CHAPTER TEN. · Part 1

CHAPTER TEN.

ST. HILDA'S CHAPEL.

"Here we are now," said Maggie Oliphant, touching her young companion; "we are in good time; this is the outer chapel. Yes, I know all that you are thinking, but you need not speak: I did not want to speak the first time I came to St Hilda's. Just follow me quickly. I know this verger; he will put us into two stalls: then it will be perfect."

"Yes," answered Priscilla. She spoke in an awed kind of voice. The cool effect of the dark oak, combined with the richness of the many shafts of coloured light coming from the magnificent windows, gave her own face a curious expression. Was it caused by emotion, or by the strange lights in the chapel?

Maggie glanced at her, touched her hand for a moment, and then hurried forward to her seat.

The girls were accommodated with stalls just above the choir; they could read out of the college prayer-books, and had a fine view of the church.

The congregation streamed in, the choir followed; the doors between the chapel and ante-chapel were shut, the curtains were dropped, and the service began.

There is no better musical service in England than that which Sunday after Sunday is conducted at St Hilda's Chapel at Kingsdene. The harmony and the richness of the sounds which fill that old chapel can scarcely be surpassed. The boys send up notes clear and sweet as nightingales' into the fretted arches of the roof; the men's deeper notes swell the music until it breaks on the ears in a full tide of perfect harmony; the great organ fills in the breaks and pauses. This splendid service of song seems to reach perfection. In its way earth cannot give anything more perfect.

Maggie Oliphant did not come very often to St Hilda's. At one time she was a constant worshipper there; but that was a year ago, before something happened which changed her. Then Sunday after Sunday two lovely girls used to walk up the aisle side by side. The verger knew them, and reserved their favourite stalls for them. They used to kneel together, and listen to the service, and, what is more, take part in it.

But a time came when one of the girls could never return to St Hilda's, and the other, people said, did not care to sit in the old seat without her. They said she missed her friend, and was more cut up than anyone else at the sudden death of one so fair and lovely.

When Maggie took her place in the old stall to-day more than one person turned to look at her with interest.

Maggie always made a picturesque effect; she wore a large hat, with a drooping plume of feathers; her dress was very rich and dark; her fair face shone in the midst of these surroundings like an exquisite flower.

The service went on. During the prayers Maggie wept, but, when a great wave of song filled the vast building, she forgot all her sorrow; her voice rose with the other singers, clear, sweet, and high. Her soul seemed to go up on her voice, for all the sadness left her face; her eyes looked jubilant.

Prissie had never been in any place like St Hilda's before. It had been one of her dreams to go to the cathedral at Exeter, but year after year this desire of hers had been put off and put off, and this was the first time in her life that she had ever listened to cathedral music. She was impressed, delighted, but not overpowered.

"The organ is magnificent," she said to herself, "but not grander than the sea. The sea accompanies all the service at the dear little old church at home." People met, and talked to one another in the green quadrangle outside the chapel. Several other St Benet's girls had come to the afternoon service. Amongst them was Miss Day, and that fair, innocent-looking little girl, Rosalind Merton.

Miss Day and Miss Merton were together. They were both stepping back to join Maggie and Prissie, when a tall, dark young man came hastily forward, bowed to Rosalind Merton, and, coming up to Maggie Oliphant, shook hands with her.

"I saw you in chapel," he said. "Are you coming to the Marshalls' to tea?"

"I am. Let me introduce to you my friend, Miss Peel. Miss Peel, this is Mr Hammond."

Hammond raised his hat to Prissie, said a courteous word to her, and then turned to speak again to Maggie.

The three walked through the gates of the quadrangle, and turned up the narrow, picturesque High Street. It would soon be dusk; a wintry light was over everything. Rosalind Merton and Miss Day followed behind. Maggie, who was always absorbed with the present interest, did not heed or notice them, but Priscilla heard one or two ill-bred giggles.

She turned her head with indignation, and received scornful glances from both girls. The four met for a moment at a certain corner. Maggie said something to Annie Day, and introduced Mr Hammond to her. As she did so, Rosalind took the opportunity to come up to Priscilla and whisper to her--

"You're not wanted, you know. You had much better come home with us."

"What do you mean?" replied Prissie in her matter-of-fact voice. "Miss Oliphant has asked me to go with her to the Marshalls'."

"Oh, well--if you care to be in the--" resumed Rosalind.

Maggie suddenly flashed round on her.

"Come, Miss Peel, we'll be late," she said. "Good-bye." She nodded to Rosalind; her eyes were full of an angry fire; she took Prissie's hand, and hurried down the street.

The two girls walked away, still giggling; a deep colour mantled Maggie's cheeks. She turned and began to talk desperately to Mr Hammond. Her tone was flippant; her silvery laughter floated in the air. Priscilla turned and gazed at her friend. She was seeing Maggie in yet another aspect. She felt bewildered.

The three presently reached a pleasant house standing in its own grounds. They were shown into a large drawing-room, full of young people. Mrs Marshall, a pretty old lady, with white hair, came forward to receive them. Maggie was swept away amid fervent embraces and handshakes to the other end of the room. Mrs Marshall saw that Priscilla looked frightened; she took her under her wing, sat down by her on a sofa, and began to talk.

Prissie answered in a sedate voice. Mrs Marshall had a very gentle manner. Prissie began to lose her shyness; she almost imagined that she was back again with Aunt Raby.

"My dear, you will like us all very much," the old lady said. "No life can be so absolutely delightful as that of a girl graduate at St Benet's. The freedom from care, the mixture of study with play, the pleasant social life, all combine to make young women both healthy and wise. Ah, my love, we leave out the middle of the old proverb. The girls at St Benet's are in that happy period of existence when they need give no thought to money-making."

"Some are," said Prissie. She sighed, and the colour rushed into her cheeks. Mrs Marshall looked at her affectionately.

"Helen," she called to her grand-daughter who was standing near, "bring Miss Peel another cup of tea--and some cake, Helen--some of that nice cake you made yesterday. Now, my love, I insist. You don't look at all strong. You really must eat plenty."

