A Sweet Girl Graduate

Without a moment’s hesitation, Priscilla followed him. She entered the ante-chapel, sat down on a bench not far from the entrance door, and when the service began, she dropped on her knees, and covered her face with her hands.

The music came to her in soft waves of far-off harmony. The doors which divided the inner chapel from the outer gave it a faint sound, as if it were miles away; each note, however, was distinct; no sound was lost. The boys’ voices rose high in the air; they were angelic in their sweetness. Prissie was incapable, at that moment, of taking in the meaning of the words she heard, but the lovely sounds comforted her; the dreadful weight was lifted, or, at least, partially lifted, from her brain; she felt as if a hand had been laid on her hot, angry heart; as if a gentle, a very gentle, touch was soothing the sorrow there.

“I am ready now,” said Hammond, when the service was over; “will you come?”

She rose without a word, and went out with him into the quadrangle; they walked down the High Street.

“Are you going back to St. Benet’s?” he asked.

“Oh, no – oh, no!”

”‘Yes,’ you mean; I will walk with you as far as the gates.”

“I am not going back.”

“Pardon me,” said Hammond, “you must go back; so young a girl cannot take long walks alone. If one of your fellow-students were with you, it would be different.”

“I would not walk with one of them now for the world.”

“Not with Miss Oliphant?”

“With her, least of all.”

“That is a pity,” said Hammond, gravely, “for no one can feel more kindly towards you.”

Prissie made no response.

They walked to the end of the High Street.

“This is your way,” said Hammond, “down this quiet lane; we shall get to St. Benet’s in ten minutes.”

“I am not going there. Good-bye, Mr Hammond.”

“Miss Peel, you must forgive my appearing to interfere with you, but it is absolutely wrong for a young girl, such as you are, to wander about alone in the vicinity of a large university town. Let me treat you as my sister for once, and insist on accompanying you to the gates of the college.”

Prissie looked up at him. “It is very good of you to take any notice of me,” she said, after a pause. “You won’t ever again after – after you know what I have been accused of. If you wish me to go back to St. Benet’s, I will; after all, it does not matter, for I can go out by-and-by somewhere else.”

Hammond smiled to himself at Prissie’s very qualified submission. Just then a carriage came up and drove slowly past them. Miss Oliphant, in her velvet and sables, was seated in it. Hammond sprang forward with heightened colour, and an eager exclamation on his lips. She did not motion to the coachman to stop, however, but gave the young man a careless, cold bow. She did not notice Priscilla at all. The carriage quickly drove out of sight, and Hammond, after a pause, said gravely —

“You must tell me your trouble, Miss Peel.”

“I will,” said Prissie. “Someone has stolen a five-pound note out of Maggie Oliphant’s purse; she missed it late at night, and spoke about it at breakfast this morning. I said that I did not know how it could have been taken, for I had been studying my Greek in her room during the whole afternoon. Maggie spoke about her loss in the dining-hall, and after she left the room Miss Day and Miss Merton accused me of having stolen the money.” Priscilla stopped speaking abruptly; she turned her head away; a dull red suffused her face and neck.

“Well?” said Hammond.

“That is all. The girls at St. Benet’s think I am a thief. They think I took my kindest friend’s money. I have nothing more to say: nothing possibly could be more dreadful to me. I shall speak to Miss Heath, and ask leave to go away from the college at once.”

“You certainly ought not to do that.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you went from St. Benet’s now, people might be induced to think that you really were guilty.”

“But they think that now.”

“I am quite certain that those students whose friendship is worth retaining think nothing of the sort.”

“Why are you certain?” asked Prissie, turning swiftly round, and a sudden ray of sunshine illuminating her whole face. “Do you think that I am not a thief?”

“I am as certain of that fact as I am of my own identity.”

“Oh!” said the girl, with a gasp. She made a sudden dart forward, and seizing Hammond’s hand, squeezed it passionately between both her own.

“And Miss Oliphant does not think of you as a thief,” continued Hammond.

“I don’t know – I can’t say.”

“You have no right to be so unjust to her,” he replied, with fervour.

“I don’t care so much for the opinions of the others now,” said Prissie; “you believe in me.” She walked erect again; her footsteps were light as if she trod on air. “You are a very good man,” she said; “I would do anything for you – anything.”

Hammond smiled. Her innocence, her enthusiasm, her childishness were too apparent for him to take her words for more than they were worth.

“Do you know,” he said, after a pause, “that I am in a certain measure entitled to help you? In the first place, Miss Oliphant takes a great interest in you.”

“You are mistaken, she does not – not now.”

“I am not mistaken; she takes a great interest in you. Priscilla, you must have guessed – you have guessed – what Maggie Oliphant is to me; I should like, therefore, to help her friend. That is one tie between us; but there is another – Mr Hayes, your parish clergyman – ”

“Oh!” said Prissie, “do you know Mr Hayes?”

“I not only know him,” replied Hammond, smiling, “but he is my uncle. I am going to see him this evening.”

“Oh!”

“Of course, I shall tell him nothing of this, but I shall probably talk of you. Have you a message for him?”

“I can send him no message to-day.”

They had now reached the college gates. Hammond took Priscilla’s hand. “Good-bye,” he said; “I believe in you, and so does Miss Oliphant. If her money was stolen, the thief was certainly not the most upright, the most sincere girl in the college. My advice to you, Miss Peel, is to hold your head up bravely, to confront this charge by that sense of absolute innocence which you possess. In the meanwhile, I have not the least doubt that the real thief will be found. Don’t make a fuss; don’t go about in wild despair – have faith in God.” He pressed her hand, and turned away.

Priscilla took her usual place that day at the luncheon table. The girls who had witnessed her wild behaviour in the morning watched her in perplexity and astonishment. She ate her food with appetite; her face looked serene – all the passion and agony had left it.

Rosalind Merton ventured on a sly allusion to the scene of the morning. Priscilla did not make the smallest comment; her face remained pale, her eyes untroubled. There was a new dignity about her.

“What’s up now?” said Rosalind, to her friend Miss Day. “Is the little Puritan going to defy us all?”

“Oh, don’t worry any more about her,” said Annie, who, for some reason, was in a particularly bad humour. “I only wish, for my part, Miss Peel had never come to St. Benet’s; I don’t like anything about her. Her heroics are as unpleasant to me as her stoicisms. But I may as well say frankly, Rosalind, before I drop this detestable subject, that I am quite sure she never stole that five-pound note: she was as little likely to do it as you, so there!”