A GOOD THING TO BE YOUNG
It was long past the tea-hour at Heath Hall when Maggie Oliphant and
Priscilla started on their walk home. The brightness and gaiety of the
merry party at the Marshalls’ had increased as the moments flew on.
Even Priscilla had caught something of the charm. The kindly spirit
which animated every one seemed to get into her. She first became
interested, then she forgot herself. Prissie was no longer awkward; she
began to talk, and when she liked she could talk well.
As the two girls were leaving the house Geoffrey Hammond put in a
sudden appearance.
“I will see you home,” he said to Maggie.
“No, no, you mustn’t,” she answered; her tone was vehement. She forgot
Prissie’s presence and half turned her back on her.
“How unkind you are!” said the young man in a low tone.
“No, Geoffrey, but I am struggling— you don’t know how hard I am
struggling— to be true to myself.”
“You are altogether mistaken in your idea of truth,” said Hammond,
turning and walking a little way by her side.
“I am not mistaken— I am right.”
“Well, at least allow me to explain my side of the question.”
“No, it cannot be; there shall be no explanations, I am resolved. Good
night, you must not come any further.”
She held out her hand. Hammond took it limply between his own.
“You are very cruel,” he murmured in the lowest of voices.
He raised his hat, forgot even to bow to Priscilla, and hurried off
down a side street.
Maggie walked on a little way. Then she turned and looked down the
street where he had vanished. Suddenly she raised her hand to her lips,
kissed it and blew the kiss after the figure which had already
disappeared. She laughed excitedly when she did this, and her whole
face was glowing with a beautiful color.
Prissie, standing miserable and forgotten by the tall, handsome girl’s
side, could see the light in her eyes and the glow on her cheeks in the
lamplight.
“I am here,” said Priscilla at last in a low, half-frightened voice. “I
am sorry I am here, but I am. I heard what you said to Mr. Hammond. I
am sorry I heard.”
Maggie turned slowly and looked at her. Prissie returned her gaze.
Then, as if further words were wrung from her against her will, she
continued:
“I saw the tears in your eyes in the fern-house at the Marshalls’. I am
very sorry, but I did see them.”
“My dear Prissie!” said Maggie. She went up suddenly to the girl, put
her arm round her neck and kissed her.
“Come home now,” she said, drawing Prissie’s hand through her arm. “I
don’t think I greatly mind your knowing,” she said after a pause. “You
are true; I see it in your face. You would never tell again— you would
never make mischief.”
“Tell again! Of course not.” Prissie’s words came out with great vigor.
“I know you would not, Priscilla; may I call you Priscilla?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be my friend and shall I be your friend?”
“If you would,” said Prissie. “But you don’t mean it. It is impossible
that you can mean it. I’m not a bit like you— and— and— you only say
these things to be kind.”
“What do you mean, Priscilla?”
“I must tell you,” said Prissie, turning very pale. “I heard what you
said to Miss Banister the night I came to the college.”
“What I said to Miss Banister? What did I say?”
“Oh, can’t you remember? The words seemed burnt into me: I shall never
forget them. I had left my purse in the dining-hall, and I was going to
fetch it. Your door was a little open. I heard my name, and I stopped—
yes, I did stop to listen.”
“Oh, what a naughty, mean little Prissie! You stopped to listen. And
what did you hear? Nothing good, of course? The bad thing was said to
punish you for listening.”
“I heard,” said Priscilla, her own cheeks crimson now, “I heard you say
that it gave you an aesthetic pleasure to be kind, and that was why you
were good to me.”
Maggie felt her own color rising.
“Well, my dear,” she said, “it still gives me an aesthetic pleasure to
be kind. You could not expect me to fall in love with you the moment I
saw you. I was kind to you then, perhaps, for the reason I stated. It
is very different now.”
“It was wrong of you to be kind to me for that reason.”
“Wrong of me? What an extraordinary girl you are, Priscilla— why was it
wrong of me?”
“Because I learned to love you. You were gentle to me and spoke
courteously when others were rude and only laughed; my whole heart went
out to you when you were so sweet and gentle and kind. I did not think—
I could not possibly think— that you were good just because it gave you
a sort of selfish pleasure. When I heard your words I felt dreadful. I
hated St. Benet’s; I wished I had never come. Your words turned
everything to bitterness for me.”