Helen Marshall supplied Prissie's wants, was introduced to her, and, standing near, joined in the talk.

"I am so glad you know Miss Oliphant," said Mrs Marshall. "She will make a delightful friend for you."

"And isn't she lovely?" said Helen Marshall. "I don't think I know anyone with such a beautiful face. You ought to be very proud to have her as a friend. Aren't you very proud?"

"No," said Prissie, "I don't know that I am. I am not even sure that she is my friend."

"Of course she is--she wrote most affectionately of you to grandmother. You can't think how nicely she spoke. We were glad, we were delighted, because Maggie--dear Maggie--has had no great friends lately. Now, if you have had your tea, Miss Peel, I'll take you about the room, and introduce you to one or two people."

Priscilla rose from her seat at once, and the two girls began to move about the crowded drawing-room. Helen Marshall was very slight and graceful; she piloted Prissie here and there without disturbing anyone's arrangements. At last the two girls found themselves in an immense conservatory, which opened into the drawing-room at one end.

A great many of the guests were strolling about here. Priscilla's eyes sparkled at the sight of the lovely flowers. She forgot herself, and made eager exclamations of ecstasy. Helen, who up to now had thought her a dull sort of girl, began to take an interest in her.

"I'll take you into our fern-house, which is just beyond here," she said. "We have got such exquisite maidenhairs, and such a splendid Killarney fern. Come; you shall see."

The fern-house seemed to be deserted. Helen opened the door first, and ran forward. Prissie followed. The fern-house was not large; they had almost reached the end when a girl stood up suddenly, and confronted them. The girl was Maggie Oliphant. She was sitting there alone. Her face was absolutely colourless, and tears were lying wet on her eyelashes.

Maggie made a swift remark, a passing jest, and hurried past the two into the outer conservatory.

Priscilla could scarcely tell why, but at that moment she lost all interest in both ferns and flowers. The look of misery on Maggie's face seemed to strike her own heart like a chill.

"You look tired," said Helen Marshall, who had not noticed Maggie's tearful eyes.

"Perhaps I am," answered Prissie.

They went back again into the drawing-room. Prissie still could see nothing but Miss Oliphant's eyes, and the look of distress on her pale face.

Helen suddenly made a remark.

"Was there ever such a merry creature as Maggie?" she said. "Do look at her now."

Prissie raised her eyes. Miss Oliphant was the centre of a gay group, among whom Geoffrey Hammond stood. Her laugh rang out clear and joyous; her smile was like sunshine, her cheeks had roses in them, and her eyes were as bright as stars.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

CONSPIRATORS.

Annie Day and her friend Rosalind ceased to laugh as soon as they turned the corner. Annie now turned her eyes and fixed them on Rosalind, who blushed and looked uncomfortable.

"Well," said Annie, "you are a humbug, Rose! What a story you told me about Mr Hammond--how he looked at you, and was so anxious to make use of you. Oh, you know all you said. You told me a charming story about your position as `gooseberry.' You expected a little fun for yourself, didn't you, my friend? Well, it seems to me that if anyone is to have the fun, it is Priscilla Peel."

Rosalind had rather a nervous manner. She bit her lips now; her baby-blue eyes looked angry, her innocent face wore a frown. She dropped her hold of Annie Day's arm.

Miss Day was one of the most commonplace girls at Heath Hall. She had neither good looks nor talent; she had no refinement of nature, nor had she those rugged but sterling qualities of honesty and integrity of purpose which go far to cover a multitude of other defects.

"I wish you wouldn't speak to me in that way," said Rosalind, with a little gasp. "I hate people to laugh at me, and I can't stand sneers."

"Oh, no! you're such a dear little innocent baby. Of course, I can quite understand. And does she suppose I'll ruffle her pretty little feathers? No, not I. I'd rather invent a new cradle song for you, Rosie, dear."

"Don't, don't!" said Rosalind. "Look here, Annie, I must say something--yes, I must. I _hate_ Maggie Oliphant!"

"You hate Miss Oliphant?" Annie Day stood still, turned round, and stared at her companion. "When did this revolution take place, my dear? What about Rose and Maggie sitting side by side at dinner? And Rose creeping away all by herself to Maggie's room, and angling for an invitation to cocoa, and trying hard, very hard, to become a member of the Dramatic Society, just because Maggie acts so splendidly. Has it not been _Maggie--Maggie_--ever since the term began, until we girls, who were not in love with this quite too charming piece of perfection, absolutely hated the sound of her name? Oh, Rose, what a fickle baby you are. I am ashamed of you!"

"Don't!" said Rose, again. She linked her hand half timidly in Miss Day's arm. Miss Day was almost a head and shoulders above the little, delicate, fairy-like creature. "I suppose I can't help changing my mind," she said. "I _did_ love Maggie, of course I loved her--she fascinated me; but I don't care for her--no, I _hate_ her now!"

"How vehemently you pronounce that naughty word, my fair Rosalind. You must give me some reasons for this grievous change in your feelings."

"She snubbed me," said Rosalind; "she made little of me. I offered to do her a kindness, and she repulsed me. Who cares to be made little of, and repulsed?"

"Who, truly, Rosie?--not even an innocent baby. Now then, my love, let me whisper a little secret to you. I have never loved Miss Oliphant. I have never been a victim to her charms. Time was when she and Miss Lee--poor Annabel!--ruled the whole of our Hall. Those two girls carried everything before them. That was before your day, Rose. Then Miss Lee died. She caught a chill, and had a fever, and was dead in a couple of days. Yes, of course, it was shocking. They moved her to the hospital, and she died there. Oh, there was such excitement, and such grief--even _I_ was sorry; for Annabel had a way about her, I can't describe it, but she _could_ fascinate you. It was awfully interesting to talk to her, and even to look at her was a real pleasure. We used not to think much about Maggie when Annabel was by; but now, what with Maggie and her mystery, and Maggie and her love affair, and Maggie and her handsome face, and her wealth, and her expectations, why she bids fair to be more popular even than the two were when they were together. Yes, little Rose, I don't want her to be popular any more than you do. I think it's a very unhealthy sign of any place to have all the girls sighing and groaning about one or two--dying to possess their autographs, and kissing their photographs, and framing them, and putting them up in their rooms. I hate that mawkish kind of nonsense," continued Miss Day, looking very virtuous, "and I think Miss Heath ought to know about it, and put a stop to it. I do, really."

