IN MISS ECCLESTON’S SITTING-ROOM
Miss Eccleston was a dark, heavy-looking person; she was not as
attractive either in appearance or manner as Miss Heath. She was
estimable, and the college authorities thought most highly of her, but
her character possessed more hardness than softness, and she was not as
popular with the girls and young lecturers who lived in Katharine Hall
as was Miss Heath with her girls.
When Maggie entered Miss Eccleston’s sitting-room that evening she
found the room about half-full of eager, excited-looking girls. Miss
Eccleston was standing up and speaking; Miss Heath was leaning against
the wall; a velvet curtain made a background which brought out her
massive and grand figure in full relief.
Miss Eccleston looked excited and angry; Miss Heath’s expression was a
little perplexed, and a kind of sorrowful mirth brought smiles to her
lips now and then, which she was most careful to suppress instantly.
As Maggie made her way to the front of the room she recognized several
of the girls. Rosalind Merton, Annie Day, Lucy Marsh were all present.
She saw them, although they were standing hidden behind many other
girls. Prissie, too, was there— she had squeezed herself into a corner.
She looked awkward, plain and wretched. She was clasping and unclasping
her hands and trying to subdue the nervous tremors which she could not
conceal.
Maggie, as she walked across the room, singled Prissie out. She gave
her a swift glance, a brilliant and affectionate smile and then stood
in such a position that neither Miss Eccleston nor Miss Heath could
catch a glimpse of her.
Miss Eccleston, who had been speaking when Maggie entered the room, was
now silent. She had a note-book in her hand and was rapidly writing
something in it with a pencil. Some one gave Maggie a rather severe
prod on her elbow. Polly Singleton, tall, flushed and heavy, stood
close to her side.
“You’ll stand up for me, won’t you, Miss Oliphant?” whispered Polly.
Maggie raised her eyes, looked at the girl, who was even taller than
herself, and began to reply in her usual voice.
“Silence,” said Miss Eccleston. She put down her note-book. “I wish for
no conversation between you at the present moment, young ladies. Good
evening, Miss Oliphant; I am pleased to see you here. I shall have a
few questions to ask you in a minute. Now, Miss Singleton, if you
please, we will resume our conversation. You have confessed to the fact
of the auction. I wish now to ascertain what your motive was.”
Poor Polly stammered and reddened, twisted her hands as badly as
Prissie herself could have done and looked to right and left of her in
the most bewildered and unhappy manner.
“Don’t you hear me, Miss Singleton? I wish to know what your motive was
in having an auction in Katharine Hall,” repeated Miss Eccleston.
“Tell her the truth,” whispered Maggie.
Polly, who was in a condition to catch even at a straw for support,
said falteringly:
“I had the auction in my room because of dad.”
Miss Eccleston raised her brows. The amused smile of sorrow round Miss
Heath’s mouth became more marked. She came forward a few steps and
stood near Miss Eccleston.
“You must explain yourself, Miss Singleton,” repeated the latter lady.
“Do tell everything,” said Maggie again.
“Dad is about the only person I hate vexing,” began Polly once more.
“He is awfully rich, but he hates me to get into debt, and— and— there
was no other way to raise money. I couldn’t tell dad— I— _couldn’t_
keep out of debt, so I had to sell my things.”
“You have made a very lame excuse, Miss Singleton,” said Miss Eccleston
after a pause. “You did something which was extremely irregular and
improper. Your reason for doing it was even worse than the thing
itself. You were in debt. The students of St. Benet’s are not expected
to be in debt.”
“But there’s no rule against it,” suddenly interrupted Maggie.
“Hush! your turn to speak will come presently. You know, Miss
Singleton— all the right-minded girls in this college know— that we
deal in principles, not rules. Now, please go on with your story.”
Polly’s broken and confused narrative continued for the next five
minutes. There were some titters from the girls behind her— even Miss
Heath smiled faintly. Miss Eccleston alone remained grave and
displeased.
“That will do,” she said at last. “You are a silly and rash girl, and
your only possible defense is your desire to keep the knowledge of your
extravagance from your father. Your love for him, however, has never
taught you true nobility. Had you that even in the most shadowy degree,
you would abstain from the things which he detests. He gives you an
ample allowance. Were you a schoolgirl and I your mistress, I should
punish you severely for your conduct.”
Miss Eccleston paused. Polly put her handkerchief up to her eyes and
began to sob loudly.
“Miss Oliphant,” said Miss Eccleston, “will you please account for the
fact that you, who are looked up to in this college, you who are one of
our senior students, and for whom Miss Heath has a high regard, took
part in the disgraceful scenes which occurred in Miss Singleton’s room
on Monday evening?”
“I shall certainly tell you the truth,” retorted Maggie. She paused for
a moment. Then, the color flooding her cheeks, and her eyes looking
straight before her, she began:
“I went to Miss Singleton’s room knowing that I was doing wrong. I
hated to go and did not take the smallest interest in the proceedings
which were being enacted there.” She paused again. Her voice, which had
been slightly faltering, grew a little firmer. Her eyes met Miss
Heath’s, which were gazing at her in sorrowful and amazed surprise.
Then she continued: “I did not go alone. I took another and perfectly
innocent girl with me. She is a newcomer, and this is her first term.
She would naturally be led by me, and I wish therefore to exonerate her
completely. Her name is Priscilla Peel. She did not buy anything, and
she hated being there even more than I did, but I took her hand and
absolutely forced her to come with me.”
“Did you buy anything at the auction, Miss Oliphant?”
“Yes, a sealskin jacket.”
“Do you mind telling me what you paid for it?”
“Ten guineas.”
“Was that, in your opinion, a fair price for the jacket?”
“The jacket was worth a great deal more. The price I paid for it was
much below its value.”
Miss Eccleston made some further notes in her book. Then she looked up.
“Have you anything more to say, Miss Oliphant?”
“I could say more. I could make you think even worse of me than you now
think, but as any further disclosures of mine would bring another girl
into trouble I would rather not speak.”
“You are certainly not forced to speak. I am obliged to you for the
candor with which you have treated me.”
Miss Eccleston then turned to Miss Heath and said a few words to her in
a low voice. Her words were not heard by the anxiously listening girls,
but they seemed to displease Miss Heath, who shook her head; but Miss
Eccleston held very firmly to her own opinion. After a pause of a few
minutes, Miss Heath came forward and addressed the young girls who were
assembled before her.
“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
honor, 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 do not agree with that view, do you, Miss Heath?” asked Maggie
Oliphant suddenly.
“At first I did not. I leaned to the side of mercy. I thought you might
all have learned 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 favorite 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
afterward. 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 colored, no doubt, and not the
least like its poor original.”
Maggie spoke with a kind of bitter, defiant sarcasm, and a delicate
color 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 leaned 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 Priscilla’s almost uncontrollable agitation.
Rosalind, too, blushed, but prettily, when she saw the other three
girls come up.
“I will say good-by now, Mr. Hammond,” she said, “for I must get back
to St. Benet’s in good time tonight.”
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.