A Sweet Girl Graduate

There came a knock at the door. Rosalind flew to open it; by so doing she hoped that Miss Day would not notice the sudden colour which filled her cheeks.

Chapter Twenty Seven

Beautiful Annabel Lee

Circumstances seem to combine to spoil some people. Maggie Oliphant was one of the victims of fortune, which, while appearing to favour her, gave her in reality the worst training which was possible for a nature such as hers. She was impulsive, generous, affectionate, but she was also perverse, and, so to speak, uncertain. She was a creature of moods, and she was almost absolutely without self-control; and yet nature had been kind to Maggie, giving her great beauty of form and face, and a character which a right training would have rendered noble.

Up to the present, however, this training had scarcely come to Miss Oliphant. She was almost without relations, and she was possessed of more money than she knew what to do with. She had great abilities, and loved learning for the sake of learning, but, till she came to St. Benet’s, her education had been as desultory as her life. She had never been to school; her governesses only taught her what she chose to learn. As a child she was very fickle in this respect, working hard from morning till night one day, but idling the whole of the next. When she was fifteen her guardian took her to Rome; the next two years were spent in travelling, and Maggie, who knew nothing properly, picked up that kind of superficial miscellaneous knowledge which made her conversation brilliant and added to her many charms.

“You shall be brought out early,” her guardian had said to her. “You are not educated in the stereotyped fashion, but you know enough. After you are seventeen I will get you a suitable chaperon, and you shall live in London.”

This scheme, however, was not carried out. For, shortly after her seventeenth birthday, Maggie Oliphant met a girl whose beauty and brilliance were equal to her own, whose nature was stronger, and who had been carefully trained in heart and mind while Maggie had been neglected. Miss Lee was going through a course of training at St. Benet’s College for Women at Kingsdene. She was an uncommon girl in every sense of the word. The expression of her lovely face was as piquant as its features were beautiful; her eyes were dark as night; they also possessed the depth of the tenderest, sweetest summer night, subjugating all those who came in contact with her. Annabel Lee won Maggie’s warmest affections at once; she determined to join her friend at St. Benet’s. She spoke with ineffable scorn of her London season, and resolved, with that enthusiasm which was the strongest part of her nature, to become a student in reality. Under Annabel’s guidance she took up the course of study which was necessary to enable her to pass her entrance examination. She acquitted herself well, for her abilities were of the highest order, and entered the college with éclat. Miss Lee was a student in Heath Hall, and Maggie thought herself supremely happy when she was given a room next to her friend.

Those were brilliant days at the Hall. Some girls resided there at this time whose names were destined to be known in the world by-and-by. The workers were earnest; the tone which pervaded the life at Heath Hall was distinctly high. Shallow girls there must always be where any number are to be found together, but, during Maggie Oliphant’s first year, these girls had little chance of coming to the front. Maggie, who was as easily influenced as a wave is tossed by the wind, rose quickly to the heights with her companions. Her splendid intellect developed each day; she was merry with the merry, glad with the glad, studious with the studious. She was also generous, kind, and unselfish in company with those girls who observed the precepts of the higher life. Next to Miss Lee, Maggie was one of the most popular girls in the college. Annabel Lee had the kindest of hearts, as well as the most fascinating of ways. She was an extraordinary girl; there was a great deal of the exotic about her; in many ways she was old for her years. No one ever thought or spoke of her as a prig, but all her influence was brought to bear in the right direction. The girl who could do or think meanly avoided the expression in Annabel’s beautiful eyes. It was impossible for her to think badly of her fellow-creatures, but meanness and sin made her sorrowful. There was not a girl in Heath Hall who would willingly give Annabel Lee sorrow.

In the days that followed people knew that she was one of those rare and brilliant creatures who, like a lovely but too ethereal flower, must quickly bloom into perfection and then pass away. Annabel was destined to a short life, and after her death the high tone of Heath Hall deteriorated considerably.

This girl was a born leader. When she died no other girl in the college could take her place, and for many a long day those who had loved her were conscious of a sense which meant a loss of headship. In short, they were without their leader.

If Annabel in her gaiety and brightness could influence girls who were scarcely more than acquaintances, the effect of her strong personality on Maggie was supreme. Maggie often said that she never knew what love meant until she met Annabel. The two girls were inseparable; their love for each other was compared to that of Jonathan and David of Bible story, and of Orestes and Pylades of Greek legend. The society of each gave the other the warmest pleasure.

Annabel and Maggie were both so beautiful in appearance, so far above the average girl in their pose, their walk, their manner, that people noticed these friends wherever they went. A young and rising artist, who saw them once at St. Hilda’s, begged permission to make a picture of the pair. It was done during the summer recess before Annabel died, and made a sensation in the next year’s Academy. Many of the visitors who went there stopped and looked at the two faces, both in the perfection of their youthful bloom and beauty; few guessed that one even now had gone to the Home best fitted for so ardent and high a spirit.