Rosalind was glad that the gathering darkness prevented her sharp companion from seeing the blush on her face; for amongst her own sacred possessions she kept an autograph letter of Maggie's, and she had passionately kissed Maggie's beautiful face as it looked at her out of a photograph, and, until the moment when all her feelings had undergone such a change, was secretly saving up her pence to buy a frame for it. Now she inquired eagerly--

"What is the mystery about Miss Oliphant? So many people hint about it, I do wish you would tell me, Annie."

"If I told you, pet, it would cease to be a mystery."

"But you might say what you know. _Do_, Annie!"

"Oh, it isn't much--it's really nothing; and yet--and yet--"

"You know it isn't nothing, Annie!"

"Well, when Annabel died, people said that Maggie had more cause than anyone else to be sorry. I never could find out what that cause was; but the servants spread some reports. They said they had found Maggie and Annabel together; Annabel had fainted, and Maggie was in an awful state of misery--in quite an unnatural state, they said; she went into hysterics, and Miss Heath was sent for, and was a long time soothing her. There was no apparent reason for this, although, somehow or other, little whispers got abroad that the mystery of Annabel's illness and Maggie's distress was connected with Geoffrey Hammond. Of course, nothing was known, and nothing is known; but, certainly, the little whisper got into the air. Dear me, Rosalind, you need not eat me with your eyes. I am repeating mere conjectures, and it is highly probable that not the slightest notice would have been taken of this little rumour but for the tragedy which immediately followed. Annabel, who had been as gay and well as anyone at breakfast that morning, was never seen in the college again. She was unconscious, the servants said, for a long time, and when she awoke was in high fever. She was removed to the hospital, and Maggie had seen the last of her friend. Poor Annabel died in two days, and afterwards Maggie took the fever. Yes, she has been quite changed since then. She always had moods, as she called them, but not like now. Sometimes I think she is almost flighty."

Rosalind was silent. After a while she said, in a prim little voice, which she adopted now and then when she wanted to conceal her real feelings--

"But I do wonder what the quarrel was about--I mean, what really happened between Annabel and Maggie."

"Look here, Rosalind, have I said anything about a quarrel? Please remember that the whole thing is conjecture from beginning to end, and don't go all over the place spreading stories and making mischief. I have told you this in confidence, so don't forget."

"I won't forget," replied Rosalind. "I don't know why you should accuse me of wanting to make mischief, Annie. I can't help being curious, of course, and, of course, I'd like to know more."

"Well, for that matter, so would I," replied Annie. "Where there is a mystery it's much more satisfactory to get to the bottom of it. Of course, something dreadful must have happened to account for the change in Miss Oliphant. It would be a comfort to know the truth, and, of course, one need never talk of it. By the way, Rosie, you are just the person to ferret this little secret out; you are the right sort of person for spying and peeping."

"Oh, thank you," replied Rosalind; "if that's your opinion of me I'm not inclined to do anything to please you. Spying and peeping, indeed! What next?"

Annie Day patted her companion's small white hand.

"And so I've hurt the dear little baby's feelings!" she said. "But I didn't mean to--no, that I didn't. And she such a pretty, sweet, little pet as she is! Well, Rosie, you know what I mean. If we can find out the truth about Miss Maggie we'll just have a quiet little crow over her all to ourselves. I don't suppose we shall find out; but opportunities may arise--who knows? Now I want to speak to you about another person, and that is Maggie's new friend."

"What new friend?" Rosalind blushed brightly.

"That ugly Priscilla Peel. She has taken her up. Anyone can see that."

"Oh, I don't think so."

"But I do--I am sure of it. Now I have good reason not to like Miss Priscilla. You know what a virtuous parade she made of herself a few nights ago?"

"Yes, you told me."

"Horrid, set-up minx! Just the sort of girl who ought to be suppressed, and crushed out of a college like ours. Vaunting her poverty in our very faces, and refusing to make herself pleasant or one with us in any sort of way. Lucy Marsh and I had a long talk over her that night, and we put our heads together to concoct a nice little bit of punishment for her. You know she's horridly shy, and as _gauche_ as if she lived in the backwoods, and we meant to `send her to Coventry.' We had it all arranged, and a whole lot of girls would have joined us, for it's contrary to the spirit of a place like this to allow girls of the Priscilla Peel type to become popular, or liked in any way. But, most unluckily, poor, dear, good, but stupid, Nancy Banister was in the room when Prissie made her little oration, and Nancy took her up as if she were a heroine, and spoke of her as if she had done something magnificent, and, of course, Nancy told Maggie, and now Maggie is as thick as possible with Prissie. So you see, my dear Rosalind, our virtuous little scheme is completely knocked on the head."

"I don't see--" began Rosalind.

"You little goose, before a week is out Prissie will be the fashion. All the girls will flock round her when Maggie takes her part. Bare, ugly rooms will be the rage; poverty will be the height of the fashion, and it will be considered wrong even to go in for the recognised college recreations. Rosie, my love, we must nip this growing mischief in the bud."

"How?" asked Rosalind.

"We must separate Maggie Oliphant and Priscilla Peel."

"How?" asked Rose again. "I'm sure," she added, in a vehement voice, "I'm willing--I'm more than willing."

"Good. Well, we're at home now, and I absolutely must have a cup of tea. No time for it in my room to-night--let's come into the hall and have some there. Look here, Rosalind, I'll ask Lucy Marsh to have cocoa to-night in my room, and you can come too. Now keep a silent tongue in your head, Baby."

CHAPTER TWELVE.

A GOOD THING TO BE YOUNG.

