A Sweet Girl Graduate

When her letter was finished, Maggie put her hand in her pocket to take out her purse. It was not there. She searched on the table, looked under piles of books and papers, and presently found it. She unclasped the purse, and opened an inner pocket for the purpose of taking out two five-pound notes which she had placed there this morning. To her astonishment and perplexity, this portion of the purse now contained only one of the notes. Maggie felt her face turning crimson. Quick as a flash of lightning a horrible thought assailed her – Priscilla had been alone in her room for nearly an hour – Priscilla’s people were starving: had Priscilla taken the note?

“Oh, hateful!” said Maggie to herself; “what am I coming to, to suspect the brave, the noble – I won’t, I can’t. Oh, how shall I look her in the face and feel that I ever, even for a second, thought of her so dreadfully.” Maggie searched through her purse again. “Perhaps I dreamt that I put two notes here this morning,” she said to herself. “But no, it is no dream; I put two notes into this division of my purse, I put four sovereigns here; the sovereigns are safe – one of the notes is gone.”

She thought deeply for a few moments longer, then added a postscript to her letter: —

“I am very sorry, but I can only send you one note for five pounds to-night. Even this, however, is better than nothing. I will give further help as soon as I hear from your friend.” Maggie then folded her letter, addressed, stamped it, and took it downstairs.

Miss Oliphant was an heiress; she was also an orphan; her father and mother were mere memories to her; she had neither brothers nor sisters; she did not particularly like her guardian, who was old and worldly-wise, as different as possible from the bright, enthusiastic, impulsive girl. Mr Oliphant thought money the aim and object of life: when he spoke to Maggie about it, she professed to hate it. In reality she was indifferent to it; money was valueless to her because she had never felt its want.

She lay awake for a long time that night, thinking of Penywern Cottage, of tired Aunt Raby, of the little girls who wanted food, and education, and care, and love. After a time she fell asleep. In her sleep she ceased to think of Priscilla’s relations: all her thoughts were with Priscilla herself. She dreamt that she saw Priscilla move stealthily in her room, take up her purse with wary fingers, open it, remove a note for five pounds, and hide the purse once more under books and papers.

When Maggie awoke, she professed not to believe in her dream; but, nevertheless, she had a headache, and her heart was heavy within her.

At breakfast that morning Miss Oliphant made a rather startling announcement. “I wish to say something,” she remarked, in her full, rich voice. “A strange thing happened to me last night. I am not accounting for it; I am casting no aspersions on anyone; I don’t even intend to investigate the matter; still, I wish publicly to state a fact – a five-pound note has been taken out of my purse!”

There were no dons or lecturers present when Miss Oliphant made this startling announcement, but Nancy Banister, Rosalind Merton, Priscilla Peel, Miss Day, Miss Marsh, and several other girls were all in the room; they, each of them, looked at the speaker with startled and anxious inquiry.

Maggie herself did not return the glances; she was lazily helping herself to some marmalade.

“How perfectly shameful!” burst at last from the lips of Miss Day. “You have lost five pounds, Miss Oliphant; you are positively certain that five pounds have been taken out of your purse. Where was your purse?” Maggie was spreading the marmalade on her bread-and-butter; her eyes were still fixed on her plate. “I don’t wish a fuss made,” she said.

“Oh, that’s all very fine!” continued Miss Day; “but if five pounds are lost out of your purse, someone has taken them! Someone, therefore, whether servant or student, is a thief. I am not narrow-minded or prudish; but I confess I draw the line at thieves.”

“So do I,” said Maggie, in an icy tone; “still, I don’t mean to make a fuss.”

“But where was your purse, Maggie dear?” asked Nancy Banister; “was it in your pocket?”

“No. I found it last night in my bureau, under some books and papers.” Maggie rose from the table as she spoke. With a swift flash her brown eyes sought Priscilla’s face; she had not meant to look at her, she did not want to; but a fascination she could not control obliged her to dart this one glance of inquiry.

Prissie’s eyes met hers. Their expression was anxious, puzzled, but there was not a trace of guilt or confusion in them. “I don’t know how that money could have been taken, Maggie,” she said, “for I was in your room studying my Greek.” Prissie sighed when she mentioned her Greek. “I was in your room studying Greek all the evening; no one could have come to take the money.”

“It is gone, however,” said Maggie. She spoke with new cheerfulness. The look on Prissie’s face, the tone in her voice, made Maggie blush at ever having suspected her. “It is gone,” she said, in quite a light and cheerful way, “but I am really sorry I mentioned it. As I said just now, I don’t intend to investigate the matter. I may have fallen asleep and taken the five-pound note out in a dream and torn it up, or put it on the fire. Anyhow, it has vanished, and that is all I have to say. Come, Prissie, I want to hear what Miss Heath said to you last night.”

“No,” suddenly exclaimed Annie Day, “Miss Peel, you must not leave the room just now. You have made a statement, Miss Oliphant, which I for one do not intend to pass over without at least asking a few questions. You did not tear up that note in a dream. If it is lost, someone took it. We are St. Benet’s girls, and we don’t choose to have this kind of thing said to us. The thief must confess, and the note must be returned.”

“All right,” said Maggie, “I sha’n’t object to recovering my property. Priscilla, I shall be walking in the grounds; you can come to me when your council of war is over.”

The moment Maggie left the room, Rosalind Merton made a remark. “Miss Peel is the only person who can explain the mystery,” she said.

