A Sweet Girl Graduate, L. T. Meade [summer books .txt] 📗
- Author: L. T. Meade
Book online «A Sweet Girl Graduate, L. T. Meade [summer books .txt] 📗». Author L. T. Meade
“So do I,” said Maggie in an icy tone; “still, I don’t mean to make a fuss.”
“But where was your purse, Maggie, dear?” asked Nancy Banister; “was it in your pocket?”
“No. I found it last night in my bureau, under some books and papers.” Maggie rose from the table as she spoke. With a swift flash her brown eyes sought Priscilla’s face; she had not meant to look at her, she did not want to; but a fascination she could not control obliged her to dart this one glance of inquiry.
Prissie’s eyes met hers. Their expression was anxious, puzzled, but there was not a trace of guilt or confusion in them. “I don’t know how that money could have been taken, Maggie,” she said, “for I was in your room. studying my Greek.” Prissie sighed when she mentioned her Greek. “I was in your room studying Greek all the evening; no one could have come to take the money.”
“It is gone, however,” said Maggie. She spoke with new cheerfulness. The look on Prissie’s face, the tone in her voice made Maggie blush at ever having suspected her. “It is gone,” she said in quite a light and cheerful way, “but I am really sorry I mentioned it. As I said just now, I don’t intend to investigate the matter. I may have fallen asleep and taken the five-pound note out in a dream and torn it up or put it on the fire. Anyhow, it has vanished, and that is all I have to say. Come, Prissie, I want to hear what Miss Heath said to you last night.”
“No,” suddenly exclaimed Annie Day, “Miss Peel, you must not leave the room just now. You have made a statement, Miss Oliphant, which I for one do not intend to pass over without at least asking a few questions. You did not tear up that note in a dream. If it is lost, some one took it. We are St. Benet’s girls, and we don’t choose to have this kind of thing said to us. The thief must confess and the note must be returned.”
“All right,” said Maggie, “I sha’n’t object to recovering my property. Priscilla, I shall be walking in the grounds; you can come to me when your council of war is over.”
The moment Maggie left the room Rosalind Merton made a remark. “Miss Peel is the only person who can explain the mystery,” she said.
“What do you mean?” asked Priscilla.
“Why, you confess yourself that you were in Miss Oliphant’s room the greater part of the evening.”
“I confess it?” remarked Priscilla; “that is a curious phrase to apply to a statement. I confess nothing. I was in Maggie’s room, but what of that? When people confess things,” she added with a naivete which touched one or two of the girls, “they generally have done something wrong. Now, what was there wrong in my sitting in my friend’s room?”
“Oh, Miss Oliphant is your friend’?” said Rosalind.
“Of course, of course.” But here a memory came over Priscilla; she remembered Maggie’s words the night before— “You were my friend.” For the first time her voice faltered and the crimson flush of distress covered her face. Rosalind’s cruel eyes were fixed on her.
“Let me speak now,” interrupted Miss Day. She gave Rosalind a piercing glance which caused her, in her turn, to color violently. “It is just this, Miss Peel,” said Annie Day: “you will excuse my speaking bluntly, but you are placed in a very unpleasant position.”
“I? How?” asked Prissie.
“Oh, you great baby!” burst from Rosalind again.
“Please don’t speak to me in that tone, Miss Merton,” said Priscilla with a new dignity which became her well. “Now, Miss Day, what have you to say?”
To Prissie’s surprise, at this juncture, Nancy Banister suddenly left her seat and came and stood at the back of her chair.
“I am on your side whatever happens,” she remarked.
“Thank you,” said Prissie.
“Now, please, Miss Day.”
“You must know who took the note,” said Annie Day.
“I assure you I don’t; I can’t imagine how it has disappeared. Not a soul came into the room while I was there. I did go away once for about three minutes to fetch my Lexicon; but I don’t suppose any one came into Miss Oliphant’s room during those few minutes— there was no one about to come.”
“Oh, you left the room for about three minutes?”
“Perhaps three— perhaps not so many. I had left my Lexicon in the library; I went to fetch it.”
“Oh,” said Rosalind, suddenly taking the words out of Miss Day’s mouth, “when did you invent this little fiction?”
Prissie’s eyes seemed suddenly to blaze fire. For the first time she perceived the drift of the cruel suspicion which her fellow-students were seeking to cast upon her. “How wicked you are!” she said to Rosalind. “Why do you look at me like that? Miss Day, why do you smile? Why do you all smile? Oh, Nancy,” added poor Prissie, springing to her feet and looking full into Nancy’s troubled eyes, “what is the matter?— am I in a dream?”
“It is all very fine to be theatrical,” said Miss Day, “but the fact is, Miss Peel, you are not at all popular enough at St. Benet’s to induce any of us to consent to live under a ban for your sake. Miss Oliphant has lost her money. You say that you spent some time in her room; the purse was on her bureau. Miss Oliphant is rich, she is also generous; she says openly that she does not intend to investigate the matter. No doubt, if you confess your weakness and return the money, she will forgive you and not report this disgraceful proceeding to the college authorities.”
While Miss Day was speaking some heavy panting breaths came two or three times from Priscilla’s lips. Her face had turned cold and white, but her eyes blazed like living coals.
“Now I understand,” she said slowly, “you think— you think that I— I stole a five-pound note from my friend; you think that I went into her room and opened her purse and took away her money; you think that of me— you! I scorn you all, I defy you, I dare you to prove your dreadful words! I am going to Miss Heath this moment; she shall protect me from this dishonor.”