It was long past the tea-hour at Heath Hall when Maggie Oliphant and Priscilla started on their walk home. The brightness and gaiety of the merry party at the Marshalls' had increased as the moments flew on. Even Priscilla had caught something of the charm. The kindly spirit which animated everyone seemed to get into her. She first became interested, then she forgot herself. Prissie was no longer awkward; she began to talk, and when she liked she could talk well.

As the two girls were leaving the house, Geoffrey Hammond put in a sudden appearance.

"I will see you home," he said to Maggie.

"No, no, you mustn't," she answered; her tone was vehement. She forgot Prissie's presence, and half-turned her back on her.

"How unkind you are!" said the young man, in a low tone.

"No, Geoffrey, but I am struggling--you don't know how hard I am struggling--to be true to myself."

"You are altogether mistaken in your idea of truth," said Hammond, turning, and walking a little way by her side.

"I am not mistaken--I am right."

"Well, at least allow me to explain my side of the question."

"No, it cannot be; there shall be no explanations, I am resolved. Good-night, you must not come any further."

She held out her hand. Hammond took it limply between his own.

"You are very cruel," he murmured, in the lowest of voices.

He raised his hat, forgot even to bow to Priscilla, and hurried off down a side street.

Maggie walked on a little way. Then she turned, and looked down the street where he had vanished. Suddenly she raised her hand to her lips, kissed it, and blew the kiss after the figure which had already disappeared. She laughed excitedly when she did this, and her whole face was glowing with a beautiful colour.

Prissie, standing miserable and forgotten by the tall, handsome girl's side, could see the light in her eyes, and the glow on her checks in the lamplight.

"I am here," said Priscilla, at last, in a low, half-frightened voice. "I am sorry I am here, but I am. I heard what you said to Mr Hammond. I am sorry I heard."

Maggie turned slowly, and looked at her. Prissie returned her gaze. Then, as if further words were wrung from her against her will, she continued--

"I saw the tears in your eyes in the fern-house at the Marshalls'. I am very sorry, but I did see them."

"My dear Prissie!" said Maggie. She went up suddenly to the girl, put her arm round her neck, and kissed her.

"Come home now," she said, drawing Prissie's hand through her arm. "I don't think I greatly mind your knowing," she said, after a pause. "You are true; I see it in your face. You would never tell again--you would never make mischief."

"Tell again! Of course not." Prissie's words came out with great vigour.

"I know you would not, Priscilla; may I call you Priscilla?"

"Yes."

"Will you be my friend, and shall I be your friend?"

"If you would," said Prissie. "But you don't mean it. It is impossible that you can mean it. I'm not a bit like you--and--and--you only say these things to be kind."

"What do you mean, Priscilla?"

"I must tell you," said Prissie, turning very pale. "I heard what you said to Miss Banister the night I came to the college."

"What I said to Miss Banister? What did I say?"

"Oh, can't you remember? The words seemed burnt into me: I shall never forget them. I had left my purse in the dining-hall, and I was going to fetch it. Your door was a little open. I heard my name, and I stopped--yes, I did stop to listen."

"Oh, what a naughty, mean little Prissie! You stopped to listen. And what did you hear? Nothing good, of course? The bad thing was said to punish you for listening."

"I heard," said Priscilla, her own cheeks crimson now, "I heard you say that it gave you an aesthetic pleasure to be kind, and that was why you were good to me."

Maggie felt her own colour rising.

"Well, my dear," she said, "it still gives me an aesthetic pleasure to be kind. You could not expect me to fall in love with you the moment I saw you. I was kind to you then, perhaps, for the reason I stated. It is very different now."

"It was wrong of you to be kind to me for that reason."

"Wrong of me? What an extraordinary girl you are, Priscilla--why was it wrong of me?"

"Because I learnt to love you. You were gentle to me, and spoke courteously, when others were rude and only laughed; my whole heart went out to you when you were so sweet and gentle and kind. I did not think--I could not possibly think--that you were good just because it gave you a sort of selfish pleasure. When I heard your words I felt dreadful. I hated St Benet's; I wished I had never come. Your words turned everything to bitterness for me."

"Did they really, Priscilla? Oh, Prissie! what a thoughtless, wild, impulsive creature I am. Well, I don't feel now as I did that night. If those words were cruel, forgive me. Forget those words, Prissie."

"I will, if you will."

"I? I have forgotten them utterly."

"Thank you, thank you."

"Then we'll be friends--real friends; true friends?"

"Yes."

"You must say `Yes, Maggie.'"

"Yes, Maggie."

"That is right. Now keep your hand in my arm. Let's walk fast Is it not glorious to walk in this semi-frosty sort of weather? Prissie, you'll see a vast lot that you don't approve of in your new friend."

"Oh, I don't care," said Priscilla.

She felt so joyous she could have skipped.

"I've as many sides," continued Maggie, "as a chameleon has colours. I am the gayest of the gay, as well as the saddest of the sad. When I am gay you may laugh with me, but I warn you when I am sad you must never cry with me. Leave me alone when I have my dark moods on, Prissie."

"Very well, Maggie, I'll remember."

"I think you'll make a delightful friend," said Miss Oliphant, just glancing at her; "but I pity your side of the bargain."

"Why?"

"Because I'll try you so fearfully."

"Oh, no, you won't. I don't want to have a perfect friend."

"Perfect! No, child--Heaven forbid. But there are shades of perfection. Now, when I get into my dark moods, I feel wicked as well as sad. No, we won't talk of them; we'll keep them away. Prissie, I feel good to-night--good--and glad: it's such a nice feeling."

"I am sure of it," said Priscilla.

"What do you know about it, child? You have not tasted life yet. Wait until you do. For instance--no, though--I won't enlighten you. Prissie, what do you think of Geoffrey Hammond?"

"I think he loves you, very much."

"Poor Geoffrey! Now, Prissie, you are to keep that little thought quite dark in your mind--in fact, you are to put it out of your mind. You are not to associate my name with Mr Hammond's--not even in your thoughts. You will very likely hear us spoken of together, and some of the stupid girls here will make little quizzing, senseless remarks. But there will be no truth in them, Prissie. He is nothing to me, nor I to him."

