“COME AND KILL THE BOGIE”
Notwithstanding Nancy’s dismal prognostications, Maggie Oliphant played
her part brilliantly that night. Her low spirits were succeeded by gay
ones; the Princess had never looked more truly regal, nor had the
Prince ever more passionately wooed her. Girls who did not belong to
the society always flocked into the theater to see the rehearsals.
Maggie’s mood scarcely puzzled them. She was so erratic that no one
expected anything from her but the unexpected: if she looked like a
drooping flower one moment, her head was erect the next, her eyes
sparkling, her voice gay. The flower no longer drooped, but blossomed
with renewed vigor. After reading for an hour Nancy had left her friend
asleep. She went downstairs, and, in reply to several anxious
inquiries, pronounced it as her opinion that Maggie, with all the good
will in the world, could scarcely take part in the rehearsals that
night.
“I know Maggie is going to be ill,” said Nancy with tears in her eyes.
Miss Banister was so sensible and so little given to undue alarms that
her words had effect, and a little rumor spread in the college that
Miss Oliphant could not take her part in the important rehearsals which
were to take place that evening. Her appearance, therefore, in more
than her usual beauty, with more vigor in her voice, more energy and
brightness in her eyes, gave at once a pleasing sense of satisfaction.
She was cheered when she entered the little theater, but, if there was
a brief surprise, it was quickly succeeded by the comment which
generally followed all her doings: “This is just like Maggie; no one
can depend on how she will act for a moment.”
At that rehearsal, however, people were taken by surprise. If the
Princess did well, the young Prince did better. Priscilla had
completely dropped her _role_ of the awkward and _gauche_ girl. From
the first there had been vigor and promise in her acting. To-night
there was not only vigor, but tenderness— there was a passion in her
voice which arose now and then to power. She was so completely in
sympathy with her part that she ceased to be Priscilla: she was the
Prince who must win this wayward Princess or die.
Maggie came up to her when the rehearsals were over.
“I congratulate you,” she said. “Prissie, you might do well on the
stage.”
Priscilla smiled. “No,” she said, “for I need inspiration to forget
myself.”
“Well, genius would supply that.”
“No, Maggie, no. The motive that seems to turn me into the Prince
himself cannot come again. Oh, Maggie, if I succeed! If I succeed!”
“What do you mean, you strange child?”
“I cannot tell you with my voice: don’t you guess?”
“I cannot say. You move me strangely; you remind me of— I quite forget
that you are Priscilla Peel.”
Priscilla laughed joyously.
“How gay you look to-night, Prissie, and yet I am told you were
miserable this morning. Have you forgotten your woes?”
“Completely.”
“Why is this?”
“I suppose because I am happy and hopeful.”
“Nancy tells me that you were quite in despair to-day. She said that
some of those cruel girls insulted you.”
“Yes, I was very silly; I got a shock.”
“And you have got over it?”
“Yes; I know you don’t believe badly of me. You know that I am honest
and— and true.”
“Yes, my dear,” said Maggie with fervor, “I believe in you as I believe
in myself. Now, have you quite disrobed? Shall we go into the library
for a little?”
The moment they entered this cheerful room, which was bright with two
blazing fires and numerous electric lights, Miss Day and Miss Marsh
came up eagerly to Maggie.
“Well,” they said, “have you made up your mind?”
“About what?” she asked, raising her eyes in a puzzled way.
“You will come with us to the Elliot-Smiths’? You know how anxious Meta
is to have you.”
“Thank you, but am I anxious to go to Meta?”
“Oh! you are, you must be; you cannot be so cruel as to refuse.”
After the emotion she had gone through in the morning, Maggie’s heart
was in that softened, half-tired state when it could be most easily
influenced. She was in no mood for arguing or for defiance of any sort.
“Peace at all hazards” was her motto just now. She was also in so
reckless a mood as to be indifferent to what any one thought of her.