Annabel Lee died a year before Priscilla came to the college. Whatever Maggie inwardly felt, she had got over her first grief; her smile was again as brilliant as when Annabel was by her side, her laugh was as merry; but the very few who could look a little way into Maggie’s perverse and passionate heart, knew well that something had died in her which could never live again, that her laugh was often hollow, and her brilliant smile had only a foundation in bitterness.

Maggie did not only grieve for her friend when she mourned for Annabel. She had loved her most deeply, and love alone would have caused her agony in such a loss; but Maggie’s keenest and most terrible feelings were caused by an unavailing regret.

This regret was connected with Geoffrey Hammond.

He had known Annabel from her childhood. He was an old friend of some of her friends, and during those last, long summer holidays, which the two girls spent together under the roof of Maggie’s guardian, Hammond, who was staying with relations not far away, came to see them almost daily. He was the kind of man who could win both respect and admiration; he was grave in his nature; and his aspirations, aims, and ambitions were high. In their conversations during this lovely summer weather these young people dreamt happy dreams together, and planned a future which meant good to all mankind. Maggie, to all appearance, was heart and soul with Annabel and Geoffrey in what they thought and said.

Nothing could have been simpler or more unconventional than the intercourse between these young people. Miss Lee had known Hammond all her life; Maggie always spoke and thought of herself as second to Annabel in Geoffrey Hammond’s regard. One brilliant autumn day, however, he surprised Maggie by asking her to take a long walk alone with him. No words were said during this ramble to open Maggie Oliphant’s eyes to the true state of Hammond’s feelings for her, but, when she returned from her walk, she could not help noticing Annabel Lee’s unaccountable depression. It was not until later, however, that Maggie attributed a certain pathetic, almost heart-broken, look in her friend’s lovely eyes to its true cause.

Hammond was a graduate of St. Hilda’s College at Kingsdene, and the three friends often talked of the happy meetings they would have during the coming winter. He was a man of large property, and the favourite amusement of these young people was in talking over the brilliant life which lay before Hammond when he took possession of his estates. He would be the ideal landlord of his age; the people who lived on his property would, when he attained his majority, enter into a millennium of bliss.

Maggie returned to St. Benet’s, imagining herself quite heart-whole; but happiness shone out of her eyes, and there was a new tender ring in her voice for which she could not account to herself, and which added a new fascination to her beauty.

Shortly after the commencement of the term, Hammond met Miss Oliphant by accident just outside Kingsdene.

“I was going to post a letter to you,” he said. His face was unusually pale, his eyes full of joy and yet of solicitude.

“You can tell me what you have written,” replied Maggie, in her gayest voice.

“No, I would rather you read my letter.”

He thrust it into her hand and immediately, to her astonishment, left her.

As she walked home through the frosty air she opened Hammond’s letter, and read its contents. It contained an earnest appeal for her love, and an assurance that all the happiness of the writer’s future life depended on her consenting to marry him. Would she be his wife when her three years’ term at St. Benet’s came to an end?

No letter could be more manly, more simple. Its contents went straight to the depths of a heart easily swayed and full of strong affection.

“Yes, I love him,” whispered the girl; “I did not know it until I read this letter, but I am sure of myself now. Yes, I love him better than anyone else in the world.”

A joyous light filled Maggie’s brown eyes; her heart was gay. She rushed to Annabel’s room to tell her news, and to claim the sympathy which had never hitherto been denied her, and which was essential to the completion of her happiness.

When Maggie entered her friend’s room, she saw, to her surprise, that Annabel was lying on her bed with flushed cheeks. Two hours before she had been, to all appearance, in brilliant health; now her face burned with fever, and her beautiful dark eyes were glazed with pain.

Maggie rushed up and kissed her. “What is it, darling,” she asked; “what is wrong? You look ill; your eyes have a strange expression.”

Annabel’s reply was scarcely audible. The pain and torpor of her last short illness were already overmastering her. Maggie was alarmed at the burning touch of her hand; but she had no experience to guide her, and her own great joy helped to make her selfish.

“Annabel, look at me for a moment; I have wonderful news to give you.”

Annabel’s eyes were closed. She opened them wide at this appeal for sympathy, stretched out her hand, and pushed back a tangle of bright hair from Maggie’s brow.

“I love you, Maggie,” she said, in that voice which had always power to thrill its listeners.

Maggie kissed her friend’s hand, and pressed it to her own beating heart. “I met Geoffrey Hammond to-day,” she said. “He gave me a letter; I have read it. Oh, Annabel, Annabel! I can be good now. No more bad half-hours, no more struggles with myself. I can be very good now.”