"Then why did you blow a kiss after him?" asked Priscilla.

Maggie stood still. It was too dark for Priscilla to see her blush.

"Oh, my many-sided nature!" she suddenly exclaimed. "It was a wicked sprite made me blow that kiss. Prissie, my dear, I am cold: race me to the house."

The two girls entered the wide hall, flushed and laughing. Other girls were lingering about on the stairs. Some were just starting off to evening service at Kingsdene; others were standing in groups, chatting. Nancy Banister came up, and spoke to Maggie. Maggie took her arm, and walked away with her.

Prissie found herself standing alone in the hall. It was as if the delightful friendship cemented between herself and Miss Oliphant in the frosty air outside had fallen to pieces like a castle of cards the moment they entered the house. Prissie felt a chill. Her high spirits went down a very little. Then, resolving to banish the ignoble spirit of distrust, she prepared to run upstairs to her own room.

Miss Heath called her name as she was passing an open door.

"Is that you, my dear? Will you come to my room after supper to-night?"

"Oh, thank you," said Prissie, her eyes sparkling.

Miss Heath came to the threshold of her pretty room, and smiled at the young girl.

"You look well and happy," she said. "You are getting at home here. You will love us all yet."

"I love you now!" said Prissie, with fervour.

Miss Heath, prompted by the look of intense and sincere gladness on the young face, bent and kissed Priscilla. A rather disagreeable voice said suddenly at her back--

"I beg your pardon," and Lucy Marsh ran down the stairs.

She had knocked against Prissie in passing; she had witnessed Miss Heath's kiss. The expression on Lucy's face was unpleasant. Prissie did not notice it, however. She went slowly up to her room. The electric light was on, the fire was blazing merrily. Priscilla removed her hat and jacket, threw herself into the one easy-chair the room contained, and gave herself up to pleasant dreams. Many new aspects of life were opening before her. She felt that it was a good thing to be young, and she was distinctly conscious of a great, soft glow of happiness.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

CAUGHT IN A TRAP.

College life is school life over again, but with wide differences. The restraints which characterise the existence of a school-girl are scarcely felt at all by the girl graduate. There are no punishments. Up to a certain point she is free to be industrious or not as she pleases. Some rules there are for her conduct and guidance, but they are neither many nor arbitrary. In short, the young girl graduate is no longer thought of as a child. She is a woman, with a woman's responsibilities; she is treated accordingly.

Miss Day, Miss Marsh, Miss Merton, and one or two other congenial spirits, entered heartily into the little plot which should deprive Priscilla of Maggie Oliphant's friendship. They were anxious to succeed in this, because their characters were low, their natures jealous and mean. Prissie had set up a higher standard than theirs, and they were determined to crush the little aspirant for moral courage. If in crushing Prissie they could also bring discredit upon Miss Oliphant, their sense of victory would have been intensified; but it was one thing for these conspirators to plot and plan, and another thing for them to perform. It is possible that in school life they might have found this easier; opportunities might have arisen for them, with mistresses to be obeyed, punishments to be dreaded, rewards to be won. At St Benet's there was no one especially to be obeyed, and neither rewards nor punishments entered into the lives of the girls.

Maggie Oliphant did not care in the least what girls like Miss Day or Miss Marsh said or thought about her, and Priscilla, who was very happy and industrious just now, heard many innuendoes and sly little speeches without taking in their meaning.

Still, the conspirators did not despair. The term before Christmas was in some ways rather a dull one, and they were glad of any excitement to break the monotony. As difficulties increased their ardour also deepened, and they were resolved not to leave a stone unturned to effect their object. Where there is a will there is a way. This is true as regards evil and good things alike.

One foggy morning, towards the end of November, Priscilla was standing by the door of one of the lecture-rooms, a book of French history, a French grammar and exercise-book, and a thick note-book in her hand. She was going to her French lecture, and was standing patiently by the lecture-room door, which had not yet been opened.

Priscilla's strongest bias was for Greek and Latin, but Mr Hayes had recommended her to take up modern languages as well, and she was steadily plodding through the French and German, for which she had not so strong a liking as for her beloved classics. Prissie was a very eager learner, and she was busy now looking over her notes of the last lecture, and standing close to the door, so as to be one of the first to take her place in the lecture-room.

The rustling of a dress caused her to look round, and Rosalind Merton stood by her side. Rosalind was by no means one of the "students" of the college. She attended as few lectures as were compatible with her remaining there, but French happened to be one of the subjects which she thought it well to take up, and she appeared now by Prissie's side with the invariable note-book, without which no girl went to lecture, in her hand.

"Isn't it cold?" she said, shivering, and raising her pretty face to Priscilla's.

Prissie glanced at her for a moment, said Yes; she supposed it was cold, in an abstracted voice, and bent her head once more over her note-book.

Rosalind was looking very pretty in a dress of dark blue velveteen. Her golden curly hair lay in little tendrils all over her head, and curled lovingly against her soft white throat.

"I hate Kingsdene in a fog," she continued, "and I think it's very wrong to keep us in this draughty passage until the lecture-room is opened. Don't you, Miss Peel?"

"Well, we are before our time, so no one is to blame for that," answered Priscilla.

"Of course, so we are." Rosalind pulled out a small gold watch, which she wore at her girdle.

"How stupid of me to have mistaken the hour!" she exclaimed. Then looking hard at Prissie, she continued in an anxious tone--

"You are not going to attend any lectures this afternoon, are you, Miss Peel?"

"No," answered Priscilla. "Why?"

Rosalind's blue eyes looked almost pathetic in their pleading.

"I wonder,"--she began; "I'm so worried, I _wonder_ if you'd do me a kindness."

"I can't say until you ask me," said Priscilla; "what do you want me to do?"

"There's a girl at Kingsdene, a Miss Forbes. She makes my dresses now and then; I had a letter from her last night, and she is going to London in a hurry, because her mother is ill. She made this dress for me; isn't it pretty?"

"Yes," answered Priscilla, just glancing at it. "But what connection has that with my doing anything for you?"

