BEAUTIFUL ANNABEL LEE
Circumstances seem to combine to spoil some people. Maggie Oliphant was
one of the victims of fortune, which, while appearing to favor her,
gave her in reality the worst training which was possible for a nature
such as hers. She was impulsive, generous, affectionate, but she was
also perverse, and, so to speak, uncertain. She was a creature of moods
and she was almost absolutely without self-control; and yet nature had
been kind to Maggie, giving her great beauty of form and face and a
character which a right training would have rendered noble.
Up to the present, however, this training had scarcely come to Miss
Oliphant. She was almost without relations and she was possessed of
more money than she knew what to do with. She had great abilities and
loved learning for the sake of learning, but till she came to St.
Benet’s, her education had been as desultory as her life. She had never
been to school; her governess only taught her what she chose to learn.
As a child she was very fickle in this respect, working hard from
morning till night one day but idling the whole of the next. When she
was fifteen her guardian took her to Rome. The next two years were
spent in traveling, and Maggie, who knew nothing properly, picked up
that kind of superficial miscellaneous knowledge which made her
conversation brilliant and added to her many charms.
“You shall be brought out early,” her guardian had said to her. “You
are not educated in the stereotyped fashion, but you know enough. After
you are seventeen I will get you a suitable chaperon and you shall live
in London.”
This scheme, however, was not carried out. For, shortly after her
seventeenth birthday, Maggie Oliphant met a girl whose beauty and
brilliance were equal to her own, whose nature was stronger and who had
been carefully trained in heart and mind while Maggie had been
neglected. Miss Lee was going through a course of training at St.
Benet’s College for Women at Kingsdene. She was an uncommon girl in
every sense of the word. The expression of her lovely face was as
piquant as its features were beautiful; her eyes were dark as night;
they also possessed the depth of the tenderest, sweetest summer night,
subjugating all those who came in contact with her. Annabel Lee won
Maggie’s warmest affections at once; she determined to join her friend
at St. Benet’s. She spoke with ineffable scorn of her London season and
resolved, with that enthusiasm which was the strongest part of her
nature, to become a student in reality. Under Annabel’s guidance she
took up the course of study which was necessary to enable her to pass
her entrance examination. She acquitted herself well, for her abilities
were of the highest order, and entered the college with _éclat._ Miss
Lee was a student in Heath Hall, and Maggie thought herself supremely
happy when she was given a room next to her friend.
Those were brilliant days at the hall. Some girls resided there at this
time whose names were destined to be known in the world by and by. The
workers were earnest; the tone which pervaded the life at Heath Hall
was distinctly high. Shallow girls there must always be where any
number are to be found together, but, during Maggie Oliphant’s first
year, these girls had little chance of coming to the front. Maggie, who
was as easily influenced as a wave is tossed by the wind, rose quickly
to the heights with her companions. Her splendid intellect developed
each day. She was merry with the merry, glad with the glad, studious
with the studious. She was also generous, kind and unselfish in company
with those girls who observed the precepts of the higher life. Next to
Miss Lee, Maggie was one of the most popular girls in the college.
Annabel Lee had the kindest of hearts, as well as the most fascinating
of ways. She was an extraordinary girl; there was a great deal of the
exotic about her; in many ways she was old for her years. No one ever
thought or spoke of her as a prig, but all her influence was brought to
bear in the right direction. The girl who could do or think meanly
avoided the expression of Annabel’s beautiful eyes. It was impossible
for her to think badly of her fellow-creatures, but meanness and sin
made her sorrowful. There was not a girl in Heath Hall who would
willingly give Annabel Lee sorrow.
In the days that followed people knew that she was one of those rare
and brilliant creatures who, like a lovely but too ethereal flower,
must quickly bloom into perfection and then pass away. Annabel was
destined to a short life, and after her death the high tone of Heath
Hall deteriorated considerably.
