A Sweet Girl Graduate

A moment or two later Priscilla came back, sat calmly down in one of Maggie’s comfortable chairs, and, taking up her Greek edition of Euripides, began to read and translate with eagerness.

As Prissie read she made notes with a pencil in a small book which lay in her lap. The splendid thoughts appealed to her powerfully; her face glowed with pleasure. She lived in the noble past; she was a Greek with the old Greeks; she forgot the nineteenth century, with its smallness, its money worries – above all, she forgot her own cares.

At last in her reading she came to a difficult sentence, which, try as she would, she could not render into English to her own satisfaction. She was a very careful student, and always disliked shirking difficulties; the pleasure of her reading would be lost if she did not do full justice to the lines which puzzled her. She resolved to read no further until Maggie appeared: Maggie Oliphant, with her superior information, would soon cut the knot for her. She closed the copy of Euripides with reluctance, and, putting her hand into her pocket, took out a note she had just received, to mark the place.

A moment or two later Maggie came in.

“Still here, Prissie!” she exclaimed, in her somewhat indifferent but good-natured voice. “What a bookworm you are turning into!”

“I have been waiting for you to help me, if you will, Maggie,” said Priscilla. “I have lost the right clue to the full sense of this passage – see! Can you give it to me?”

Maggie sat down at once, took up the book, glanced her eyes over the difficult words, and translated them with ease.

“How lovely!” said Prissie, clasping her hands, and giving herself up to a feeling of enjoyment. “Don’t stop, Maggie, please; do read some more!” Miss Oliphant smiled.

“Enthusiast!” she murmured.

She translated with brilliancy to the end of the page; then, throwing the book on her knee, repeated the whole passage aloud in Greek.

The note that Prissie put in as a mark fell on the floor. She was so lost in delighted listening that she did not notice it, but, when Maggie at last stopped for want of breath, Priscilla saw the little note, stooped forward to pick it up, glanced at the handwriting, and a shadow swept over her expressive face.

“Oh! thank you, Maggie, thank you,” she exclaimed; “it is beautiful, entrancing! It made me forget everything for a short time, but I must not listen to any more; it is, indeed, most beautiful; but not for me.”

“What do you mean, you little goose? You will soon read Euripides as well as I do. What is more, you will surpass me, Priscilla; your talent is greater than mine.”

“Don’t say that, Maggie; I can scarcely bear it when you do.”

“Why do you say you can scarcely bear it? Do you love me so well that you hate to excel me? Silly child, as if I cared!”

“Maggie, I know you are really too great to be possessed by petty weaknesses. If I ever did excel you, which is most unlikely, I know you would be glad both for me and yourself. No, it is not that; I am unhappy because of no fancy.”

“What worries you then?”

“Maggie, do you see this note?”

“Yes; it is from Miss Heath, is it not?”

“It is. I am to see her to-night.”

“Well, Prissie, you must be quick with your revelation, for I have some notes to look over.”

“I won’t keep you a moment. I am to see Miss Heath to tell her – ” Prissie paused. Her face grew deadly white. “I am to see Miss Heath to tell her – to tell her – that I. – Oh, Maggie! I must give up my classics. I must; it’s all settled. Don’t say anything. Don’t tempt me to reconsider the question. It can’t be reconsidered, and my mind is made up. That’s it; it’s a trouble, but I must go through with it. Good-night, Maggie.”

Prissie held out her long, unformed hand; Miss Oliphant clasped it between both her own.

“You are trembling,” she said, standing up and drawing the girl towards her. “I don’t want to argue the point if you so firmly forbid me. I think you quite mad, of course. It is absolutely impossible for me to sympathise with such wild folly. Still, if your mind is made up, I won’t interfere. But, seeing that at one time we were very firm friends, you might give me your reasons, Priscilla.”

Priscilla slowly and stiffly withdrew her hands; her lips moved. She was repeating Miss Oliphant’s words under her breath —

“At one time we were friends.”

“Won’t you speak?” said Maggie, impatiently.

“Oh, yes, I’ll speak; I’ll tell you the reason. You won’t understand, but you had better know – ” Prissie paused again; she seemed to swallow something; her next words came out slowly with great difficulty: “When I went home for the Christmas recess I found Aunt Raby worse. You don’t know what my home is like, Miss Oliphant; it is small and poor. At home we are often cold, and often hungry. I have three little sisters, and they want clothes and education; they want training, they want love, they want care. Aunt Raby is too weak to do much for them now; she is very, very ill. You have not an idea – not an idea – Miss Oliphant, in your wealth and your luxury what the poverty of Penywern Cottage is like. What does such poverty mean? How shall I describe it to you? we are sometimes glad of a piece of bread; butter is a luxury; meat we scarcely taste.” Prissie again broke off to think and consider her next words. Maggie, whose sympathies were always keenly aroused by any real emotion, tried once again to take her hands; Prissie put them behind her. “Aunt Raby is a good woman,” continued Priscilla; “she is brave, she is a heroine. Although she is just a commonplace old woman, no one has ever led a grander life in its way. She wears poor clothes – oh, the poorest; she has an uncouth appearance, worse even than I have, but I am quite sure that God —God respects her – God thinks her worthy. When my father and mother died (I was fourteen when my dear mother died) Aunt Raby came and took me home and my three little sisters. She gave us bread to eat. Oh, yes, we never quite wanted food, but before we came Aunt Raby had enough money to feed herself, and no more. She took us all in and supported us, because she worked so very, very hard. Ever since I was fourteen – I am eighteen now – Aunt Raby has done this. Well,” continued Priscilla, slow tears coming to her eyes and making themselves felt in her voice, “this hard work is killing her; Aunt Raby is dying because she has worked so hard for us. Before my three years have come to an end here, she will be far, far away: she will be at rest for ever – God will be making up to her for all she has done here. Her hard life which God will have thought beautiful will be having its reward. Afterwards I have to support and educate the three little girls. I spoke to Mr Hayes – my dear clergyman, about whom I have told you, and who taught me all I know – and he agrees with me that I know enough of Greek and Latin now for rudimentary teaching, and that I shall be better qualified to take a good paying situation if I devote the whole of my time while at St. Benet’s to learning and perfecting myself in modern languages. It’s the end of a lovely dream, of course, but there is no doubt – no doubt whatever – what is right for me to do.”

