A Sweet Girl Graduate

She held out her hand. Hammond took it limply between his own.

“You are very cruel,” he murmured, in the lowest of voices.

He raised his hat, forgot even to bow to Priscilla, and hurried off down a side street.

Maggie walked on a little way. Then she turned, and looked down the street where he had vanished. Suddenly she raised her hand to her lips, kissed it, and blew the kiss after the figure which had already disappeared. She laughed excitedly when she did this, and her whole face was glowing with a beautiful colour.

Prissie, standing miserable and forgotten by the tall, handsome girl’s side, could see the light in her eyes, and the glow on her checks in the lamplight.

“I am here,” said Priscilla, at last, in a low, half-frightened voice. “I am sorry I am here, but I am. I heard what you said to Mr Hammond. I am sorry I heard.”

Maggie turned slowly, and looked at her. Prissie returned her gaze. Then, as if further words were wrung from her against her will, she continued —

“I saw the tears in your eyes in the fern-house at the Marshalls’. I am very sorry, but I did see them.”

“My dear Prissie!” said Maggie. She went up suddenly to the girl, put her arm round her neck, and kissed her.

“Come home now,” she said, drawing Prissie’s hand through her arm. “I don’t think I greatly mind your knowing,” she said, after a pause. “You are true; I see it in your face. You would never tell again – you would never make mischief.”

“Tell again! Of course not.” Prissie’s words came out with great vigour.

“I know you would not, Priscilla; may I call you Priscilla?”

“Yes.”

“Will you be my friend, and shall I be your friend?”

“If you would,” said Prissie. “But you don’t mean it. It is impossible that you can mean it. I’m not a bit like you – and – and – you only say these things to be kind.”

“What do you mean, Priscilla?”

“I must tell you,” said Prissie, turning very pale. “I heard what you said to Miss Banister the night I came to the college.”

“What I said to Miss Banister? What did I say?”

“Oh, can’t you remember? The words seemed burnt into me: I shall never forget them. I had left my purse in the dining-hall, and I was going to fetch it. Your door was a little open. I heard my name, and I stopped – yes, I did stop to listen.”

“Oh, what a naughty, mean little Prissie! You stopped to listen. And what did you hear? Nothing good, of course? The bad thing was said to punish you for listening.”

“I heard,” said Priscilla, her own cheeks crimson now, “I heard you say that it gave you an aesthetic pleasure to be kind, and that was why you were good to me.”

Maggie felt her own colour rising.

“Well, my dear,” she said, “it still gives me an aesthetic pleasure to be kind. You could not expect me to fall in love with you the moment I saw you. I was kind to you then, perhaps, for the reason I stated. It is very different now.”

“It was wrong of you to be kind to me for that reason.”

“Wrong of me? What an extraordinary girl you are, Priscilla – why was it wrong of me?”

“Because I learnt to love you. You were gentle to me, and spoke courteously, when others were rude and only laughed; my whole heart went out to you when you were so sweet and gentle and kind. I did not think – I could not possibly think – that you were good just because it gave you a sort of selfish pleasure. When I heard your words I felt dreadful. I hated St. Benet’s; I wished I had never come. Your words turned everything to bitterness for me.”

“Did they really, Priscilla? Oh, Prissie! what a thoughtless, wild, impulsive creature I am. Well, I don’t feel now as I did that night. If those words were cruel, forgive me. Forget those words, Prissie.”

“I will, if you will.”

“I? I have forgotten them utterly.”

“Thank you, thank you.”

“Then we’ll be friends – real friends; true friends?”

“Yes.”

“You must say ‘Yes, Maggie.’”

“Yes, Maggie.”

“That is right. Now keep your hand in my arm. Let’s walk fast Is it not glorious to walk in this semi-frosty sort of weather? Prissie, you’ll see a vast lot that you don’t approve of in your new friend.”

“Oh, I don’t care,” said Priscilla.

She felt so joyous she could have skipped.

“I’ve as many sides,” continued Maggie, “as a chameleon has colours. I am the gayest of the gay, as well as the saddest of the sad. When I am gay you may laugh with me, but I warn you when I am sad you must never cry with me. Leave me alone when I have my dark moods on, Prissie.”

“Very well, Maggie, I’ll remember.”

“I think you’ll make a delightful friend,” said Miss Oliphant, just glancing at her; “but I pity your side of the bargain.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll try you so fearfully.”

“Oh, no, you won’t. I don’t want to have a perfect friend.”

“Perfect! No, child – Heaven forbid. But there are shades of perfection. Now, when I get into my dark moods, I feel wicked as well as sad. No, we won’t talk of them; we’ll keep them away. Prissie, I feel good to-night – good – and glad: it’s such a nice feeling.”

“I am sure of it,” said Priscilla.

“What do you know about it, child? You have not tasted life yet. Wait until you do. For instance – no, though – I won’t enlighten you. Prissie, what do you think of Geoffrey Hammond?”

“I think he loves you, very much.”

“Poor Geoffrey! Now, Prissie, you are to keep that little thought quite dark in your mind – in fact, you are to put it out of your mind. You are not to associate my name with Mr Hammond’s – not even in your thoughts. You will very likely hear us spoken of together, and some of the stupid girls here will make little quizzing, senseless remarks. But there will be no truth in them, Prissie. He is nothing to me, nor I to him.”

“Then why did you blow a kiss after him?” asked Priscilla.

Maggie stood still. It was too dark for Priscilla to see her blush.