AN UNWILLING “AT HOME”
Most of the girls who sat at those dinner-tables had fringed or tousled
or curled locks. Priscilla’s were brushed simply away from her broad
forehead. After saying her last words, she bent her head low over her
plate and longed even for the protection of a fringe to hide her
burning blushes. Her momentary courage had evaporated; she was shocked
at having betrayed herself to a stranger; her brief fit of passion left
her stiffer and shyer than ever. Blinding tears rushed to Priscilla’s
eyes, and her terror was that they would drop on to her plate. Suppose
some of those horrid girls saw her crying? Hateful thought. She would
rather die than show emotion before them.
At this moment a soft, plump little hand was slipped into hers and the
sweetest of voices said:
“I am so sorry anything has seemed unkind to you. Believe me, we are
not what you imagine. We have our fun and our prejudices, of course,
but we are not what you think we are.”
Priscilla could not help smiling, nor could she resist slightly
squeezing the fingers which touched hers.
“You are not unkind, I know,” she answered; and she ate the rest of her
dinner in a comforted frame of mind.
After dinner one of the lecturers who resided at Heath Hall, a
pleasant, bright girl of two- or three-and-twenty, came and introduced
herself, and presently took Priscilla with her to her own room, to talk
over the line of study which the young girl proposed to take up. This
conference lasted some little time, and then Priscilla, in the
lecturer’s company, returned to the hall for tea.
A great many girls kept coming in and out. Some stayed to have tea, but
most helped themselves to tea and bread and butter and took them away
to partake of in their own private rooms.
Maggie Oliphant and Nancy Banister presently rushed in for this
purpose. Maggie, seeing Priscilla, ran up to her.
“How are you getting on?” she asked brightly. “Oh, by-the-by, will you
cocoa with me to-night at half-past ten?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” answered Priscilla. “But I’ll do it,” she
added, her eyes brightening.
“All right, I’ll explain the simple ceremony when you come. My room is
next to yours, so you’ll have no difficulty in finding me out. I don’t
expect to have any one present except Miss Banister,” nodding her head
in Nancy’s direction, “and perhaps one other girl. By-by, I’ll see you
at half-past ten.”
Maggie turned to leave the hall, but Nancy lingered for a moment by
Priscilla’s side.
“Wouldn’t you like to take your tea up to your room?” she asked. “We
most of us do it. You may, you know.”
“I don’t think I wish to,” answered Priscilla in an uncertain voice.
Nancy half turned to go, then came back.
“You are going to unpack by and by, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, when I get back to my room.”
“Perhaps you ought to know beforehand; the girls will be coming to
call.”
Priscilla raised her eyes.
“What girls?” she asked, alarm in her tone.
“Oh, most of the students in your corridor. They always call on a
fresher the first night in her room. You need not bother yourself about
them; they’ll just talk for a little while and then go away. What is
the matter, Miss Peel? Maggie has told me your name, you see.”
“What you tell me sounds so very— very formal.”
“But it isn’t— not really. Shall I come and help you to entertain
them?”
“I wish——” began Priscilla. She hesitated; the words seemed to stick in
her throat.
“What did you say?” Nancy bent forward a little impatiently.
“I wish— yes, do come,” with a violent effort.
“All right, you may expect me.”
Nancy flew after Maggie Oliphant, and Priscilla went slowly up the
wide, luxurious stairs. She turned down the corridor which led to her
own room. There were doors leading out of this corridor at both sides,
and Priscilla caught glimpses of luxurious rooms bright with flowers
and electric light. Girls were laughing and chatting in them; she saw
pictures on the walls and lounges and chairs scattered about. Her own
room was at the far end of the corridor. The electric light was also
brightening it, but the fire was unlit, and the presence of the
unpacked trunk, taking up a position of prominence on the floor, gave
it a very unhomelike feel. In itself the room was particularly
picturesque. It had two charming lattice windows, set in deep square
bays. One window faced the fireplace, the other the door. The effect
was slightly irregular, but for that very reason all the more charming.
The walls of the room were painted light blue; there was a
looking-glass over the mantel-piece set in a frame of the palest, most
delicate blue. A picture-rail ran round the room about six feet from
the ground, and the high frieze above had a scroll of wild roses
painted on it in bold, free relief.
