A Sweet Girl Graduate

“I will try and find Miss Heath, Miss, and ask her to come to you without delay,” answered the maid. She softly withdrew, closing the door after her. Priscilla went and stood on the hearthrug. Raising her eyes for a moment, they rested on a large and beautiful platinotype of G.F. Watts’s picture of “Hope.” The last time she had visited Miss Heath in that room, Prissie had been taken by the kind Vice-Principal to look at the picture, and some of its symbolism was explained to her. “That globe on which the figure of Hope sits,” Miss Heath had said, “is meant to represent the world. Hope is blindfolded in order more effectually to shut out the sights which might distract her. See the harp in her hand, observe her rapt attitude – she is listening to melody – she hears, she rejoices, and yet the harp out of which she makes music only possesses one string – all the rest are broken.” Miss Heath said nothing further, and Prissie scarcely took in the full meaning of the picture that evening. Now she looked again, and a passionate agony swept over her. “Hope has one string still left to her harp with which she can play music,” murmured the young girl; “but oh! there are times when all the strings of the harp are broken; then, Hope dies.”

The room door was opened, and the servant reappeared.

“I am very sorry, Miss,” she said, “but Miss Heath has gone out for the morning. Would you like to see anyone else?”

Priscilla gazed at the messenger in a dull sort of way. “I can’t see Miss Heath?” she murmured.

“No, Miss, she is out.”

“Very well.”

“Can I do anything for you, Miss?”

“No, thank you.”

The servant went away with a puzzled expression on her face.

“That plain young lady, who is so awful poor – Miss Peel, I mean – seems in a sad taking,” she said by-and-by to her fellow-servants.

Priscilla, left alone in Miss Heath’s sitting-room, stood still for a moment, then, running upstairs to her room, she put on her hat and jacket, and went out. She was expected to attend two lectures that morning, and the hour for the first had almost arrived. Maggie Oliphant was coming into the house when Prissie ran past her.

“My dear!” she exclaimed, shocked at the look on Priscilla’s face. “Come here; I want to speak to you.”

“I can’t – don’t stop me.”

“But where are you going? Mr Kenyon has just arrived. I am on my way to the lecture-hall now.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“No.”

This last word reached Miss Oliphant from a distance; Prissie had already almost reached the gates.

Maggie stood still for a moment, half inclined to follow the excited, frantic-looking girl, but that queer inertia, which was part of her complex character, came over her. She shrugged her shoulders, the interest died out of her face; she walked slowly through the entrance-hall and down one of the side corridors to the lecture-room.

When the Greek lecture had come to an end, Nancy Banister came up and slipped her hand through Maggie’s arm.

“What is the matter, Maggie?” she asked, “you look very white and tired.”

“I have a headache,” answered Maggie. “If it does not get better, I shall send for a carriage and take a drive.”

“May I come with you?”

“No, dear Nancy, when I have these bad headaches it is almost necessary to me to be alone.”

“Would it not be better for you to go and lie down in your room?”

“I, to lie down in my room with a headache like this? – no, thank you.” Maggie shuddered as she spoke. Nancy felt her friend’s arm shiver as she leant on it.

“You are really ill, darling!” she said, in a tone of sympathy and fondness.

“I have not felt right for a week, and am worse to-day, but I daresay a drive in this nice frosty air will set me up.”

“I am going to Kingsdene. Shall I order a carriage for you?”

“I wish you would.”

“Maggie, did you notice that Priscilla was not at her lecture?”

“She was not. I met her rushing away, I think, to Kingsdene; she seemed put out about something.”

“Poor little thing; no wonder – those horrid girls!”

“Oh, Nancy, if there’s anything unpleasant, don’t tell me just now; my head aches so dreadfully, I could scarcely hear bad news.”

“You are working too hard, Maggie.”

“I am not; it is the only thing left to me.”

“Do you know that we are to have a rehearsal of The Princess to-night? If you are as ill as you look now, you can’t be present.”

“I will be present. Do you think I can’t force myself to do what is necessary?”

“Oh, I am well acquainted with the power of your will,” answered Nancy, with a laugh. “Well, good-bye dear, I am off; you may expect the carriage to arrive in half an hour.”

Meanwhile, Priscilla, still blind, deaf, and dumb with misery, ran, rather than walked, along the road which leads to Kingsdene. The day was lovely, with little faint wafts of spring in the air; the sky was pale blue and cloudless; there was a slight hoar frost on the grass. Priscilla chose to walk on it, rather than on the dusty road; it felt crisp under her tread.

She had not the least idea why she was going to Kingsdene; her wish was to walk, and walk, and walk until sheer fatigue, caused by long-continued motion, brought to her temporary ease and forgetfulness.

Prissie was a very strong girl, and she knew she must walk for a long time; her feet must traverse many miles before she effected her object. Just as she was passing St. Hilda’s College she came face to face with Hammond. He was in his college cap and gown, and was on his way to morning prayers in the chapel. Hammond had received Maggie’s letter that morning, and this fact caused him to look at Priscilla with new interest. On another occasion, he would have passed her with a hurried bow. Now he stopped to speak. The moment he caught sight of her face, he forgot everything else in his distress at the expression of misery which it wore.

“Where are you going, Miss Peel?” he asked; “you appear to be flying from something, or, perhaps, it is to something. Must you run? See, you have almost knocked me down.” He chose light words on purpose, hoping to make Prissie smile.

“I am going for a walk,” she said; “please let me pass.”

“I am afraid you are in trouble,” he replied then, seeing that Priscilla’s mood must be taken seriously.

His sympathy gave the poor girl a momentary thrill of comfort; she raised her eyes to his face, and spoke huskily.

“A dreadful thing has happened to me,” she said.

The chapel bell stopped as she spoke; groups of men, all in their caps and gowns, hurried by; several of them looked from Hammond to Priscilla, and smiled.

“I must go to chapel now,” he said; “but I should like to speak to you. Can I not see you after morning prayers? Would you not come to the service? You might sit in the ante-chapel, if you did not want to come into the chapel itself. You had much better do that. Whatever your trouble is, the service at St. Hilda’s ought to sustain you. Please wait for me in the ante-chapel. I shall look for you there after prayers.”

He ran off just in time to take his own place in the chapel, before the doors were shut, and curtains drawn.