Maggie was once more alone. She stood quite still for nearly half a
minute in the centre of her room. Her hands were clasped tightly
together. The expression of her face and her attitude showed such
intense feeling as to be almost theatrical. This was no acting,
however; it was Maggie's nature to throw herself into attitudes before
spectators or alone. She required some vent for all her passionate
excitement, and what her girl-friends called Miss Oliphant's poses may
have afforded her a certain measure of relief.
After standing still for these few seconds, she ran to the door and drew
the bolt; then, sinking down once more in her easy-chair, she took up
the letter which Rosalind Merton had brought her, and began to read the
contents. Four sides of a sheet of paper were covered with small, close
writing, the neat somewhat cramped hand which at that time characterised
the men of St Hilda's College.
Maggie's eyes seemed to fly over the writing; they absorbed the sense,
they took the full meaning out of each word. At last all was known to
her, burnt in, indeed, upon her brain.
She crushed the letter suddenly in one of her hands, then raised it to
her lips and kissed it; then fiercely, as though she hated it, tossed it
into the fire. After this she sat quiet, her hands folded meekly, her
head slightly bent. The colour gradually left her cheeks. She looked
dead tired and languid. After a time she arose, and, walking very
slowly across her room, sat down by her bureau, and drew a sheet of
paper before her. As she did so her eyes fell for a moment on the Greek
play which had fascinated her an hour ago. She found herself again
murmuring some lines from _Prometheus Vinctus_:--
"O divine ether, and swift-winged winds--"
She interrupted herself with a petulant movement. "Folly!" she
murmured, pushing the book aside. "Even glorious, great thoughts like
those don't satisfy me. Whoever supposed they would? What was I given
a heart for? Why does it beat so fiercely, and long, and love? and why
is it wrong--wrong of me to love? Oh, Annabel Lee! oh, darling! if only
your wretched Maggie Oliphant had never known you!"
Maggie dashed some heavy tears from her eyes, then, taking up her pen,
she began to write.
"Heath Hall,--
"St Benet's.--
"Dear Mr Hammond--
"I should prefer that you did not in future give letters for me to any
of my friends here. I do not wish to receive them through the medium
of any of my fellow-students. Please understand this. When you have
anything to say to me, you can write in the ordinary course of post.
I am not ashamed of any slight correspondence we may have together;
but I refuse to countenance, or to be in any sense a party to, what
may even seem underhand.
"I shall try to be at the Marshalls' on Sunday afternoon, but I have
nothing to say in reply to your letter. My views are unalterable.
"Yours sincerely,--
"Margaret Oliphant."
Maggie did not read the letter after she had written it. She put it
into an envelope and directed it. Hers was a large and bold hand, and
the address was swiftly written--
"Geoffrey Hammond, Esq,
"St Hilda's,
"Kingsdene."
She stamped her letter and, late as it was, took it down herself, and
deposited it in the post-bag.
The next morning, when the students strolled in to breakfast, many pairs
of eyes were raised with a new curiosity to watch Priscilla Peel. Even
Maggie, as she drank her coffee, and munched a piece of dry toast, for
she was a very poor eater, could not help flashing a keen and interested
glance at the young girl as she came into the room.
Prissie was the reverse of fashionable in her attire; her neat brown
cashmere dress had been made by Aunt Raby. The hemming, the stitching,
the gathering, the frilling, which went to make up this useful garment
were neat, were even exquisite; but then, Aunt Raby was not gifted with
a stylish cut. Prissie's hair was smoothly parted, but the thick plait
on the back of the neck was by no means artistically coiled. The girl's
plain pale face was not set off by the severity of her toilet; there was
no touch of spring or brightness anywhere, no look or note which should
belong to one so young, unless it was the extreme thinness of her
figure.
The curious eyes of the students were raised when she appeared, and one
or two laughed and turned their heads away. They had heard of her
exploit of the night before. Miss Day and Miss Marsh had repeated this
good story. It had impressed them at the time, but they did not tell it
to others in an impressive way, and the girls, who had not seen Prissie,
but had only heard the tale, spoke of her to one another as an
"insufferable little prig."
"Isn't it too absurd," said Rosalind Merton, sidling up to Maggie, and
casting some disdainful glances at poor Priscilla, "the conceit of some
people! Of all forms of conceit, preserve me from the priggish style."
"I don't understand you," said Maggie, raising her eyes and speaking in
her lazy voice. "Are there any prigs about? I don't see them. Oh,
Miss Peel,"--she jumped up hastily--"won't you sit here by me? I have
been reserving this place for you, for I have been so anxious to know if
you would do me a kindness. Please sit down, and I'll tell you what it
is. You needn't wait, Rosalind. What I have got to say is only for
Miss Peel's ears."
Rosalind retired in dudgeon to the other end of the room, and, if the
laughing and muttering continued, they now only reached Maggie and
Priscilla in the form of very distant murmurs.
"How pale you look," said Maggie, turning to the girl, "and how cold you
are! Yes, I am quite sure you are bitterly cold. Now you shall have a
good breakfast. Let me help you. Please, do. I'll go to the
side-table, and bring you something so tempting; wait and see."