Prissie stopped speaking; Maggie went up again and tried to take her hand; she drew back a step or two, pretending not to see.

“It has been very kind of you to listed,” she said; “I am very grateful to you, for now, whatever we may be to each other in future, you will understand that I don’t give up what I love lightly. Thank you, you have helped me much. Now I must go and tell Miss Heath what I have said to you. I have had a happy reading of Euripides and have enjoyed listening to you. I meant to give myself that one last treat – now it is over. Good-night.”

Priscilla left the room – she did not even kiss Maggie as she generally did at parting for the night.

Chapter Twenty Five

A Mysterious Episode

When she was alone, Maggie Oliphant sat down in her favourite chair, and covered her face with her hands. “It is horrible to listen to stories like that,” she murmured under her breath. “Such stories get on the nerves. I shall not sleep to-night. Fancy any people calling themselves ladies wanting meat, wanting clothes, wanting warmth. Oh, my God! this is horrible. Poor Prissie! Poor brave Prissie!” Maggie started from her chair and paced the length of her room once or twice. “I must help these people,” she said; “I must help this Aunt Raby, and those three little sisters. Penywern Cottage shall no longer be without coal, and food, and warmth. How shall I do this? One thing is quite evident – Prissie must not know. Prissie is as proud as I am. How shall I manage this?” She clasped her hands, her brow was contracted with the fulness of her thought. After a long while she left her room, and, going to the other end of the long corridor, knocked at Nancy Banister’s door. Nancy was within. It did not take Maggie long to tell the tale which she had just heard from Priscilla’s lips. Prissie had told her simple story with force, but it lost nothing in Maggie’s hands. She had a fine command of language, and she drew a picture of such pathos that Nancy’s honest blue eyes filled with tears.

“That dear little Prissie!” she exclaimed.

“I don’t know that she is dear,” said Maggie. “I don’t profess quite to understand her; however, that is not the point. The poverty at Penywern Cottage is an undoubted fact. It is also a fact that Prissie is forced to give up her classical education. She shall not! she has a genius for the old tongues. Now, Nancy, help me; use your common sense on my behalf. How am I to send money to Penywern Cottage?”

Nancy thought for several minutes.

“I have an idea,” she exclaimed at last.

“What is that?”

“I believe Mr Hammond could help us.”

Maggie coloured.

“How?” she asked. “Why should Geoffrey Hammond be dragged into Priscilla’s affairs? What can he possibly know about Penywern Cottage and the people who live in it?”

“Only this,” said Nancy: “I remember his once talking about that part of Devonshire where Prissie’s home is, and saying that his uncle has a parish there. Mr Hammond’s uncle is the man to help us.”

Miss Oliphant was silent for a moment.

“Very well,” she said; “will you write to Mr Hammond and ask him for his uncle’s address?”

“Why should I do this, Maggie? Geoffrey Hammond is your friend; he would think it strange for me to write.”

Maggie’s tone grew as cold as her expressive face had suddenly become. “I can write if you think it best,” she said; “but you are mistaken in supposing that Mr Hammond is any longer a person of special interest to me.”

“Oh, Maggie, Maggie, if you only would – ”

“Good-night, Nancy,” interrupted Maggie. She kissed her friend, and went back to her room. There she sat down before her bureau and prepared to write a letter. “I must not lose any time,” she said to herself; “I must help these people substantially; I must do something to rescue poor Prissie from a life of drudgery. Fancy Prissie, with her genius, living the life of an ordinary underpaid teacher: it is not to be thought of for a moment! Something must be done to put the whole family on a different footing, but that, of course, is for the future. From Priscilla’s account they want immediate aid. I have two five-pound notes in my purse: Geoffrey shall have them and enclose them to the clergyman who is his relation, and who lives near Priscilla’s home.”

Maggie wrote her letter rapidly. She thought it cold; she meant it to be a purely business note; she did not intend Hammond to see even the glimpse of her warm heart under the carefully studied words. “I am sick of money,” she said to him, “but to some people it is as the bread of life. Ask your friend to provide food and warmth without a moment’s delay for these poor people out of the trifle I enclose. Ask him also to write directly to me, for the ten pounds I now send is only the beginning of what I mean really to do to help them.”