A Sweet Girl Graduate, L. T. Meade [summer books .txt] 📗
- Author: L. T. Meade
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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.”
“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
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