With some slight difficulty Annabel Lee drew her hot hand away from Maggie’s fervent clasp; her eyes, slightly distended, were fixed on her friend’s face; the flush of fever left her cheeks; a hot flood of emotion seemed to press against her beating heart; she looked at Maggie with passionate longing.

“What is it?” she asked, in a husky whisper. “Why are you so glad, Maggie? Why can you be good now?”

“Because I love Geoffrey Hammond,” answered Maggie: “I love him with all my heart, all my life, all my strength, and he loves me; he has asked me to be his wife.”

Maggie paused. She expected to feel Annabel’s arms round her neck; she waited impatiently for this last crowning moment of bliss. Her own happiness caused her to lower her eyes; her joy was so dazzling that for a moment she felt she must shade their brilliance even from Annabel’s gaze.

Instead of the pressure of loving arms, however, and the warm kiss of sympathy, there came a low cry from the lips of the sick girl. She made an effort to say something, but words failed her: the next moment she was unconscious. Maggie rushed to the bell, and gave an alarm, which brought Miss Heath and one or two servants to the room.

A doctor was speedily sent for, and Maggie Oliphant was banished from the room. She never saw Annabel Lee again. That night the sick girl was removed to the hospital, which was in a building apart from the Halls, and two days afterwards she was dead.

Typhus fever was raging at Kingsdene at this time, and Annabel Lee had taken it in its most virulent form. The doctors (and two or three were summoned) gave up all hope of saving her life from the first. Maggie also gave up hope. She accused herself of having caused her friend’s death; she believed that the shock of her tidings had killed Annabel, who, already suffering from fever, had not strength to bear the agony of knowing that Hammond’s love was given to Maggie.

On the night of Annabel’s death, Maggie wrote to Hammond refusing his offer of marriage, but giving no reason for doing so. After posting her letter, she lay down on her own sick bed, and nearly died of the fever which had taken Annabel away.

All these things happened a year ago. The agitation caused by the death of one so young, beautiful, and beloved had subsided. People could talk calmly of Annabel, and although for a long time her room had remained vacant, it was now occupied by a girl in all respects her opposite.

Nothing would induce Maggie to enter this room, and no words would persuade her to speak of Annabel. She was merry and bright once more, and few gave her credit for secret hours of misery, which were seriously undermining her health, and ruining what was best of her character.

On this particular day, as she lay back in her carriage, wrapped in costly furs, a great wave of misery and bitterness was sweeping over her heart. In the first agony caused by Annabel’s death, Maggie had vowed a vow to her own heart never, under any circumstances, to consent to be Hammond’s wife. In the first misery of regret and compunction it had been easy to Maggie Oliphant to make such a vow; but she knew well, as the days and months went by, that its weight was crushing her life, was destroying her chance of ever becoming a really strong and good woman. If she had loved Hammond a year ago her sufferings made her love him fifty times better now. With all her outward coldness and apparent indifference, his presence gave her the keenest pain. Her heart beat fast when she caught sight of his face; if he spoke to another, she was conscious of being overcome by a spirit of jealousy. The thought of him mingled with her waking and sleeping hours; but the sacrifice she owed to the memory of her dead friend must be made at all hazards. Maggie consulted no one on this subject. Annabel’s unhappy story lay buried with her in her early grave; Maggie would have died rather than reveal it. Now, as she lay back in her carriage, the tears filled her eyes.

“I am too weak for this to go on any longer,” she said to herself. “I shall leave St. Benet’s at the end of the present term. What is the winning of a tripos to me? what do I want with honours and distinctions? Everything is barren to me. My life has no flavour in it. I loved Annabel, and she is gone. Without meaning it, I broke Annabel’s heart. Without meaning it, I caused my darling’s death, and now my own heart is broken, for I love Geoffrey – I love him, and I can never, under any circumstances, be his wife. He misunderstands me – he thinks me cold, wicked, heartless – and I can never, never set myself right with him. Soon he will grow tired of me, and give his heart to someone else, and perhaps marry someone else. When he does, I too shall die. Yes, whatever happens, I must go away from St. Benet’s.”

Maggie’s tears always came slowly; she put up her handkerchief to wipe them away. It was little wonder that when she returned from her drive her head was no better.

“We must put off the rehearsal,” said Nancy Banister. She came into Maggie’s room, and spoke vehemently. “I saw you at lunch, Maggie: you ate nothing – you spoke with an effort. I know your head is worse. You must lie down, and, unless you are better soon, I will ask Miss Heath to send for a doctor.”

“No doctor will cure me,” said Maggie. “Give me a kiss, Nance; let me rest my head against yours for a moment. Oh, how earnestly I wish I was like you.”