The panels of the doors were also decorated with sprays of wild flowers
in picturesque confusion. Both the flowers and the scroll were boldly
designed, but were unfinished, the final and completing touches
remaining yet to be given.
Priscilla looked hungrily at these unexpected trophies of art. She
could have shouted with glee as she recognized some of her dear, wild
Devonshire flowers, among the groups on the door panels. She wondered
if all the rest of the students were treated to these artistic
decorations and grew a little happier and less homesick at the thought.
Priscilla could have been an artist herself had the opportunity arisen,
but she was one of those girls all alive with aspiration and longing
who never up to the present had come in the way of special culture in
any style.
She stood for some time gazing at the groups of wild flowers, then
remembering with horror that she was to receive visitors that night,
she looked round the room to see if she could do anything to make it
appear homelike and inviting.
It was a nice room, certainly. Priscilla had never before in her whole
life occupied such a luxurious apartment, and yet it had a cold,
dreary, uninhabited feel. She had an intuition that none of the other
students’ rooms looked like hers. She rushed to light the fire, but
could not find the matches, which had been removed from their place on
the mantel-piece, and felt far too shy to ring the electric bell. It
was Priscilla’s fashion to clasp her hands together when she felt a
sense of dismay, and she did so now as she looked around the pretty
room, which yet with all its luxuries looked to her cold and dreary.
The furniture was excellent of its kind. A Turkey carpet covered the
center of the floor, the boards round the edge were stained and
brightly polished. In one corner of the room was a little bed, made to
look like a sofa by day, with a Liberty cretonne covering. A curtain of
the same shut away the wardrobe and washing apparatus. Just under one
of the bay windows stood a writing-table, so contrived as to form a
writing-table, and a bookcase at the top, and a chest of drawers to
hold linen below. Besides this there was a small square table for tea
in the room and a couple of chairs. The whole effect was undoubtedly
bare.
Priscilla was hesitating whether to begin to unpack her trunk or not
when a light knock was heard at her door. She said “Come in,” and two
girls burst rather noisily into the apartment.
“How do you do?” they said, favoring the fresh girl with a brief nod.
“You came to-day, didn’t you? What are you going to study? Are you
clever?”
These queries issued rapidly from the lips of the tallest of the girls.
She had red hair, tousled and tossed about her head. Her face was
essentially commonplace; her small restless eyes now glanced at
Priscilla, now wandered over the room. She did not wait for a reply to
any of her queries, but turned rapidly to her companion.
“I told you so, Polly,” she said. “I was quite sure that she was going
to be put into Miss Lee’s room. You see, I’m right; this _is_ Annabel
Lee’s old room; it has never been occupied since.”
“Hush!” said the other girl.
The two walked across the apartment and seated themselves on
Priscilla’s bed.
There came a fresh knock at the door, and this time three students
entered. They barely nodded to Priscilla and then rushed across the
room with cries of rapture to greet the girls who were seated on the
bed.
“How do you do, Miss Atkins? How do you do, Miss Jones?”
Miss Jones and Miss Atkins exchanged kisses with Miss Phillips, Miss
Marsh and Miss Day. The babel of tongues rose high, and every one had
something to say with regard to the room which had been assigned to
Priscilla.
“Look,” said Miss Day, “it was in that corner she had her
rocking-chair. Girls, _do_ you remember Annabel’s rocking-chair, and
how she used to sway herself backward and forward in it and half-shut
her lovely eyes?”
“Oh, and don’t I just seem to _see_ that little red tea-table of hers
near the fire,” burst from Miss Marsh. “That Japanese table, with the
Japanese tea-set— oh dear, oh dear! those cups of tea— those cakes!
Well, the room _was_ luxurious, _was_ worth coming to see in Annabel’s
time.”
“It’s more than it is now,” laughed Miss Jones in a harsh voice. “How
bare the walls look without her pictures. It was in that recess the
large figure of Hope by Burne-Jones used to hang, and there, that
queer, wild, wonderful head looking out of clouds. You know she never
would tell us the artist’s name. Yes, she had pretty things everywhere!
How the room is altered! I don’t think I care for it a bit now.”
“Could any one who knew Annabel Lee care for the room without her?”
asked one of the girls. She had a common, not to say vulgar, face, but
it wore a wistful expression as she uttered these words.