The Elliot-Smiths were not in her “set.” She disliked them and their
ways, but she had met Meta at a friend’s house a week ago. Meta had
been introduced to Miss Oliphant and had pressed her invitation
vigorously. It would be a triumph of triumphs to Meta Elliot-Smith to
introduce the beautiful heiress to her own set. Maggie’s refusal was
not listened to. She was begged to reconsider the question; implored to
be merciful, to be kind; assured of undying gratitude if she would
consent to come even for one short hour.
Miss Day and Miss Marsh were commissioned by Meta to secure Maggie at
all costs.
“You will come?” said Miss Day; “you must come.” Then coming up close
to Maggie, she whispered in an eager voice: “Would not you like to find
out who has taken your five-pound note? Miss Peel is your friend. Would
it not gratify you to clear her?”
“Why should I clear one who can never possibly be suspected?” replied
Miss Oliphant in a voice of anger. Her words were spoken aloud and so
vehemently that Annie Day drew back a step or two in alarm.
“Well, but you would _like_ to know who really took your money?” she
reiterated, again speaking in a whisper.
Maggie was standing by one of the bookcases; she stretched up her hand
to take down a volume. As she did so her eyes rested for a moment on
Priscilla.
“I would as soon suspect myself as her,” she thought, “and yet last
night, for a moment, even I was guilty of an unworthy thought of you,
Prissie, and if I could doubt, why should I blame others? If going to
the Elliot-Smiths’ will establish your innocence, I will go.”
“Well,” said Miss Day, who was watching her face, “I am to see Meta
to-morrow morning; am I to tell her to expect you?”
“Yes,” replied Maggie, “but I wish to say at once, with regard to that
five-pound note, that I am not interested in it. I am so careless about
my money matters, that it is quite possible l may have been mistaken
when I thought I put it into my purse.”
“Oh! oh! but you spoke _so_ confidently this morning.”
“One of my impulses. I wish I had not done it.”
“Having done it, however,” retorted Miss Day, “it is your duty to take
any steps which may be necessary to clear the college of so unpleasant
and disgraceful a charge.”
“You think I can do this by going to the Elliot-Smiths’?”
“Hush! you will spoil all by speaking so loud. Yes, I fully believe we
shall make a discovery on Friday night.”
“You don’t suppose I would go to act the spy?”
“No, no, nothing of the sort; only come— only come!”
Maggie opened her book and glanced at some of its contents before
replying.
“Only come,” repeated Annie in an imploring voice.
“I said I would come,” answered Maggie. “Must I reiterate my assurance?
Tell Miss Elliot-Smith to expect me.”
Maggie read for a little in the library; then, feeling tired, she rose
from her seat and crossed the large room, intending to go up at once to
her own chamber. In the hall, however, she was attracted by seeing Miss
Heath’s door slightly open. Her heart was full of compunction for
having, even for a moment, suspected Priscilla of theft. She thought
she would go and speak to Miss Heath about her.
She knocked at the vice-principal’s door.
“Come in,” answered the kind voice, and Maggie found herself a moment
later seated by the fire: the door of Miss Heath’s room shut, and Miss
Heath herself standing over her, using words of commiseration.
“My dear,” she said, “you look very ill.”
Maggie raised her eyes. Miss Heath had seen many moods on that charming
face; now the expression in the wide-open, brown eyes caused her own to
fill with sudden tears.
“I would do anything to help you, my love,” she said tenderly, and,
stooping down, she kissed Maggie on her forehead.
“Perhaps, another time,” answered Miss Oliphant.
“You are all that is good, Miss Heath, and I may as well own frankly
that I am neither well nor happy, but I have not come to speak of
myself just now. I want to say something about Priscilla Peel.”
“Yes, what about her?”
“She came to you last night. I know what she came about.”
“She told me she had confided in you,” answered the vice-principal
gravely.
“Yes. Well, I have come to say that she must not be allowed to give up
her Greek and Latin.”
“Why not?”
“Miss Heath, how can you say, why not’? Prissie is a genius; her
inclination lies in that direction. It is in her power to become one of
the most brilliant classical scholars of her day.”