This girl was a born leader. When she died no other girl in the college
could take her place, and for many a long day those who had loved her
were conscious of a sense which meant a loss of headship. In short,
they were without their leader.
If Annabel in her gaiety and brightness could influence girls who were
scarcely more than acquaintances, the effect of her strong personality
on Maggie was supreme. Maggie often said that she never knew what love
meant until she met Annabel. The two girls were inseparable; their love
for each other was compared to that of Jonathan and David of Bible
story and of Orestes and Pylades of Greek legend. The society of each
gave the other the warmest pleasure.
Annabel and Maggie were both so beautiful in appearance, so far above
the average girl in their pose, their walk, their manner that people
noticed these friends wherever they went. A young and rising artist,
who saw them once at St. Hilda’s, begged permission to make a picture
of the pair. It was done during the summer recess before Annabel died
and made a sensation in the next year’s Academy. Many of the visitors
who went there stopped and looked at the two faces, both in the
perfection of their youthful bloom and beauty. Few guessed that one
even now had gone to the Home best fitted for so ardent and high a
spirit.
Annabel Lee died a year before Priscilla came to the college. Whatever
Maggie inwardly felt, she had got over her first grief; her smile was
again as brilliant as when Annabel Lee was by her side, her laugh was
as merry; but the very few who could look a little way into Maggie’s
perverse and passionate heart knew well that something had died in her
which could never live again, that her laugh was often hollow and her
brilliant smile had only a foundation in bitterness.
Maggie did not only grieve for her friend when she mourned for Annabel.
She had loved her most deeply, and love alone would have caused her
agony in such a loss; but Maggie’s keenest and most terrible feelings
were caused by an unavailing regret.
This regret was connected with Geoffrey Hammond.
He had known Annabel from her childhood. He was an old friend of some
of her friends, and during those last, long summer holidays, which the
two girls spent together under the roof of Maggie’s guardian, Hammond,
who was staying with relations not far away, came to see them almost
daily. He was the kind of man who could win both respect and
admiration; he was grave in his nature and his aspirations, aims and
ambitions were high. In their conversations during this lovely summer
weather these young people dreamt happy dreams together and planned a
future which meant good to all mankind. Maggie, to all appearance, was
heart and soul with Annabel and Geoffrey in what they thought and said.
Nothing could have been simpler or more unconventional than the
intercourse between these young people. Miss Lee had known Hammond all
her life; Maggie always spoke and thought of herself as second to
Annabel in Geoffrey Hammond’s regard. One brilliant autumn day,
however, he surprised Maggie by asking her to take a long walk alone
with him. No words were said during this ramble to open Maggie
Oliphant’s eyes to the true state of Hammond’s feelings for her, but
when she returned from her walk she could not help noticing Annabel
Lee’s unaccountable depression. It was not until later, however, that
Maggie attributed a certain pathetic, almost heart-broken, look in her
friend’s lovely eyes to its true cause.
Hammond was a graduate of St. Hilda’s College at Kingsdene, and the
three friends often talked of the happy meetings they would have during
the coming winter. He was a man of large property, and the favorite
amusement of these young people was in talking over the brilliant life
which lay before Hammond when he took possession of his estates. He
would be the ideal landlord of his age; the people who lived on his
property would, when he attained his majority, enter into a millennium
of bliss.
Maggie returned to St. Benet’s, imagining herself quite heart-whole,
but happiness shone out of her eyes, and there was a new, tender ring
in her voice for which she could not account to herself and which added
a new fascination to her beauty.
Shortly after the commencement of the term Hammond met Miss Oliphant by
accident just outside Kingsdene.
“I was going to post a letter to you,” he said. His face was unusually
pale, his eyes full of joy and yet of solicitude.
“You can tell me what you have written,” replied Maggie in her gayest
voice.
“No, I would rather you read my letter.”
He thrust it into her hand and immediately, to her astonishment, left
her.
