A Sweet Girl Graduate

“And I never knew that Rosalind Merton was one of your friends, Prissie,” continued Nancy, in a puzzled voice.

“Nor is she – I scarcely know her; but when she asked me to go out with her, I could not very well say no.”

“I suppose not; but I am sorry, all the same, for it is not a fit day for anyone to be abroad, and Rosalind is such a giddy pate. Well, come back as soon as you can. Maggie and I are going to have a jolly time, and we only wish you were with us.”

Nancy nodded brightly, and took her leave, and Priscilla, putting on her waterproof and her shabbiest hat, went down into the hall to meet Rosalind.

Rosalind was also in waterproof, but her hat was extremely pretty and becoming, and Priscilla fancied she got a glimpse of a gay silk dress under the waterproof cloak.

“Oh, how quite too sweet of you to be ready!” said Rosalind, with effusion. She took Prissie’s hand and squeezed it affectionately, and the two girls set off.

The walk was a dreary one, for Kingsdene, one of the most beautiful places in England in fine weather, lies so low, that in the winter months fogs are frequent, and the rain is almost incessant, so that then the atmosphere is always damp and chilly. By the time the two girls had got into the High Street, Prissie’s thick, sensible boots were covered with mud, and Rosalind’s thin ones felt very damp to her feet.

They soon reached the quarter where the dressmaker, Miss Forbes, lived. Prissie was asked to wait downstairs, and Rosalind ran up several flights of stairs to fulfil her mission. She came back at the end of a few minutes, looking bright and radiant.

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Peel,” she said, “but my boots were so muddy that Miss Forbes insisted on polishing them up for me.”

“Well, we can go home now, I suppose?” said Prissie.

“Ye-es; only as we are here, would you greatly mind our going round by Bouverie Street? I want to inquire for a friend of mine, Mrs Elliot-Smith. She has not been well.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” said Priscilla. “Will it take us much out of our way?”

“No, only a step or two. Come, we have just to turn this corner, and here we are. What a dear – quite too good-natured girl you are, Miss Peel!” Prissie said nothing. The two started forth again in the drizzling mist and fog, and presently found themselves in one of the most fashionable streets of Kingsdene, and standing before a ponderous hall-door, which stood back in a portico.

Rosalind rang the bell, which made a loud peal. The door was opened almost immediately; but, instead of a servant appearing in answer to the summons, a showily dressed girl, with a tousled head of flaxen hair, light blue eyes, and a pale face, stood before Rosalind and Prissie.

“Oh, you dear Rose!” she said, clasping her arms round Miss Merton, and dragging her into the house: “I had almost given you up. Do come in – do come in, both of you. You are more than welcome. What a miserable, horrid, too utterly depressing afternoon it is!”

“How do you do, Meta?” said Rosalind, when she could interrupt this eager flow of words. “May I introduce my friend, Miss Peel? Miss Peel, this is my very great and special friend and chum, Meta Elliot-Smith.”

“Oh, you charming darling!” said Meta, giving Rose a fresh hug, and glancing in a supercilious but friendly way at Prissie.

“We came to inquire for your mother, dear Meta,” said Rose, in a demure tone. “Is she any better?”

“Yes, my dear darling, she’s much better.” Meta’s eyes flashed interrogation into Rose’s: Rose’s returned back glances, which spoke whole volumes of meaning.

“Look here,” said Meta Elliot-Smith, “now that you two dear, precious girls have come, you mustn’t go away. Oh, no, I couldn’t hear of it. I have perfect oceans to say to you, Rose – and it is absolutely centuries since we have met. Off with your waterproof, and up you come to the drawing-room for a cup of tea. One or two friends are dropping in presently, and the Beechers and one or two more are upstairs now. You know the Beechers, don’t you, Rosalind? Here, Miss Peel, let me help you to unburden yourself. Little Rose is so nimble in her ways that she doesn’t need any assistance.”

“Oh, but indeed I can’t stay,” said Prissie. “It is quite impossible! You know, Miss Merton, it is impossible. We are due at St. Benet’s now. We ought to be going back at once.”

Rosalind Merton’s only answer was to slip off her waterproof cloak, and stand arrayed in a fascinating toilet of silk and lace – a little too dressy, perhaps, even for an afternoon party at Kingsdene, but vastly becoming to its small wearer.

Priscilla opened her eyes wide as she gazed at her companion. She saw at once that she had been entrapped into her present false position, and that Rosalind’s real object in coming to Kingsdene was not to pay her dressmaker, but to visit the Elliot-Smiths.

“I can’t possibly stay,” she said in a cold, angry voice. “I must go back to St. Benet’s at once.”

She began to button up her waterproof as fast as Miss Elliot-Smith was unbuttoning it.

“Nonsense, you silly old dear!” said Rosalind, who, having gained her way, was now in the best of spirits. “You mustn’t listen to her, Meta; she studies a great deal too hard, and a little relaxation will do her all the good in the world. My dear Miss Peel, you can’t be so rude as to refuse a cup of tea, and I know I shall catch an awful cold if I don’t have one. Do come upstairs for half an hour; do, there’s a dear Prissie!”