All this time Priscilla was standing, feeling utterly shy and
miserable. From time to time other girls came in; they nodded to her
and then rushed upon their companions. The eager talk began afresh, and
always there were looks of regret and allusions, accompanied by sighs,
to the girl who had lived in the room last.
“Well,” said one merry little girl, who was spoken to by the others as
Ada Hardy, “I have no doubt that by and by, when Miss——” She glanced
toward Priscilla.
“Peel,” faltered Priscilla.
“When Miss Peel unpacks her trunk, she’ll make the room look very
pretty, too.”
“She can’t,” said Miss Day in a tragic voice; “she never could make the
room look at it used to— not if she was to live till the age of
Methuselah. Of course you’ll improve it, Miss Peel; you couldn’t
possibly exist in it as it is now.”
“I can tell you of a capital shop in Kingsdene, Miss Peel,” said Miss
Marsh, “where you can buy tables and chairs, and pretty artistic
cloths, and little whatnots of all descriptions. I’d advise you to go
to Rigg’s. He’s in the High Street, No. 48.”
“But Spilman has much the most _recherche’_ articles, you know, Lucy,”
interposed Miss Day. “I’ll walk over to Spilman’s to-morrow with you,
if you like, Miss Peel.”
Before Priscilla had time to reply there was again a knock at the door,
and this time Nancy Banister, looking flushed and pretty, came in.
She took in the scene at a glance; numbers of girls making themselves
at home in Priscilla’s room, some seated on her trunk, some on her
bureau, several curled up in comfortable attitudes on her bed and she
herself standing, meek, awkward, depressed, near one of the windows.
“How tired you look, Miss Peel!” said Nancy Banister.
Priscilla smiled gratefully at her.
“And your trunk is not unpacked yet?”
“Oh! there is time enough,” faltered Priscilla.
“Are we in your way?” suddenly spoke Miss Marsh, springing to her feet.
“Good night. My name is Marsh, my room is thirty-eight.”
She swung herself lazily and carelessly out of the room, followed, at
longer or shorter intervals, by the other girls, who all nodded to
Priscilla, told her their names and one or two the numbers of their
rooms. At last she was left alone with Nancy Banister.
“Poor thing! How tired and white you look!” said Nancy. “But now that
dreadful martyrdom is over, you shall have a real cozy time. Don’t you
want a nice hot cup of cocoa? It will be ready in a minute or two. And
please may I help you to unpack?”
“Thank you,” said Priscilla; her teeth were chattering. “If I might
have a fire?” she asked suddenly.
“Oh, you poor, shivering darling! Of course. Are there no matches here?
There were some on the mantel-piece before dinner. No, I declare they
have vanished. How careless of the maid. I’ll run into Maggie’s room
and fetch some.”
Miss Banister was not a minute away. She returned with a box of
matches, and, stooping down, set a light to the wood, and a pleasant
fire was soon blazing and crackling merrily.
“Now, isn’t that better?” said Nancy. “Please sit down on your bed and
give me the key of your trunk. I’ll soon have the things out and put
all to rights for you. I’m a splendid unpacker.”
But Priscilla had no desire to have her small and meager wardrobe
overhauled even by the kindest of St. Benet’s girls.
“I will unpack presently myself, if you don’t mind,” she said. She felt
full of gratitude, but she could not help an almost surly tone coming
into her voice.
Nancy drew back, repulsed and distressed.
“Perhaps you would like me to go away?” she said. “I will go into
Maggie’s room and let you know when cocoa is ready.”
“Thank you,” said Prissie. Miss Banister disappeared, and Priscilla sat
on by the fire, unconscious that she had given any pain or annoyance,
thinking with gratitude of Nancy, and with feelings of love of Maggie
Oliphant, and wondering what her little sisters were doing without her
at home to-night.
By and by there came a tap at her door. Priscilla ran to open it. Miss
Oliphant stood outside.
“Won’t you come in?” said Priscilla, throwing the door wide open and
smiling with joy. It was already delightful to her to look at Maggie.
“Please come in,” she added in a tone almost of entreaty.
Maggie Oliphant started and turned pale. “Into that room? No, no, I
can’t,” she said in a queer voice. She rushed back to her own, leaving
Priscilla standing in amazement by her open door.