Miss Heath smiled. “Well, Maggie,” she said slowly, “even suppose that
is the case— and you must own that, clever as Priscilla is, you make an
extreme statement when you say such words— she may do well, very well,
and yet turn her attention to other subjects for the present.”
“It is cruel!” said Maggie, rising and stamping her foot impatiently.
“Priscilla has it in her to shed honor on our college. She will take a
first-class when she goes for her tripos, if her present studies are
not interfered with.”
Miss Heath smiled at Maggie in a pitying sort of way. “I admit,” she
said, “that first-class honors would be a very graceful crown of bay to
encircle that young head; and yet, Maggie, yet— surely Priscilla can do
better?”
“What do you mean? How can she possibly do better?”
“She can wear a nobler crown. You know, Maggie, there are crowns to be
worn which cannot fade.”
“Oh!” Maggie’s lips trembled. She looked down.
After a pause, she said, “Priscilla told me something of her home and
her family. I suppose she has also confided in you, Miss Heath?”
“Yes, my dear.”
“Well, I have come to-night to say that it is in my power to use some
of that money which I detest in helping Prissie— in helping her family.
I mean to help them; I mean to put them all in such a position that
Priscilla shall not need to spend her youth in uncongenial drudgery. I
have come to say this to you, Miss Heath, and I beg of you— yes, I beg
of you— to induce my dear Prissie to go on with her classical studies.
It will now be in your power to assure her that the necessity which
made her obliged to give them up no longer exists.”
“In short,” said Miss Heath, “you will give Miss Peel of your charity
and take her independence away?”
“What do you mean?”
“Put yourself in her place, Maggie. Would you take money for yourself
and those dear to you from a comparative stranger?”
Maggie’s face grew very red. “I think I would oblige my friend, my dear
friend,” she said.
“Is Prissie really your dear friend?”
“Why do you doubt me? I love her very much. Since— since Annabel died,
no one has come so close to me.”
“I am glad of that,” replied Miss Heath. She went up to Maggie and
kissed her.
“You will do what I wish?” asked the girl eagerly.
“No, my dear: that matter lies in your hands alone. It is a case in
which it is absolutely impossible for me to interfere. If you can
induce Priscilla to accept money from you, I shall not say a word; and,
for the sake of our college, I shall, perhaps, be glad, for there is
not the least doubt that Prissie has it in her to win distinction for
St. Benet’s. But, on the other hand, if she comes to me for advice, it
will be impossible for me not to say to her: ‘My dear, character ranks
higher than intellect. You may win the greatest prizes and yet keep a
poor and servile soul. You may never get this great earthly
distinction, and yet you may be crowned with honor— the honor which
comes of uprightness, of independence, of integrity.’ Prissie may never
consult me, of course, Maggie; but, if she does, I must say words
something like these. To tell the truth, my dear, I never admired
Priscilla more than I did last night. I encouraged her to give up her
classics for the present and to devote herself to modern languages and
to those accomplishments which are considered more essentially
feminine. As I did so I had a picture before me, in which I saw
Priscilla crowned with love, the support and blessing of her three
little sisters. The picture was a very bright one, Maggie, and your
crown of bay looks quite tawdry beside the other crown which I hope to
see on Prissie’s brow.”
Maggie rose from her chair. “Good night,” she said.
“I am sorry to disappoint you, my love.”
“I have no doubt you are right,” said Maggie, “but,” she added, “I have
not made up my mind, and I still long for Priscilla to wear the crown
of bay.”
“You will win that crown yourself, my dear.”
“Oh, no, it is not for me.”
“I am very anxious about you, Maggie. Why do you speak in that reckless
tone? Your position and Prissie’s are not the least alike: it is your
duty to do your very utmost with those talents which have been bestowed
upon you.”
“Perhaps,” answered Maggie, shrugging her shoulders, “but I am tired of
stretching out my hand like a baby to catch soap-bubbles. I cannot
speak of myself at all to-night, Miss Heath. Thank you for what you
have said, and again good night.”
Maggie had scarcely left the room before Priscilla appeared.
