A Sweet Girl Graduate

Priscilla mounted the rough road which led to the vicarage, opened the white gate, walked up the gravel path, and entered the little porch. Her knock was answered by the vicar himself. He drew her into the house with an affectionate word of welcome, and soon she was sitting by his study fire, with hat and jacket removed.

In the vicar’s eyes Priscilla was not at all a plain girl. He liked the rugged power which her face displayed; he admired the sensible lines of her mouth, and he prophesied great things from that brow, so calm, so broad, so full. Mr Hayes had but a small respect for the roses and lilies of mere beauty. Mind was always more to him than matter. Some of the girls at St. Benet’s, who thought very little of poor Priscilla, would have felt no small surprise had they known the high regard and even admiration this good man felt for her.

“I am glad you have called, Prissie,” he said. “I was disappointed in not seeing you to-day. Well, my dear, do as well in the coming term as you did in the past. You have my best wishes.”

“Thank you,” said Prissie.

“You are happy in your new life, are you not, my dear child?”

“I am interested,” said Priscilla, in a low voice. Her eyes rested on her shabby dress as she spoke. She laid one hand over the other. She seemed to be weighing her words. “I am interested; sometimes I am absorbed. My new life fills my heart; it crowds into all my thoughts. I have no room for Aunt Raby – no room for my little sisters. Everything is new to me – everything fresh and broad. There are some trials, of course, and some unpleasantness; but, oh, the difference between here and there! Here it is so narrow; there, one cannot help getting enlightenment, daily and hourly.”

“Yes,” said Mr Hayes, when Priscilla paused, “I expected you to say something of this kind. I knew you could not but feel the immense, the immeasurable change. But why do you speak in that complaining voice, Priscilla?”

Prissie’s eyes were raised to his.

“Because Aunt Raby is ill, and it is wicked of me to forget her. It is mean and cowardly. I hate myself for it!”

Mr Hayes looked puzzled for a moment; then his face cleared.

“My dear Prissie,” he said, “I always knew there were depths of morbidness in you, but I did not suppose that you would sound them so quickly. If you are to grow up to be a wise and useful and helpful woman by-and-by, you must check this intense self-examination. Your feelings are the natural feelings of a girl who has entered upon a very charming life. You are meant to lead that life for the present; you are meant to do your duty in it. Don’t worry, my dear. Go back to St. Benet’s, and study well, and learn much, and gather plenty of experience for the future. If you fret about what cannot be helped, you will weaken your intellect and tire your heart. After all, Prissie, though you give much thought to St. Benet’s, and though its ways are delightful to you, your love is still with the old friends, is it not?”

“Even there I have failed,” said Priscilla, sadly. “There is a girl at St. Benet’s who has a strange power over me. I love her – I have a very great love for her. She is not a happy girl, she is not a perfect girl, but I would do anything – anything in the wide world for her.”

“And you would do anything for us, too?”

“Oh, yes, yes.”

“And, though you don’t think it, your love for us is stronger than your love for her. There is a freshness about the new love which fascinates you, but the old is the stronger. Keep both loves, my dear: both are of value. Now I must go out to visit poor Peters, who is ill, so I can see you home. Is there anything more you want to say to me?”

“Oh, yes, Mr Hayes, Aunt Raby is very ill.”

“She is, Prissie.”

“Does she know it?”

“Yes.”

“Ought I to be away from her now? – is it right?”

“My dear, do you want to break her heart? She worked so hard to get this time at college for you. No, Prissie, don’t get that idea into your head. Aunt Raby is most anxious that you should have every advantage. She knows – she and I both know – that she cannot live more than a year or two longer, and her greatest hope is that you may be able to support your little sisters when she is gone. No, Prissie, whatever happens, you must on no account give up your life at St. Benet’s.”

“Then please let me say something else. I must not go on with my classics.”

“My dear child, you are managing to crush me with all kinds of queer, disappointing sayings to-night.”

“Am I? But I mean what I say now. I love Greek better than anything almost in the world. But I know enough of it already for the mere purposes of rudimentary teaching. My German is faulty – my French not what it might be.”

“Come, come, my dear, Peters is waiting to settle for the night. Can we not talk on our way down to the cottage?”

Aunt Raby was fast asleep when Priscilla reentered the little sitting-room. The girl knelt down by the slight, old figure, and, stooping, pressed a light kiss on the forehead. Light as it was it awoke the sleeper.

“You are there still, child?” said Aunt Raby. “I dreamt you were away.”

“Would you like me to stay with you, auntie?”

“No, my dear; you help me upstairs, and I’ll get into bed. You ought to be in your own bed, too, Prissie. Young creatures ought never to sit up late, and you have a journey before you to-morrow.”

“Yes; but would you like me not to take the journey? I am strong, and could do all the work, and you might rest not only at night, but in the day. You might rest always, if I stayed here.”

Aunt Raby was wide-awake now, and her eyes were very bright.

“Do you mean what you say, Priscilla?” she asked.

“Yes, I do. You have the first right to me. If you want me, I’ll stay.”

“You’ll give up that outlandish Greek, and all that babel of foreign tongues, and your fine friends, and your grand college, and your hopes of being a famous woman by-and-by? Do you mean this, Prissie, seriously?”

“Yes, if you want me.”

“And you say I have the first claim on you?”

“I do.”

“Then you’re wrong; I haven’t the first claim on you.” Aunt Raby tumbled off the sofa, and managed to stand on her trembling old legs.

“Give me your arm, child,” she said; “and – and give me a kiss, Prissie. You’re a good girl, and worthy of your poor father. He was a bookworm, and you are another. But he was an excellent man, and you resemble him. I’m glad I took you home, and did my best for you. I’ll tell him about you when I get to heaven. He’ll be right pleased, I know. My sakes, child! I don’t want the little bit of earth’s rest. I’m going to have a better sort than that. And you think I’ve the first claim on you? A poor old body like me. There, help me up to bed, my dear.”

Aunt Raby did not say any more as the two scrambled up the narrow stairs in silence. When they got into the little bedroom, however, she put her arms round Priscilla’s neck, and gave her quite a hug.

“Thank you for offering yourself to me, my love,” she said, “but I wouldn’t have you on any terms whatever. Go and learn all you can at your fine college, Prissie. It’s the fashion of the day for the young folk to learn a lot, and there’s no going against the times. In my young life sewing was the great thing. Now it’s Latin and Greek. Don’t you forget that I taught you to sew, Prissie, and always put a back stitch when you’re running a seam; it keeps the stuff together wonderfully. Now go to bed.”

Chapter Twenty Four

Two Extremes

“Have you heard the news?” said Rosalind Merton. She skipped into Miss Day’s room as she spoke.

“No; what?” asked that untidy person, turning round and dropping a lot of ribbon which she was converting into bows. “What’s your news, Rose? Out with it. I expect it’s a case of ‘great cry and little wool.’ However, if you want a plain opinion from me – ”

“I don’t ask for your opinion, Annie. I’m quite accustomed to the scornful way in which you have received all my words lately. I need not tell you what I have heard at all, unless you wish to hear it.”

“But, of course, I wish to hear it, Rosie; you know that as well as I do. Now sit down and make yourself at home, there’s a dear.”

Rose allowed herself to be mollified.

“Well,” she said, sinking back into Miss Day’s most comfortable chair, “the feud between a certain small person and a certain great person grows apace.” Miss Day’s small eyes began to dance.

“You know I am interested in that subject,” she said. She flopped down on the floor by Rosalind Merton’s side. “Go on, my love,” she murmured; “describe the development of the enmity.”