Priscilla hesitated. She had no knowledge of so-called “society.” Her instincts told her it was very wrong to humour Rose. She disliked Miss Elliot-Smith, and felt wild at the trick which had been played on her. Nevertheless, on an occasion of this kind, she was no match for Rose, who knew perfectly what she was about, and stood smiling and pretty before her.

“Just for a few moments,” said Rosalind, coming up and whispering to her. “I really won’t keep you long. You will just oblige me for a few minutes.”

“Well, but I’m not fit to be seen in this old dress?” whispered back poor Prissie.

“Oh, yes, you are; you’re not bad at all, and I am sure Meta will find you a secluded corner if you want it – won’t you, Meta?”

“Yes, of course, if Miss Peel wants it,” answered Meta. “But she looks all right, so deliciously quaint – I simply adore quaint people! Quite the sweet girl graduate, I do declare. You don’t at all answer to the rôle, you naughty Rosalind?”

So Prissie, in her ill-made brown dress, her shabbiest hat, and her muddy boots, had to follow in the wake of Rosalind Merton and her friend. At first she had been too angry to think much about her attire, but she was painfully conscious of it when she entered a crowded drawing-room, where everyone else was in suitable afternoon toilet. She was glad to shrink away out of sight into the most remote corner she could find; her muddy boots were pushed far in under her chair, and hidden as much as possible by her rather short dress; her checks burnt unbecomingly; she felt miserable, self-conscious, ill at ease, and very cross with everyone. It was in vain for poor Priscilla to whisper to herself that Greek and Latin were glorious and great, and dress and fashion were things of no moment whatever. At this instant she knew all too well that dress and fashion were reigning supreme.

Meta Elliot-Smith was effusive, loud, and vulgar, but she was also good-natured. She admired Rosalind, but in her heart of hearts she thought that her friend had played Prissie a very shabby trick. She brought Prissie some tea, therefore, and stood for a moment or two by her side, trying to make things a little more comfortable for her. Someone soon claimed her attention, however, and poor Prissie found herself alone.

Chapter Fourteen

In the Elliot-Smiths’ Drawing-Room

The fun and talk rose fast and furious. More and more guests arrived; the large drawing-rooms were soon almost as full as they could hold. Priscilla, from her corner, half-hidden by a sheltering window curtain, looked in vain for Rosalind. Where had she hidden herself? When were they going away? Surely Rosalind would come to fetch her soon? They had to walk home and be ready for dinner.

Dinner at St. Benet’s was at half-past six, and Prissie reflected with a great sensation of thankfulness that Rosalind and she must go back in good time for this meal, as it was one of the rules of the college that no girl should absent herself from late dinner without getting permission from the Principal.

Prissie looked in agony at the clock which stood on a mantelpiece not far from where she had ensconced herself. Presently it struck five; no one heard its silver note in the babel of sound, but Priscilla watched its slowly moving hands in an agony.

Rose must come to fetch her presently. Prissie knew – she reflected to her horror that she had not the moral courage to walk about those drawing-rooms hunting for Rose.

Two or three exquisitely dressed but frivolous-looking women stood in a group not far from the window where Priscilla sat forlorn. They talked about the cut of their mantles, and the price they had given for their new winter bonnets. Their shrill laughter reached Prissie’s ears, also their words. They complimented one another, but talked scandal of their neighbours. They called somebody – who, Prissie could not imagine – “a certain lady,” and spoke of how she was angling to get a footing in society, and how the good set at Kingsdene would certainly never have anything to do with her or hers.

“She’s taking up those wretched girl graduates,” said one of these gossips to her neighbour. Then her eye fell upon Prissie. She said “Hush!” in an audible tone, and the little party moved away out of earshot.

The minute hand of the clock on the mantelpiece pointed to nearly half-past five. Poor Prissie felt her miseries grow almost intolerable. Tears of mortification and anguish were forcing themselves to her eyes. She felt that, in addition to having lost so many hours of study, she would get into a serious scrape at St. Benet’s for breaking one of the known rules of the college.

At this moment a quiet voice said, “How do you do?”

She raised her tearful eyes. Geoffrey Hammond was standing by her side. He gave her a kind glance, shook hands with her, and stood by her window uttering commonplaces until Priscilla had recovered her self-possession. Then, dropping into a chair near, he said, abruptly —

“I saw you from the other end of the room. I was surprised. I did not suppose you knew our hostess.”

“Nor do I really,” said Prissie, with sudden vehemence. “Oh, it’s a shame!” she added, her face reddening up woefully; “I have been entrapped!”

“You must not let the people who are near us hear you say words of that kind,” said Hammond; “they will crowd around to hear your story. Now, I want it all to myself. Do you think you can tell it to me in a low voice?”

To poor Hammond’s horror Prissie began to whisper.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, interrupting her, “but do you know that the buzzing noise caused by a whisper carries sound a long way? That is a well authenticated fact. Now, if you will try to speak low.”

“Oh, thank you; yes, I will,” said Prissie. She began a garbled account Hammond looked at her face and guessed the truth. The miseries of her present position were depriving the poor girl of the full use of her intellect. At last he ascertained that Priscilla’s all-absorbing present anxiety was to be in time for the half-past six dinner at St. Benet’s.