As she walked home through the frosty air she opened Hammond’s letter
and read its contents. It contained an earnest appeal for her love and
an assurance that all the happiness of the writer’s future life
depended on her consenting to marry him. Would she be his wife when her
three years’ term at St. Benet’s came to an end?
No letter could be more manly, more simple. Its contents went straight
to the depths of a heart easily swayed and full of strong affection.
“Yes, I love him,” whispered the girl; “I did not know it until I read
this letter, but I am sure of myself now. Yes, I love him better than
any one else in the world.”
A joyous light filled Maggie’s brown eyes; her heart was gay. She
rushed to Annabel’s room to tell her news and to claim the sympathy
which had never hitherto been denied her and which was essential to the
completion of her happiness.
When Maggie entered her friend’s room she saw, to her surprise, that
Annabel was lying on her bed with flushed cheeks. Two hours before she
had been, to all appearance, in brilliant health; now her face burned
with fever and her beautiful dark eyes were glazed with pain.
Maggie rushed up and kissed her. “What is it; darling,” she asked;
“what is wrong? You look ill; your eyes have a strange expression.”
Annabel’s reply was scarcely audible. The pain and torpor of her last
short illness were already overmastering her. Maggie was alarmed at the
burning touch of her hand, but she had no experience to guide her and
her own great joy to make her selfish.
“Annabel, look at me for a moment. I have wonderful news to give you.”
Annabel’s eyes were closed, She opened them wide at this appeal for
sympathy, stretched out her hand and pushed back a tangle of bright
hair from Maggie’s brow.
“I love you, Maggie,” she said in that voice which had always power to
thrill its listeners.
Maggie kissed her friend’s hand and pressed it to her own beating
heart. “I met Geoffrey Hammond today,” she said. “He gave me a letter;
I have read it. Oh, Annabel, Annabel! I can be good now. No more bad
half-hours, no more struggles with myself. I can be very good now.”
With some slight difficulty Annabel Lee drew her hot hand away from
Maggie’s fervent clasp; her eyes, slightly distended, were fixed on her
friend’s face; the flush of fever left her cheeks; a hot flood of
emotion seemed to press against her beating heart; she looked at Maggie
with passionate longing.
“What is it?” she asked in a husky whisper. “Why are you so glad,
Maggie? Why can you be good now?”
“Because I love Geoffrey Hammond,” answered Maggie; “I love him with
all my heart, all my life, all my strength, and he loves me. He has
asked me to be his wife.”
Maggie paused. She expected to feel Annabel’s arms round her neck; she
waited impatiently for this last crowning moment of bliss. Her own
happiness caused her to lower her eyes; her joy was so dazzling that
for a moment she felt she must shade their brilliance even from
Annabel’s gaze.
Instead of the pressure of loving arms, however, and the warm kiss of
sympathy, there came a low cry from the lips of the sick girl. She made
an effort to say something, but words failed her: the next moment she
was unconscious. Maggie rushed to the bell and gave an alarm, which
brought Miss Heath and one or two servants to the room.
A doctor was speedily sent for, and Maggie Oliphant was banished from
the room. She never saw Annabel Lee again. That night the sick girl was
removed to the hospital, which was in a building apart from the halls,
and two days afterward she was dead.
Typhus fever was raging at Kingsdene at this time, and Annabel Lee had
taken it in its most virulent form. The doctors (and two or three were
summoned) gave up all hope of saving her life from the first. Maggie
also gave up hope. She accused herself of having caused her friend’s
death. She believed that the shock of her tidings had killed Annabel,
who, already suffering from fever, had not strength to bear the agony
of knowing that Hammond’s love was given to Maggie.
On the night of Annabel’s death Maggie wrote to Hammond refusing his
offer of marriage, but giving no reason for doing so. After posting her
letter she lay down on her own sick bed and nearly died of the fever
which had taken Annabel away.