"Oh, a great deal; I'm coming to that part. Miss Forbes wants me to pay her for making this dress before she goes to London. I can only do this by going to Kingsdene this afternoon."

"Well?" said Priscilla.

"I want to know if you will come with me. Miss Heath does not like our going to the town alone, particularly at this time of year, when the evenings are so short. Will you come with me, Miss Peel? It will be awfully good-natured of you, and I really do want poor Miss Forbes to have her money before she goes to London."

"But cannot some of your own friends go with you?" returned Priscilla. "I don't wish to refuse, of course, if it is necessary; but I want to work up my Greek notes this afternoon. The next lecture is a very stiff one, and I sha'n't be ready for it without some hard work."

"Oh, but you can study when you come back. _Do_ come with me. I would not ask you, only I know you are so good-natured, and Annie Day and Lucy Marsh have both to attend lectures this afternoon. I have no one to ask--no one, really, if you refuse. I have not half so many friends as you think, and it would be quite too dreadful for poor Miss Forbes not to have her money when she wants to spend it on her sick mother."

Priscilla hesitated for a moment. Two or three other girls were walking down the corridor to the lecture-room; the door was flung open.

"Very well," she said, as she entered the room, followed by Rosalind, "I will go with you. At what hour do you want to start?"

"At three o'clock. I'm awfully grateful. A thousand thanks, Miss Peel."

Prissie nodded, seated herself at the lecture-table, and in the interest of the work which lay before her soon forgot all about Rosalind and her troubles.

The afternoon of that day turned out not only foggy, but wet. A drizzling rain shrouded the landscape, and very few girls from St Benet's were venturing abroad.

At half-past two Nancy Banister came hastily into Priscilla's room.

"Maggie and I are going down to the library," she said, "to have a cosy read by the fire; we want you to come with us. Why, surely you are never going out, Miss Peel?"

"Yes, I am," answered Prissie, in a resigned voice. "I don't like it a bit, but Miss Merton has asked me to go with her to Kingsdene, and I promised."

"Well, you sha'n't keep your promise. This is not a fit day for you to go out, and you have a cough, too. I heard you coughing last night."

"Yes, but that is nothing. I must go, Miss Banister; I must keep my word. I daresay it won't take Miss Merton and me very long to walk into Kingsdene and back again."

"And I never knew that Rosalind Merton was one of your friends, Prissie," continued Nancy, in a puzzled voice.

"Nor is she--I scarcely know her; but when she asked me to go out with her, I could not very well say no."

"I suppose not; but I am sorry, all the same, for it is not a fit day for anyone to be abroad, and Rosalind is such a giddy pate. Well, come back as soon as you can. Maggie and I are going to have a jolly time, and we only wish you were with us."

Nancy nodded brightly, and took her leave, and Priscilla, putting on her waterproof and her shabbiest hat, went down into the hall to meet Rosalind.

Rosalind was also in waterproof, but her hat was extremely pretty and becoming, and Priscilla fancied she got a glimpse of a gay silk dress under the waterproof cloak.

"Oh, how quite too sweet of you to be ready!" said Rosalind, with effusion. She took Prissie's hand and squeezed it affectionately, and the two girls set off.

The walk was a dreary one, for Kingsdene, one of the most beautiful places in England in fine weather, lies so low, that in the winter months fogs are frequent, and the rain is almost incessant, so that then the atmosphere is always damp and chilly. By the time the two girls had got into the High Street, Prissie's thick, sensible boots were covered with mud, and Rosalind's thin ones felt very damp to her feet.

They soon reached the quarter where the dressmaker, Miss Forbes, lived. Prissie was asked to wait downstairs, and Rosalind ran up several flights of stairs to fulfil her mission. She came back at the end of a few minutes, looking bright and radiant.

"I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Peel," she said, "but my boots were so muddy that Miss Forbes insisted on polishing them up for me."

"Well, we can go home now, I suppose?" said Prissie.

"Ye-es; only as we _are_ here, would you greatly mind our going round by Bouverie Street? I want to inquire for a friend of mine, Mrs Elliot-Smith. She has not been well."

"Oh, I don't mind," said Priscilla. "Will it take us much out of our way?"

"No, only a step or two. Come, we have just to turn this corner, and here we are. What a dear--quite too good-natured girl you are, Miss Peel!" Prissie said nothing. The two started forth again in the drizzling mist and fog, and presently found themselves in one of the most fashionable streets of Kingsdene, and standing before a ponderous hall-door, which stood back in a portico.

Rosalind rang the bell, which made a loud peal. The door was opened almost immediately; but, instead of a servant appearing in answer to the summons, a showily dressed girl, with a tousled head of flaxen hair, light blue eyes, and a pale face, stood before Rosalind and Prissie.

"Oh, you dear Rose!" she said, clasping her arms round Miss Merton, and dragging her into the house: "I had almost given you up. Do come in--do come in, both of you. You are more than welcome. What a miserable, horrid, too utterly depressing afternoon it is!"

"How do you do, Meta?" said Rosalind, when she could interrupt this eager flow of words. "May I introduce my friend, Miss Peel? Miss Peel, this is my very great and special friend and chum, Meta Elliot-Smith."

"Oh, you charming darling!" said Meta, giving Rose a fresh hug, and glancing in a supercilious but friendly way at Prissie.

"We came to inquire for your mother, dear Meta," said Rose, in a demure tone. "Is she any better?"

"Yes, my dear darling, she's much better." Meta's eyes flashed interrogation into Rose's: Rose's returned back glances, which spoke whole volumes of meaning.

"Look here," said Meta Elliot-Smith, "now that you two dear, precious girls have come, you mustn't go away. Oh, no, I couldn't hear of it. I have perfect oceans to say to you, Rose--and it is absolutely centuries since we have met. Off with your waterproof, and up you come to the drawing-room for a cup of tea. One or two friends are dropping in presently, and the Beechers and one or two more are upstairs now. You know the Beechers, don't you, Rosalind? Here, Miss Peel, let me help you to unburden yourself. Little Rose is so nimble in her ways that she doesn't need any assistance."