There was a moment’s silence. Then Miss Oliphant’s voice, rich, soft
and lazy, was heard within the shelter of her own apartment.
“Please come in, Miss Peel; cocoa awaits you. Do not stand on
ceremony.”
Priscilla went timidly across the landing, and the instant found
herself in one of the prettiest of the students’ rooms at St. Benet’s.
A few rare prints and some beautiful photogravures of well-known
pictures adorned the walls. The room was crowded with knick-knacks and
rendered gay and sweet by many tall flowers in pots. A piano stood open
by one of the walls and a violin lay carelessly on a chair not far off.
There were piles of new music and some tempting, small, neatly bound
books lying about. A fire glowed on the hearth and a little brass
kettle sang merrily on the hob. The cocoa-table was drawn up in front
of the fire and on a quaintly shaped tray stood the bright little
cocoa-pot and the oddly devised cups and saucers.
“Welcome to St. Benet’s!” said Maggie, going up and taking Priscilla’s
hand cordially within her own. “Now you’ll have to get into this low
chair and make yourself quite at home and happy.”
“How snug you are here,” said Prissie, her eyes brightening and a pink
color mounting into her cheeks. She was glad that Maggie was alone; she
felt more at ease with her than with any one, but the next moment she
said with a look of apparent regret:
“I thought Miss Banister was in your room?”
“No; Nancy has gone to her own room at the end of the corridor to do
some work for an hour. She will come back to say good night. She always
does. Are you sorry to have me by myself?”
“Indeed I am not,” said Priscilla. The smile, which made her rather
plain face attractive, crept slowly back to it. Maggie poured out a cup
of cocoa and brought it to her. Then, drawing another chair forward,
she seated herself in it, sipped her own cocoa and began to talk.
Long afterward Priscilla remembered that talk. It was not what Maggie
said, for her conversation in itself was not at all brilliant, but it
was the sound of her rich, calm, rather lazy voice, the different
lights which glanced and gleamed in her eyes, the dimples about her
mouth, the attitude she put herself in. Maggie had a way of changing
color, too, which added to her fascination. Sometimes the beautiful
oval of her face would he almost ivory white, but then again a rosy
cloud would well up and up the cheeks and even slightly suffuse the
broad, low forehead. Her face was never long the same, never more than
a moment in repose; eyes, mouth, brow, even the very waves of her hair
seemed to Priscilla, this first night as she sat by her hearth, to be
all speech.
The girls grew cozy and confidential together. Priscilla told Maggie
about her home, a little also about her past history and her motive in
coming to St. Benet’s. Maggie sympathized with all the expression she
was capable of. At last Priscilla bade her new friend good night, and,
rising from her luxurious chair, prepared to go back to her own room.
She had just reached the door of Maggie’s room, and was about to turn
the handle, when a sudden thought arrested her. She came back a few
steps.
“May I ask you a question?” she said.
“Certainly,” replied Miss Oliphant.
“Who is the girl who used to live in my room? Annabel Lee, the other
girls call her. Who is she? What is there remarkable about her?”
To Priscilla’s astonishment, Maggie started a step forward, her eyes
blazed with an expression which was half frightened— half angry. She
interlocked one soft hand inside the other, her face grew white, hard
and strained.
“You must not ask me about Annabel Lee,” she said in a whisper, “for I—
I can tell you nothing about her. I can _never_ tell you about her—
never.”
Then she rushed to her sofa-bed, flung herself upon it face downward,
and burst into queer, silent, distressful tears.
Some one touched Priscilla softly an her shoulder.
“Let me take you to your room, Miss Peel,” said Nancy Banister. “Don’t
take any notice of Maggie; she will be all right by and by.”
Nancy took Priscilla’s hand and walked with her across the corridor.
“I am so sorry I said anything to hurt Miss Oliphant,” said Priscilla.
“Oh, you were not to blame. You could not know any better. Of course,
now that you do know, you will never do it again.”
“But I don’t know anything now. Please will _you_ tell me who Annabel
Lee is?”
“Hush! don’t speak so loud. Annabel Lee” Nancy’s eyes filled with
tears— “no girl in the college was so popular.”
“Why do you say _was?_ and why do you cry?”
“I did not know that I cried. Annabel Lee is dead.”
“Oh!”
Priscilla walked into her room and Nancy went back to Maggie Oliphant.