“Are you too tired to see me to-night, Miss Heath?”
“No, my love; come in and sit down. I was sorry to miss you this
morning.”
“But I am glad as it turned out,” replied Priscilla.
“You were in great trouble, Prissie. The servant told me how terribly
upset you were.”
“I was. I felt nearly mad.”
“But you look very happy now.”
“I am; my trouble has all vanished away. It was a great bogie. As soon
as I came boldly up to it, it vanished into smoke.”
“Am I to hear the name of the bogie?”
“I think I would rather not tell you— at least not now. If Maggie
thinks it right, she will speak to you about it; but, as far as I am
concerned, it cannot touch me again.”
“Why have you come to see me then to-night, Priscilla?”
“I want to speak about Maggie.”
“What about her? She has just been here to speak of you.”
“Has she?”
“It is possible that she may make you a proposition which will affect
your whole future, but I am not at liberty to say any more. Have you a
proposition to make about her?”
“I have, and it will affect all Maggie’s life. It will make her so
good— so very, very happy. Oh, Miss Heath! you ought to do it: you
ought to make her marry Mr. Hammond at once.”
“My dear Priscilla!” Miss Heath’s face turned crimson. “Are you
alluding to Geoffrey Hammond? I know great friends of his; he is one of
the cleverest men at St. Hilda’s.”
“Yes, and one of the best,” pursued Prissie, clasping her hands and
speaking in that excited way which she always did when quite carried
out of herself. “You don’t know how good he is, Miss Heath. I think he
is one of the best of men. I would do anything in the world for him—
anything.”
“Where have you met him, Priscilla?”
“At the Marshalls’, and once at the Elliot-Smiths’, and to-day, when I
was so miserable, when the bogie ran after me, you know, at St.
Hilda’s, just outside the chapel. Mr. Hammond asked me to come to the
service, and I went, and afterward he chased the bogie away. Oh, he is
good, he is kind and he loves Maggie with all his heart. He has loved
her for a long time, I am sure, but she is never nice to him.”
“Then, of course,” said Miss Heath, “if Miss Oliphant does not care for
Mr. Hammond, there is an end of the matter. You are a very innocent and
very young girl, Priscilla; but this is a subject in which you have no
right to interfere. Far from me to say that I disapprove of marriage
for our students, but, while at St. Benet’s, it is certainly best for
them to give their attention to other matters.”
“For most of us,” replied Prissie, “but not for Maggie. No one in the
college thinks Maggie happy.”
“That is true,” replied Miss Heath thoughtfully.
“And every one knows,” pursued Prissie, “that Mr. Hammond loves her.”
“Do they? I was not aware that such reports had got abroad.”
“Oh, yes: all Maggie’s friends know that, but they are so dreadfully
stupid they cannot guess the other thing.”
“What other thing?”
“That dear Maggie is breaking her heart on account of Mr. Hammond.”
“Then you think she loves him?”
“I do— I know it. Oh, won’t you do something to get them to marry each
other?”
“My dear child, these are subjects in which neither you nor I can
interefere.”
“Oh!” Prissie’s eyes filled with sudden tears. “If you won’t do
anything, I must.”
“I don’t see what you can do, Priscilla; I don’t know what you have a
right to do. We do not care that our students should think of love and
courtship while here, but we have never limited their freedom in the
matter. If Miss Oliphant cares for Mr. Hammond, and he cares for her,
they know perfectly that they can become engaged. Miss Oliphant will be
leaving St. Benet’s at the end of the summer term. She is completely,
in every sense of the word, her own mistress.”
“Oh, no, she is not her own mistress, she is oppressed by a bogie. I
don’t know the name of the bogie, or anything about it; but it is
shadowing all Maggie’s life; it is taking the sunshine away from her,
and it is making it impossible for her to marry Mr. Hammond. They are
both so fond of each other; they have both noble hearts, but the
dreadful bogie spoils everything— it keeps them apart. Dear Miss Heath,
I want you to come and kill the bogie.”
“I must find out its name first,” said Miss Heath.