"You mustn't trouble, really," began Prissie Miss Oliphant flashed a
brilliant smile at her; Prissie found her words arrested, and, in spite
of herself, her coldness began to thaw. Maggie ran over to the
side-table, and Priscilla kept repeating under her breath--
"She's not true--she's beautiful, but she's false; she has the kindest,
sweetest, most comforting way in the world, but she only does it for the
sake of an aesthetic pleasure. I ought not to let her. I ought not to
speak to her. I ought to go away, and have nothing to do with her
proffers of goodwill, and yet somehow or other I can't resist her."
Maggie came back with some delicately carved chicken and ham, and a hot
cup of delicious coffee.
"Is not this nice?" she said; "now eat it all up, and speak to me
afterwards. Oh, how dreadfully cold you do look!"
"I feel cold--in spirit as well as physically," retorted Priscilla.
"Well, let breakfast warm you--and--and--a small dose of the tonic of
sympathy, if I may dare to offer it."
Priscilla turned her eyes full upon Miss Oliphant.
"Do you mean it?" she said, in a choked kind of voice. "Is that quite
true what you said just now?"
"True? What a queer child! Of course it is true. What do you take me
for? Why should not I sympathise with you?"
"I want you to," said Prissie. Tears filled her eyes; she turned her
head away. Maggie gave her hand a squeeze.
"Now eat your breakfast," she said. "I shall glance through my letters
while you are busy."
She leant back in her chair, and opened several envelopes. Priscilla
ate her chicken and ham, drank her coffee, and felt the benefit of the
double tonic which had been administered in so timely a fashion. It was
one of Miss Oliphant's peculiarities to inspire in those she wanted to
fascinate absolute and almost unreasoning faith for the time being.
Doubts would and might return in her absence, but in the sunshine of her
particularly genial manner they found it hard to live.
After breakfast the girls were leaving the room together, when Miss
Heath, the Principal of the Hall in which they resided, came into the
room. She was a tall, stately woman of about thirty-five, and had seen
very little of Priscilla since her arrival, but now she stopped to give
both girls a special greeting. Her manners were very frank and
pleasant.
"My dear," she said to Prissie, "I have been anxious to cultivate your
acquaintance. Will you come and have tea with me in my room this
afternoon? And, Maggie, dear, will you come with Miss Peel?"
She laid her hand on Maggie's shoulder as she spoke, looked swiftly into
the young girl's face, then turned with a glance of great interest to
Priscilla.
"You will both come," she said. "That is right. I won't ask anyone
else. We shall have a cosy time together, and Miss Peel can tell me all
about her studies, and aims, and ambitions."
"Thank you," said Maggie, "I'll answer for Miss Peel. We'll both come;
we shall be delighted."
Miss Heath nodded to the pair, and walked swiftly down the long hall to
the dons' special entrance, where she disappeared.
"Is not she charming?" whispered Maggie. "Did I not tell you you would
fall in love with Dorothea?"
"But I have not," said Priscilla, colouring. "And I don't know whether
she is charming or not."
Maggie checked a petulant exclamation, which was rising to her lips.
She was conscious of a curious desire to win her queer young companion's
goodwill and sympathy.
"Never mind," she said, "the moment of victory is only delayed. You
will tell a very different story after you have had tea with Dorothea
this evening. Now, let us come and look at the notice-boards, and see
what the day's programme is. By the way, are you going to attend any
lectures this morning?"
"Yes, two," said Prissie--"one on Middle History, from eleven to twelve,
and I have a French lecture afterwards."
"Well, I am not doing anything this morning. I wish you were not. We
might have taken a long walk together. Don't you love long walks?"
"Oh, yes; but there is no time for anything of that sort here--nor--"
Priscilla hesitated. "I don't think there's space for a very long walk
here," she added. The colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke, and
her eyes looked wistful.
Maggie laughed.
"What _are_ your ideas with regard to space, Miss Peel? The whole of
Kingsdene-shire lies before us. We are untrammelled, and can go where
we please. Is not that a sufficiently broad area for our roamings?"
"But there is no sea," said Priscilla. "We should never have time to
walk from here to the sea, and nothing--nothing else seems worth while."
"Oh, you have lived by the sea?"
"Yes, all my life. When I was a little girl, my home was near Whitby,
in Yorkshire, and lately I have lived close to Lyme--two extreme points
of England, you will say; but no matter, the sea is the same. To walk
for miles on the top of the cliffs, that means exercise."
"Ah," said Maggie, with a sigh, "I understand you--I know what you
mean."
She spoke quickly, as she always did under the least touch of
excitement. "Such a walk means, more than exercise; it means thought,
aspiration. Your brain seems to expand then, and ideas come. Of course
you don't care for poor flat Kingsdene-shire."
Priscilla turned and stared at Miss Oliphant. Maggie laughed; she
raised her hand to her forehead.
"I must not talk any more," she said, turning pale, and shrinking into
herself. "Forgive my rhapsodies. You'll understand what they are worth
when you know me better. Oh, by the way, will you come with me to
Kingsdene on Sunday? We can go to the three o'clock service at the
chapel, and afterwards have tea with some friends of mine--the
Marshalls--they'd be delighted to see you."
"What chapel is the service at?" inquired Priscilla.
"What chapel? Is there a second? Come with me, and you will never ask
that question again. Get under the shade of St Hilda's--see once those
fretted roofs, and those painted windows. Listen but once to that angel
choir, and then dare to ask me what chapel I mean, when I invite you to
come and taste of heaven beforehand."
"Thank you," said Priscilla, "I'll come. I cannot be expected to know
about things before I have heard of them, can I? But I am very much
obliged to you, and I shall be delighted to come."