Home > Authors Index > L. T. Meade > Sweet Girl Graduate > This page
A Sweet Girl Graduate, a novel by L. T. Meade |
||
Chapter 26. In The Ante-Chapel Of St. Hilda's |
||
| < Previous |
Table of content |
Next > |
|
________________________________________________
_ CHAPTER XXVI. 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 kindhearted 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 maid servant 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 Priscilla's sorrow just then. "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' 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 any one 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 usptairs 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 leaned 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 today, but I dare say 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 owner of your will," answered Nancy with a laugh. "Well, good-by, 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. 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 toward 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-by, 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 color 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 troubles, Miss Peel." "I will," said Prissie. "Some one 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 fervor. "I don't care so much for the opinion 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-by," 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 behavior 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 humor. "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!" 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 color which filled her cheeks. _ |
||