very high, and she was weak, and I could scarcely catch her words. She looked at me. You know how Annabel could look, Maggie; you know how expressive those eyes could be, how that voice could move one.”