A Sweet Girl Graduate

“How he did scowl at me!” said Rosalind, suddenly speaking aloud. “But I had to say it. I was determined to find out for myself how much or how little he cares for Maggie Oliphant, and, alas! there’s nothing of the ‘little’ in his affection. Well, well! I did not do badly to-day. I enjoyed myself, and I took a nice rise out of that disagreeable Miss Peel. Now must I look through those horrid French notes? Need I?” She pirouetted on one toe in front of the glass. The motion exhilarated her, and, raising her white wrapper so as to get a peep at her small, pretty feet, she waltzed slowly and gracefully in front of the mirror.

“I can’t and won’t study to-night,” she said again. “I hate study, and I will not spoil my looks by burning the midnight oil.”

Suddenly she clasped her hands, and the colour rushed into her cheeks.

“How fortunate that I remembered! I must write to mother this very night. This is Thursday. The auction is on Monday. I have not a post to lose.”

Hastily seating herself in front of her bureau, Rosalind scribbled a few lines: —

“Dearest, Precious Mamsie —

“Whatever happens, please send me a postal order for 10 pounds by return. One of the richest girls in the place is going to have an auction, and I shall pick up some treasures. If you could spare 15 pounds, or even 20 pounds, the money would be well spent, but ten at least I must have. There is a sealskin jacket, which cost at least eighty pounds, and such coral ornaments – you know, that lovely pink shade. Send me all you can, precious mamsie, and make your Baby happy.

“Your own little Rose.

“P.S. – Oh, mamsie, such a sealskin! and such coral!”

This artless epistle was quickly enclosed in an envelope, addressed, and deposited in the post-box. Afterwards pretty little Rosalind spent a night of dreamless slumber, and awoke in the morning as fresh and innocent-looking as the fairest of the babies she compared herself to.

Chapter Seventeen

Sealskin and Pink Coral

Monday arrived. It wanted now less than three weeks to the end of the term. A good many girls were talking about home and Christmas, and already the hard-worked, the studious, the industrious were owning to the first symptoms of that pleasant fatigue which would entitle them to the full enjoyment of their merited holiday.

Priscilla was now a happy girl. She had found her niche in the college; her work was delightful. Under Maggie’s advice she became a member of the Debating Society, and rather reluctantly allowed her name to be entered in the Dramatic Club. She felt very shy about this, but that was because she did not know her own power. To her astonishment, Priscilla found that she could act. If the part suited her she could throw herself into it so that she ceased to be awkward, ungainly Priscilla Peel. Out of herself she was no longer awkward, no longer ungainly. She could only personate certain characters; light and airy parts she could not attempt, but where much depended on passion and emotion Priscilla could do splendidly. Every day her friends found fresh points of interest in this queer girl. Nancy Banister was really attached to her, Maggie was most faithful in her declared friendship, and Miss Heath took more notice of Priscilla than of any other girl in the Hall. The different lecturers spoke highly of Miss Peel’s comprehension, knowledge, and ability. In short, things were going well with her, and she owned to her own heart that she had never felt happier in her life.

Prissie, too, was looking forward to the Christmas holidays. She was to return home then, and her letters to her three little sisters, to Aunt Raby, and to Mr Hayes were full of the delights of her college life.

No one could have been more angry than poor Prissie during that miserable time at the Elliot-Smiths’. Many complaints did she resolve to make, and dire was the vengeance which she hoped would fall on Rose’s devoted head. But, during her talk with Mr Hammond, some of her anger had cooled down. He had touched on great subjects, and Prissie’s soul had responded like a musical instrument to the light and skilled finger of the musician. All her intellectual powers were aroused to their utmost, keenest life during this brief little talk. She found that Hammond could say better and more comprehensive things than even her dear old tutor, Mr Hayes. Hammond was abreast of the present-day aspect of those things in which Prissie delighted. Her short talk with him made up for all the tedium of the rest of that wretched afternoon.

On her walk home Priscilla made up her mind to have nothing further to say to Rose, but also not to make a complaint about her. She would pass the matter over in silence. If questioned, she would tell her own friends where she had been; if not questioned, she would volunteer no information.

Maggie and Nancy did ask her casually what had kept her out so long.

“I was at the Elliot-Smiths’ with Miss Merton,” replied Priscilla.

They both started when she said this, and looked at her hard. They were too well-bred, however, to give utterance to the many comments which crowded to their lips. Prissie read their thoughts like a book.