All these things happened a year ago. The agitation caused by the death
of one so young, beautiful and beloved had subsided. People could talk
calmly of Annabel, and although for a long time her room had remained
vacant, it was now occupied by a girl in all respects her opposite.
Nothing would induce Maggie to enter this room, and no words would
persuade her to speak of Annabel. She was merry and bright once more,
and few gave her credit for secret hours of misery, which were
seriously undermining her health and ruining what was best of her
character.
On this particular day, as she lay back in her carriage, wrapped in
costly furs, a great wave of misery and bitterness was sweeping over
her heart. In the first agony caused by Annabel’s death Maggie had
vowed a vow to her own heart never, under any circumstances, to consent
to be Hammond’s wife. In the first misery of regret and compunction it
had been easy to Maggie Oliphant to make such a vow; but she knew well,
as the days and months went by, that its weight was crushing her life,
was destroying her chance of ever becoming a really strong and good
woman. If she had loved Hammond a year ago her sufferings made her love
him fifty times better now. With all her outward coldness and apparent
indifference, his presence gave her the keenest pain. Her heart beat
fast when she caught sight of his face; if he spoke to another, she was
conscious of being overcome by a spirit of jealousy. The thought of him
mingled with her waking and sleeping hours; but the sacrifice she owed
to the memory of her dead friend must be made at all hazards. Maggie
consulted no one on this subject. Annabel’s unhappy story lay buried
with her in her early grave; Maggie would have died rather than reveal
it. Now, as she lay back in her carriage, the tears filled her eyes.
“I am too weak for this to go on any longer,” she said to herself. “I
shall leave St. Benet’s at the end of the present term. What is the
winning of a tripos to me? What do I want with honors and distinctions?
Everything is barren to me. My life has no flavor in it. I loved
Annabel, and she is gone. Without meaning it, I broke Annabel’s heart.
Without meaning it, I caused my darling’s death, and now my own heart
is broken, for I love Geoffrey— I love him, and I can never, under any
circumstances, be his wife. He misunderstands me— he thinks me cold,
wicked, heartless— and I can never, never set myself right with him.
Soon he will grow tired of me and give his heart to some one else, and
perhaps marry some one else. When he does, I too shall die. Yes,
whatever happens, I must go away from St. Benet’s.”
Maggie’s tears always came slowly; she put up her handkerchief to wipe
them away. It was little wonder that when she returned from her drive
her head was no better.
“We must put off the rehearsal,” said Nancy Banister, She came into
Maggie’s room and spoke vehemently. “I saw you at lunch, Maggie: you
ate nothing— you spoke with an effort. I know your head is worse. You
must lie down, and, unless you are better soon, I will ask Miss Heath
to send for a doctor.”
“No doctor will cure me,” said Maggie. “Give me a kiss, Nance; let me
rest my head against yours for a moment. Oh, how earnestly I wish I was
like you.”
“Why so? What have I got? I have no beauty; I am not clever; I am
neither romantically poor, like Prissie, nor romantically rich, like
you. In short, the fairies were not invited to my christening.”
“One of two fairies came, however,” replied Maggie, “and they gave you
an honest soul, and a warm heart, and— and happiness, Nancy. My dear, I
need only look into your eyes to know that you are happy.”
Nancy’s blue eyes glowed with pleasure. “Yes,” she said, “I don’t know
anything about dumps and low spirits.”
“And you are unselfish, Nancy; you are never seeking your own
pleasure.”
“I am not obliged to: I have all I want. And now to turn to a more
important subject. I will see the members of our Dramatic Society and
put off the rehearsal.”
“You must not; the excitement will do me good.”
“For the time, perhaps,” replied Nancy, shaking her wise head, “but you
will be worse afterward.”
“No. Now, Nancy, don’t let us argue the point. If you are _truly_ my
friend, you will sit by me for an hour and read aloud the dullest book
you can find, then perhaps I shall go to sleep.”