"Oh, but indeed I can't stay," said Prissie. "It is quite impossible! You know, Miss Merton, it is impossible. We are due at St Benet's now. We ought to be going back at once."

Rosalind Merton's only answer was to slip off her waterproof cloak, and stand arrayed in a fascinating toilet of silk and lace--a little too dressy, perhaps, even for an afternoon party at Kingsdene, but vastly becoming to its small wearer.

Priscilla opened her eyes wide as she gazed at her companion. She saw at once that she had been entrapped into her present false position, and that Rosalind's real object in coming to Kingsdene was not to pay her dressmaker, but to visit the Elliot-Smiths.

"I can't possibly stay," she said in a cold, angry voice. "I must go back to St Benet's at once."

She began to button up her waterproof as fast as Miss Elliot-Smith was unbuttoning it.

"Nonsense, you silly old dear!" said Rosalind, who, having gained her way, was now in the best of spirits. "You mustn't listen to her, Meta; she studies a great deal too hard, and a little relaxation will do her all the good in the world. My dear Miss Peel, you can't be so rude as to refuse a cup of tea, and I know I shall catch an awful cold if I don't have one. Do come upstairs for half an hour; _do_, there's a dear Prissie!"

Priscilla hesitated. She had no knowledge of so-called "society." Her instincts told her it was very wrong to humour Rose. She disliked Miss Elliot-Smith, and felt wild at the trick which had been played on her. Nevertheless, on an occasion of this kind, she was no match for Rose, who knew perfectly what she was about, and stood smiling and pretty before her.

"Just for a few moments," said Rosalind, coming up and whispering to her. "I really won't keep you long. You _will_ just oblige me for a few minutes."

"Well, but I'm not fit to be seen in this old dress?" whispered back poor Prissie.

"Oh, yes, you are; you're not bad at all, and I am sure Meta will find you a secluded corner if you want it--won't you, Meta?"

"Yes, of course, if Miss Peel wants it," answered Meta. "But she looks all right, so deliciously quaint--I simply _adore_ quaint people! Quite the sweet girl graduate, I do declare. You don't at all answer to the _role_, you naughty Rosalind?"

So Prissie, in her ill-made brown dress, her shabbiest hat, and her muddy boots, had to follow in the wake of Rosalind Merton and her friend. At first she had been too angry to think much about her attire, but she was painfully conscious of it when she entered a crowded drawing-room, where everyone else was in suitable afternoon toilet. She was glad to shrink away out of sight into the most remote corner she could find; her muddy boots were pushed far in under her chair, and hidden as much as possible by her rather short dress; her checks burnt unbecomingly; she felt miserable, self-conscious, ill at ease, and very cross with everyone. It was in vain for poor Priscilla to whisper to herself that Greek and Latin were glorious and great, and dress and fashion were things of no moment whatever. At this instant she knew all too well that dress and fashion were reigning supreme.

Meta Elliot-Smith was effusive, loud, and vulgar, but she was also good-natured. She admired Rosalind, but in her heart of hearts she thought that her friend had played Prissie a very shabby trick. She brought Prissie some tea, therefore, and stood for a moment or two by her side, trying to make things a little more comfortable for her. Someone soon claimed her attention, however, and poor Prissie found herself alone.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

IN THE ELLIOT-SMITHS' DRAWING-ROOM.

The fun and talk rose fast and furious. More and more guests arrived; the large drawing-rooms were soon almost as full as they could hold. Priscilla, from her corner, half-hidden by a sheltering window curtain, looked in vain for Rosalind. Where had she hidden herself? When were they going away? Surely Rosalind would come to fetch her soon? They had to walk home and be ready for dinner.

Dinner at St Benet's was at half-past six, and Prissie reflected with a great sensation of thankfulness that Rosalind and she must go back in good time for this meal, as it was one of the rules of the college that no girl should absent herself from late dinner without getting permission from the Principal.

Prissie looked in agony at the clock which stood on a mantelpiece not far from where she had ensconced herself. Presently it struck five; no one heard its silver note in the babel of sound, but Priscilla watched its slowly moving hands in an agony.

Rose must come to fetch her presently. Prissie knew--she reflected to her horror that she had not the moral courage to walk about those drawing-rooms hunting for Rose.

Two or three exquisitely dressed but frivolous-looking women stood in a group not far from the window where Priscilla sat forlorn. They talked about the cut of their mantles, and the price they had given for their new winter bonnets. Their shrill laughter reached Prissie's ears, also their words. They complimented one another, but talked scandal of their neighbours. They called somebody--who, Prissie could not imagine--"a certain lady," and spoke of how she was angling to get a footing in society, and how the good set at Kingsdene would certainly never have anything to do with her or hers.

"She's taking up those wretched girl graduates," said one of these gossips to her neighbour. Then her eye fell upon Prissie. She said "Hush!" in an audible tone, and the little party moved away out of earshot.

The minute hand of the clock on the mantelpiece pointed to nearly half-past five. Poor Prissie felt her miseries grow almost intolerable. Tears of mortification and anguish were forcing themselves to her eyes. She felt that, in addition to having lost so many hours of study, she would get into a serious scrape at St Benet's for breaking one of the known rules of the college.

At this moment a quiet voice said, "How do you do?"

She raised her tearful eyes. Geoffrey Hammond was standing by her side. He gave her a kind glance, shook hands with her, and stood by her window uttering commonplaces until Priscilla had recovered her self-possession. Then, dropping into a chair near, he said, abruptly--

"I saw you from the other end of the room. I was surprised. I did not suppose you knew our hostess."

"Nor do I really," said Prissie, with sudden vehemence. "Oh, it's a shame!" she added, her face reddening up woefully; "I have been entrapped!"

"You must not let the people who are near us hear you say words of that kind," said Hammond; "they will crowd around to hear your story. Now, I want it all to myself. Do you think you can tell it to me in a low voice?"

To poor Hammond's horror Prissie began to whisper.