“I did not like it at all,” she said; “but I’d rather say nothing about it, please. After Mr Hammond came I was happy.”

“Mr Hammond was there?” said Nancy, in an eager voice. “Geoffrey Hammond was at the Elliot-Smiths’? Impossible!”

“He was there,” repeated Prissie. She glanced nervously at Maggie, who had taken up a book, and was pretending to read. “He came, and he spoke to me. He was very, very kind, and he made me so happy.”

“Dear Prissie,” said Maggie, suddenly. She got up, went over to the young girl, tapped her affectionately on the shoulder, and left the room.

Prissie sat, looking thoughtfully before her. After a time she bade Nancy Banister “Good-night,” and went off to her own room to study the notes she had taken that morning at the French lecture.

The next few days passed without anything special occurring. If a little rumour were already beginning to swell in the air, it scarcely reached the ears of those principally concerned. Maggie Oliphant continued to make a special favourite of Miss Peel. She sat near her at breakfast, and at the meetings of the Dramatic Society was particularly anxious to secure a good part for Prissie. The members of the society intended to act The Princess before the end of the term, and as there was a great deal to work up, and many rehearsals were necessary, they met in the little theatre on most evenings.

Maggie Oliphant had been unanimously selected to take the part of the Princess. She electrified everyone by drawing Miss Peel towards her, and saying in an emphatic voice —

“You must be the Prince, Priscilla.”

A look of dismay crept over several faces. One or two made different proposals.

“Would not Nancy Banister take the part better, Maggie?” said Miss Claydon, a tall, graceful girl, who was to be Psyche.

“No; Nancy is to be Cyril. She sings well, and can do the part admirably. Miss Peel must be the Prince: I will have no other lover. What do you say, Miss Peel?”

“I cannot; it is impossible,” almost whispered Prissie.

”‘Cannot’ is a word which must not be listened to in our Dramatic Society,” responded Maggie. “I promise to turn you out a most accomplished Prince, my friend; no one shall be disappointed in you. Girls, do you leave this matter in my hands? Do you leave the Prince to me?”

“We cannot refuse you the privilege of choosing your own Prince, Princess,” said Miss Claydon, with a graceful curtsy.

The others assented, but unwillingly. Miss Oliphant was known to be more full of whims than anyone else in the college. Her extraordinary and sudden friendship for Prissie was regarded as her latest caprice.

Rosalind Merton was not a particularly good actress, but her face was too pretty not to be called into requisition. She was to take the part of Melissa.

The society had a grand meeting on the day of Polly Singleton’s auction. Matters were still very much in a state of chaos, but the rehearsal of some of the parts was got through with credit under the directions of the clever stage-manager, one of the nicest and best girls in the college, Constance Field. She had a knack of putting each girl at her ease – of discovering the faintest sparks of genius, and fanning them into flame.

Priscilla had learned her speeches accurately: her turn came; she stood up trembling and began. Gradually the stony (or was it yearning?) look in Maggie’s face moved her. She fancied herself Hammond, not the Prince. When she spoke to Maggie she felt no longer like a feeble school-girl acting a part. She thought she was pleading for Hammond, and enthusiasm got into her voice, and a light filled her eyes. There was a little cheer when Priscilla got through her first rehearsal. Nancy Banister came up to Rosalind.

“I do believe Maggie is right,” she said, “and that Miss Peel will take the part capitally.”

“Miss Oliphant is well-known for her magnanimity,” retorted Rosalind, an ugly look spoiling the expression of her face.

“Her magnanimity? What do you mean, Rose?”

“To choose that girl for her Prince!” retorted Rosalind. “Ask Mr Hammond what I mean. Ask the Elliot-Smiths.”

“I don’t know the Elliot-Smiths,” said Nancy, in a cold voice. She turned away; she felt displeased and annoyed.

Rose glanced after her; then she ran up to Maggie Oliphant, who was preparing to leave the little theatre.

“Don’t you want to see the auction?” she said, in a gay voice. “It’s going to be the best fun we have had for many a long day.”

Maggie turned and looked at her.

“The auction? What auction do you mean?” she asked.

“Why, Polly Singleton’s, of course. You’ve not heard of it? It’s the event of the term!”

Maggie laughed.

“You must be talking nonsense, Rose,” she said. “An auction at St. Benet’s! A real auction? Impossible!”