A Sweet Girl Graduate

“Are you?” he replied in some astonishment. Then he hastened to say something polite. “I forgot, we had not ended our discussion. You almost convinced me with regard to the superior merits of the ‘Odyssey,’ but not quite. Shall we renew the subject now?”

“No, please don’t. That’s not why I’m glad to see you. It’s for something quite, quite different. I want to say something to you, and it’s most important. Can’t we just keep back a little from the others? I don’t want Maggie to hear.”

Now why were Miss Oliphant’s ears so sharp that afternoon? Why, even in the midst of her gay chatter to Constance, did she hear every word of Priscilla’s queer, garbled speech? And why did astonishment and even anger steal into her heart?

What she did, however, was to gratify Prissie immensely by hurrying on with her companion, so that she and Hammond were left comfortably in the background.

“I don’t quite know what you mean,” he said, stiffly. “What can you possibly have of importance to say to me?”

“I don’t want Maggie to hear,” repeated Prissie, in her earnest voice. She knew far too little of the world to be in the least alarmed at Hammond’s stately tones.

“What I want to say is about Maggie, and yet it isn’t.”

“About Miss Oliphant?”

“Oh, yes, but she’s Maggie to me. She’s the dearest, the best – there’s no one like her, no one. I didn’t understand her at first, but now I know how noble she is. I had no idea until I knew Maggie that a person could have faults, and yet be noble. It’s a new sort of experience to me.”

Prissie’s eyes, in which even in her worst moments there always sat the soul of a far-reaching sort of intelligence, were shining now through tears. Hammond saw the tears, and the lovely expression in the eyes, and said to himself —

“Good heavens, could I ever have regarded that dear child as plain?” Aloud, he said, in a softened voice, “I’m awfully obliged to you for saying these sorts of things of Miss – Miss Oliphant, but you must know, at least you must guess, that I – I have thought them for myself long, long ago.”

“Yes, of course, I know that. But have you much faith? Do you keep to what you believe?”

“This is a most extraordinary girl!” murmured Hammond. Then he said aloud, “I fail to understand you.”

They had now nearly reached the Marshalls’ door. The other two were waiting for them.

“It’s this,” said Prissie, clasping her hands hard, and speaking in her most emphatic and distressful way. “There are unkind things being said of Maggie, and there’s one girl who is horrid to her – horrid! I want you not to believe a word that girl says.”

“What girl do you mean?”

“You were walking with her just now.”

“Really, Miss Peel, you are the most extraordinary – ”

But Maggie Oliphant’s clear, sweet voice interrupted them.

“Had we not better come into the house?” she said. “The door has been open for quite half a minute.”

Poor Prissie rushed in first, covered with shame; Miss Field hastened after, to bear her company; and Hammond and Maggie brought up the rear.

Chapter Twenty

A Painter

The Marshalls were always at home to their friends on Friday afternoons, and there were already several guests in the beautiful, quaint old drawing-room when the quartette entered. Mrs Marshall, her white hair looking lovely under her soft lace cap, came forward to meet her visitors. Her kind eyes looked with appreciation and welcome at one and all. Blushing and shamefaced Prissie received a pleasant word of greeting, which seemed in some wonderful way to steady her nerves. Hammond and Maggie were received as special and very dear friends, and Helen Marshall, the old lady’s pretty grand-daughter, rushed forward to embrace her particular friend, Constance Field.

Maggie felt sore; she scarcely knew why. Her voice was bright, her eyes shining, her cheeks radiant in their rich and lovely bloom. But there was a quality in her voice which Hammond recognised – a certain ring which meant defiance, and which prophesied to those who knew her well that one of her bad half-hours was not very far off.

Maggie seated herself near a girl who was a comparative stranger and began to talk. Hammond drew near, and made a third in the conversation. Maggie talked in the brilliant, somewhat reckless fashion which she occasionally adopted. Hammond listened, now and then uttered a short sentence, now and then was silent, with disapproval in his eyes.

Maggie read their expression like a book.

“He shall be angry with me,” she said to herself. Her words became a little wilder. The sentiments she uttered were the reverse of those Hammond held.

Soon a few old friends came up. They were jolly, merry, good-humoured girls, who were all prepared to look up to Maggie Oliphant, and to worship her beauty and cleverness if she would allow them. Maggie welcomed the girls with effusion, let them metaphorically sit at her feet, and proceeded to disenchant them as hard as she could.

Some garbled accounts of the auction at St. Benet’s had reached them, and they were anxious to get a full report from Miss Oliphant. Did she not think it a scandalous sort of thing to have occurred?

“Not at all,” answered Maggie in her sweetest tones; “it was capital fun, I assure you.”

“Were you really there?” asked Miss Duncan, the eldest of the girls. “We heard it, of course, but could scarcely believe it possible.”

“Of course I was there,” replied Maggie. “Whenever there is anything really amusing going on, I am always in the thick of it.”

“Well!” Emily Duncan looked at her sister Susan. Susan raised her brows. Hammond took a photograph from a table which stood near, and pretended to examine it.

“Shall I tell you about the auction?” asked Maggie.

“Oh, please, if you would be so kind. I suppose, as you were present, such a thing could not really lower the standard of the college?” These words came from Susan Duncan, who looked at Hammond as she spoke. She was his cousin, and very fond of him.

“Please tell us about the auction,” he said, looking full at Maggie.

“I will,” she replied, answering his gaze with a flash of repressed irritation. “The auction was splendid fun! One of our girls was in debt, and she had to sell her things. Oh, it was capital! I wish you could have seen her acting as her own auctioneer. Some of us were greedy, and wanted her best things. I was one of those. She sold a sealskin jacket, an expensive one, quite new. There is a legend in the college that eighty guineas were expended on it. Well, I bid for the sealskin, and it was knocked down to me for ten. It is a little too big for me, of course, but when it is cut to my figure, it will make a superb winter garment.”

Maggie was clothed now in velvet and sable; nothing could be richer than her attire; nothing more mocking than her words.

“You were fortunate,” said Susan Duncan. “You got your sealskin a great bargain. Didn’t she, Geoffrey?”

“I don’t think so,” replied Hammond.

“Why not? Oh, do tell us why not,” cried the sisters, eagerly.

He bowed to them, laughed as lightly as Maggie would have done, and said, in a careless tone: “My reasons are complex, and too many to mention. I will only say now that what is objectionable to possess can never be a bargain to obtain. In my opinion, sealskin jackets are detestable.”

With these words he strode across the room, and seated himself with a sigh of relief by Priscilla’s side.

“What are you doing all by yourself?” he said, cheerfully. “Is no one attending to you? Are you always to be left like a poor little forsaken mouse in the background?”

“I am not at all lonely,” said Prissie.

“I thought you hated to be alone.”

“I did, the other day, in that drawing-room; but not in this. People are all kind in this.”

“You are right. Our hostess is most genial and sympathetic.”

“And the guests are nice, too,” said Prissie; “at least, they look nice.”