IN THE ANTE-CHAPEL OF ST. HILDA’S
Priscilla ran blindly down the corridor which opened into the wide entrance-hall. Groups of girls were standing about. They stared as the wild-looking apparition rushed past them: Prissie was blind to their puzzled and curious glances. She wanted to see Miss Heath. She had a queer kind of instinct, rather than any distinct impression, that in Miss Heath’s presence she would be protected, that Miss Heath would know what to say, would know how to dispel the cloud of disgrace which had suddenly been cast over her like a cloak.
“Is there anything wrong, Miss Peel?” said gentle little Ada Hardy, coming up and speaking to her affectionately. Miss Hardy stood right in Prissie’s path, barring her way for a moment and causing her, in spite of herself, to stop her headlong rush to the vice-principal’s room. Priscilla put up her hand to her brow. She looked in a dazed sort of way at the kindhearted girl.
“What is the matter— can I help you?” repeated Ada Hardy.
“You can’t help me,” said Prissie. “I want to see Miss Heath; let me pass.” She ran forward again, and some other girls, coming out of the dining-hall, now came up to Ada and distracted her attention.
Miss Heath’s private sitting-room was on the ground floor. This lovely room has been described before. It was open now, and Prissie went in without knocking; she thought she would see Miss Heath sitting as she usually was at this hour, either reading or answering letters. She was not in the room. Priscilla felt too wild and impetuous to consider any action carefully just then. She ran up at once to the electric bell and pressed the button for quite a quarter of a minute. A maid servant came quickly to answer the summons. She thought Miss Heath had sent for her and stared at the excited girl.
“I want to see Miss Heath,” said Priscilla. “Please ask her to come to me here. Say Miss Peel wants to see her— Priscilla Peel wants to see her, very, very badly, in her own sitting-room at once. Ask her to come to me at once.”
The presence of real tragedy always inspires respect. There was no question with regard to the genuineness of Priscilla’s sorrow just then.
“I will try and find Miss Heath, miss, and ask her to come to you without delay,” answered the maid. She softly withdrew, closing the door after her. Priscilla went and stood on the hearthrug. Raising her eyes for a moment, they rested on a large and beautiful platinotype of G. F. Watts’ picture of “Hope.” The last time she had visited Miss Heath in that room Prissie had been taken by the kind vice-principal to look at the picture, and some of its symbolism was explained to her. “That globe on which the figure of Hope sits,” Miss Heath had said, “is meant to represent the world. Hope is blindfolded in order more effectually to shut out the sights which might distract her. See the harp in her hand, observe her rapt attitude— she is listening to melody— she hears, she rejoices, and yet the harp out of which she makes music only possesses one string— all the rest are broken.” Miss Heath said nothing further, and Prissie scarcely took in the full meaning of the picture that evening. Now she looked again, and a passionate agony swept over her. “Hope has one string still left to her harp with which she can play music,” murmured the young girl; “but oh! there are times when all the strings of the harp are broken. Then Hope dies.”
The room door was opened and the servant reappeared.
“I am very sorry, miss,” she said, “but Miss Heath has gone out for the morning. Would you like to see any one else?”
Priscilla gazed at the messenger in a dull sort of way. “I can’t see Miss Heath?” she murmured.
“No, miss, she is out.”
“Very well.”
“Can I do anything for you, miss?”
“No, thank you.”
The servant went away with a puzzled expression on her face.
“That plain young lady, who is so awful poor— Miss Peel, I mean— seems in a sad taking,” she said by and by to her fellow-servants.
Priscilla, left alone in Miss Heath’s sitting-room, stood still for a moment, then running usptairs to her room, she put on her hat and jacket and went out. She was expected to attend two lectures that morning and the hour for the first had almost arrived. Maggie Oliphant was coming into the house when Prissie ran past her.
“My dear!” she exclaimed, shocked at the look on Priscilla’s face, “come here; I want to speak to you.”
“I can’t— don’t stop me.”
“But where are you going? Mr. Kenyon has just arrived. I am on my way to the lecture-hall now.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“No.”
This last word reached Miss Oliphant from a distance. Prissie had already almost reached the gates.
Maggie stood still for a moment, half inclined to follow the excited, frantic-looking girl, but that queer inertia, which was part of her complex character, came over her. She shrugged her shoulders, the interest died out of her face; she walked slowly through the entrance-hall and down one of the side corridors to the lecture-room.
When the Greek lecture had come to an end Nancy Banister came up and slipped her hand through Maggie’s arm.
“What is the matter, Maggie?” she asked, “you look very white and tired.”
“I have a headache,” answered Maggie. “If it does not get better, I shall send for a carriage and take a drive.”
“May I come with you?”
“No, dear Nancy, when I have these bad headaches it is almost necessary to me to be alone.”
“Would it not be better for you to go and lie down in your room?”
“I to lie down in my room with a headache like this? No, thank you.” Maggie shuddered as she spoke. Nancy felt her friend’s arm shiver as she leaned on it.
“You are really ill, darling!” she said in a tone of sympathy and fondness.
“I have not felt right for a week and am worse today, but I dare say a drive in this nice frosty air will set me up.”
“I am going to Kingsdene. Shall I order a carriage for you?”
“I wish you would.”
“Maggie, did you notice that Priscilla was not at her lecture?”
“She was not. I met her rushing away, I think,
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