“Did they really, Priscilla? Oh, Prissie! what a thoughtless, wild,
impulsive creature I am. Well, I don’t feel now as I did that night. If
those words were cruel, forgive me. Forget those words, Prissie.”
“I will if you will.”
“I? I have forgotten them utterly.”
“Thank you, thank you.”
“Then we’ll be friends— real friends; true friends?”
Yes.”
“You must say Yes, Maggie.’”
“Yes, Maggie.”
“That is right. Now keep your hand in my arm. Let’s walk fast. Is it
not glorious to walk in this semi-frosty sort of weather? Prissie,
you’ll see a vast lot that you don’t approve of in your new friend.”
“Oh, I don’t care,” said Priscilla.
She felt so joyous she could have skipped.
“I’ve as many sides,” continued Maggie, “as a chamelon has colors. I am
the gayest of the gay, as well as the saddest of the sad. When I am gay
you may laugh with me, but I warn you when I am sad you must never cry
with me. Leave me alone when I have my dark moods on, Prissie.”
“Very well, Maggie, I’ll remember.”
“I think you’ll make a delightful friend,” said Miss Oliphant, just
glancing at her; “but I pity your side of the bargain.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll try you so fearfully.”
“Oh, no, you won’t. I don’t want to have a perfect friend.”
“Perfect. No, child— Heaven forbid. But there are shades of perfection.
Now, when I get into my dark moods, I feel wicked as well as sad. No,
we won’t talk of them; we’ll keep them away. Prissie, I feel good
to-night— good— and glad: it’s such a nice feeling.”
“I am sure of it,” said Priscilla.
“What do you know about it, child? You have not tasted life yet. Wait
until you do. For instance— no, though— I won’t enlighten you. Prissie,
what do you think of Geoffrey Hammond?”
“I think he loves you very much.”
“Poor Geoffrey! Now, Prissie, you are to keep that little thought quite
dark in your mind— in fact, you are to put it out of your mind. You are
not to associate my name with Mr. Hammond’s— not even in your thoughts.
You will very likely hear us spoken of together, and some of the stupid
girls here will make little quizzing, senseless remarks. But there will
be no truth in them, Prissie. He is nothing to me nor I to him.”
“Then why did you blow a kiss after him?” asked Priscilla.
Maggie stood still. It was too dark for Priscilla to see her blush.
“Oh, my many-sided nature!” she suddenly exclaimed. “It was a wicked
sprite made me blow that kiss. Prissie, my dear, I am cold: race me to
the house.”
The two girls entered the wide hall, flushed and laughing. Other girls
were lingering about on the stairs. Some were just starting off to
evening service at Kingsdene; others were standing in groups, chatting.
Nancy Banister came up and spoke to Maggie. Maggie took her arm and
walked away with her.
Prissie found herself standing alone in the hall. It was as if the
delightful friendship cemented between herself and Miss Oliphant in the
frosty air outside had fallen to pieces like a castle of cards the
moment they entered the house. Prissie felt a chill. Her high spirits
went down a very little. Then, resolving to banish the ignoble spirit
of distrust, she prepared to run upstairs to her own room.
Miss Heath called her name as she was passing an open door.
“Is that you, my dear? Will you come to my room after supper to-night?”
“Oh, thank you,” said Prissie, her eyes sparkling.
Miss Heath came to the threshold of her pretty room and smiled at the
young girl.
“You look well and happy,” she said. “You are getting at home here. You
will love us all yet.”
“I love you now!” said Prissie with fervor.
Miss Heath, prompted by the look of intense and sincere gladness on the
young face, bent and kissed Priscilla. A rather disagreeable voice said
suddenly at her back:
“I beg your pardon,” and Lucy Marsh ran down the stairs.
She had knocked against Prissie in passing; she had witnessed Miss
Heath’s kiss. The expression on Lucy’s face was unpleasant. Prissie did
not notice it, however. She went slowly up to her room. The electric
light was on, the fire was blazing merrily. Priscilla removed her hat
and jacket, threw herself into the one easy-chair the room contained,
and gave herself up to pleasant dreams. Many new aspects of life were
opening before her. She felt that it was a good thing to be young, and
she was distinctly conscious of a great, soft glow of happiness.