“What do you mean?” asked Priscilla.

“Why, you confess yourself that you were in Miss Oliphant’s room the greater part of the evening.”

“I confess it?” remarked Priscilla; “that is a curious phrase to apply to a statement. I confess nothing. I was in Maggie’s room, but what of that? When people confess things,” she added, with a naïveté which touched one or two of the girls, “they generally have done something wrong. Now, what was there wrong in my sitting in my friend’s room?”

“Oh, Miss Oliphant is ‘your friend’?” said Rosalind.

“Of course, of course.” But here a memory came over Priscilla; she remembered Maggie’s words the night before – “You were my friend.” For the first time her voice faltered, and the crimson flush of distress covered her face. Rosalind’s cruel eyes were fixed on her.

“Let me speak now,” interrupted Miss Day. She gave Rosalind a piercing glance which caused her, in her turn, to colour violently. “It is just this, Miss Peel,” said Annie Day: “you will excuse my speaking bluntly, but you are placed in a very unpleasant position.”

“I? How?” asked Prissie.

“Oh, you great baby!” burst from Rosalind again.

“Please don’t speak to me in that tone, Miss Merton,” said Priscilla, with a new dignity, which became her well. “Now, Miss Day, what have you to say?”

To Prissie’s surprise, at this juncture, Nancy Banister suddenly left her seat, and came and stood at the back of her chair.

“I am on your side whatever happens,” she remarked.

“Thank you,” said Prissie.

“Now, please, Miss Day.”

“You must know who took the note,” said Annie Day.

“I assure you I don’t; I can’t imagine how it has disappeared. Not a soul came into the room while I was there. I did go away once for about three minutes to fetch my Lexicon; but I don’t suppose anyone came into Miss Oliphant’s room during those few minutes – there was no one about to come.”

“Oh, you left the room for about three minutes?”

“Perhaps three – perhaps not so many. I had left my Lexicon in the library; I went to fetch it.”

“Oh,” said Rosalind, suddenly taking the words out of Miss Day’s mouth, “when did you invent this little fiction?”

Prissie’s eyes seemed suddenly to blaze fire; for the first time she perceived the drift of the cruel suspicion, which her fellow-students were seeking to cast upon her. “How wicked you are!” she said to Rosalind. “Why do you look at me like that? Miss Day, why do you smile? Why do you all smile? Oh, Nancy,” added poor Prissie, springing to her feet, and looking full into Nancy’s troubled eyes, “what is the matter? – am I in a dream?”

“It is all very fine to be theatrical,” said Miss Day, “but the fact is, Miss Peel, you are not at all popular enough at St. Benet’s to induce any of us to consent to live under a ban for your sake. Miss Oliphant has lost her money. You say that you spent some time in her room; the purse was on her bureau. Miss Oliphant is rich, she is also generous, she says openly that she does not intend to investigate the matter. No doubt, if you confess your weakness and return the money, she will forgive you, and not report this disgraceful proceeding to the college authorities.” While Miss Day was speaking, some heavy panting breaths came two or three times from Priscilla’s lips. Her face had turned cold and white; but her eyes blazed like living coals.

“Now I understand,” she said, slowly; “you think – you think that I – I stole a five-pound note from my friend; you think that I went into her room and opened her purse, and took away her money; you think that of me – you! I scorn you all, I defy you, I dare you to prove your dreadful words! I am going to Miss Heath this moment; she shall protect me from this dishonour.”

Chapter Twenty Six

In the Ante-Chapel of St. Hilda’s

Priscilla ran blindly down the corridor which opened into the wide entrance-hall. Groups of girls were standing about; they stared as the wild-looking apparition rushed past them: Prissie was blind to their puzzled and curious glances. She wanted to see Miss Heath; she had a queer kind of instinct, rather than any distinct impression, that in Miss Heath’s presence she would be protected, that Miss Heath would know what to say, would know how to dispel the cloud of disgrace which had suddenly been cast over her like a cloak.

“Is there anything wrong, Miss Peel?” said gentle little Ada Hardy, coming up and speaking to her affectionately. Miss Hardy stood right in Prissie’s path, barring her way for a moment, and causing her, in spite of herself, to stop her headlong rush to the Vice-Principal’s room. Priscilla put up her hand to her brow; she looked in a dazed sort of way at the kind-hearted girl.

“What is the matter – can I help you?” repeated Ada Hardy.

“You can’t help me,” said Prissie. “I want to see Miss Heath; let me pass.” She ran forward again, and some other girls, coming out of the dining-hall, now came up to Ada and distracted her attention.

Miss Heath’s private sitting-room was on the ground floor. This lovely room has been described before. It was open now, and Prissie went in without knocking; she thought she would see Miss Heath sitting as she usually was at this hour, either reading or answering letters; she was not in the room. Priscilla felt too wild and impetuous to consider any action carefully, just then; she ran up at once to the electric-bell, and pressed the button for quite a quarter of a minute. A maidservant came quickly to answer the summons. She thought Miss Heath had sent for her, and stared at the excited girl.

“I want to see Miss Heath,” said Priscilla; “please ask her to come to me here; say Miss Peel wants to see her – Priscilla Peel wants to see her, very, very badly, in her own sitting-room at once. Ask her to come to me at once.”

The presence of real tragedy always inspires respect; there was no question with regard to the genuineness of Prissie’s sorrow just then.