"I beg your pardon," he said, interrupting her, "but do you know that the buzzing noise caused by a whisper carries sound a long way? That is a well authenticated fact. Now, if you will try to speak low."

"Oh, thank you; yes, I will," said Prissie. She began a garbled account Hammond looked at her face and guessed the truth. The miseries of her present position were depriving the poor girl of the full use of her intellect. At last he ascertained that Priscilla's all-absorbing present anxiety was to be in time for the half-past six dinner at St Benet's.

"I know we'll be late," she said, "and I'll have broken the rules, and Miss Heath will be so much annoyed with me."

Hammond volunteered to look for Miss Merton.

"Oh, thank you," said Prissie, the tears springing to her eyes. "How very, very kind you are."

"Please don't speak of it," said Hammond. "Stay where you are. I'll soon bring the young truant to your side."

He began to move about the drawing-rooms, and Prissie from her hiding-place watched him with a world of gratitude in her face. "Talk of my stirring from this corner," she said to herself, "why, I feel glued to the spot! Oh, my awful muddy boots. I daren't even think of them. Now I do hope Mr Hammond will find Miss Merton quickly. How kind he is! I wonder Maggie does not care for him as much as he cares for her. I do not feel half as shy with him as I do with everyone else in this dreadful--dreadful room. Oh, I do trust he'll soon come back, and bring Miss Merton with him. Then, if we run all the way, we may, perhaps, be in time for dinner."

Hammond was absent about ten minutes; they seemed like so many hours to anxious Prissie. To her horror she saw him returning alone, and now she so far forgot her muddy boots as to run two or three steps to meet him. She knocked over a footstool as she did so, and one or two people looked round, and shrugged their shoulders at the poor _gauche_ girl.

"Where is she?" exclaimed Prissie, again speaking in a loud voice. "Oh, haven't you brought her? What shall I do?"

"It's all right, I assure you, Miss Peel. Let me conduct you back to that snug seat in the window. I have seen Miss Merton, and she says you are to make yourself happy. She asked Miss Heath's permission for you both to be absent from dinner to-day."

"She did? I never heard of anything so outrageous. _I_ won't stay. I shall go away at once."

"Had you not better just think calmly over it? If you return to St Benet's without Miss Merton, you will get her into a scrape."

"Do you think I care for that? Oh, she has behaved disgracefully! She has told Miss Heath a lie. I shall explain matters the very moment I go back."

Priscilla was not often in a passion, but she felt in one now. She lost her shyness, and her voice rose without constraint.

"I am not supposed to know the ways of society," she said, "but I don't think I want to know much about this sort of society." And she got up, prepared to leave the room.

The ladies, who had been gossiping at her side, turned at the sound of her agitation. They saw a plain, badly-dressed girl, with a frock conveniently short for the muddy streets, but by no means in tone with her present elegant surroundings, standing up and contradicting, or at least appearing to contradict, Geoffrey Hammond, one of the best known men at St Hilda's, a Senior Wrangler, too. What did this _gauche_ girl mean? Most people were deferential to Hammond, but she seemed to be scolding him.

Prissie for the time being became more interesting even than the winter fashions. The ladies drew a step or two nearer to enjoy the little comedy.

Priscilla noticed no one, but Hammond felt these good ladies in the air. His checks burned, and he wished himself well out of his present position.

"If you will sit down, Miss Peel," he said, in a low, firm voice, "I think I can give you good reasons for not rushing away in this headlong fashion."

"Well, what are they?" said Prissie. Hammond's voice had a sufficiently compelling power to make her sit down once more on her window-ledge.

"Don't you think," he said, seating himself in front of her, "that we may as well keep this discussion to ourselves?"

"Oh, yes; was I speaking too loud? I wouldn't vex _you_ for anything."

"Pardon me; you are still speaking a little loud."

"Oh!" Poor Prissie fell back, her face crimson. "Please say anything you wish," she presently piped in a voice as low as a little mouse might have used.

"What I have to say is simply this," said Hammond: "You will gain nothing now by rushing off to St Benet's. However hard you struggle, you cannot get there in time for dinner. Would it not be best, then, to remain here quietly until Miss Merton asks you to accompany her back to the college? Then, of course, it will remain with you to pay her out in any way you think well."

"Thank you; perhaps that is best. It is quite hopeless now to think of getting back in time for dinner. I only hope Miss Merton won't keep me waiting very long, for it is very, very dull sitting here, and seeing people staring at you."

"I would not look at them if I were you, Miss Peel; and, if you will permit me, I shall be only too pleased to keep you company."

"Oh, thank you," said Prissie. "Then I sha'n't mind staying at all."

The next half-hour seemed to pass on the wings of the wind.

Priscilla was engaged in an animated discussion with Hammond on the relative attractions of the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey;" her opinion differed from his, and she was well able to hold her ground. Her face was now both eloquent and attractive, her eyes were bright, her words terse and epigrammatic. She looked so different a girl from the cowed and miserable little Prissie of an hour ago that Rosalind Merton, as she came up and tapped her on the shoulder, felt a pang of envy.

"I am sorry to interrupt you," she said, "but it is time for us to be going home. Have you given Mr Hammond his message?"

"What do you mean?" asked Priscilla. "I have not any message for Mr Hammond."

"You must have forgotten. Did not Miss Oliphant give you a letter for him?"

"Certainly not. What do you mean?"

"I felt sure I saw her," said Rosalind. "I suppose I was mistaken. Well, sorry as I am to interrupt a pleasant talk, I fear I must ask you to come home with me now."

She raised her pretty baby eyes to Hammond's face as she spoke. He absolutely scowled down at her, shook hands warmly with Priscilla, and turned away.

"Come and bid Mrs Elliot-Smith good-bye," said Rosalind, her eyes still dancing. "She is at the other end of the drawing-room; come, you can follow me."

"How disgracefully you have behaved, Miss Merton!" began Priscilla at once. "You cannot expect me ever to speak to you again, and I shall certainly tell Miss Heath."

They were walking across the crowded drawing-room now. Rosalind turned, and let her laughing eyes look full at Prissie.

"My dear Miss Peel, pray reserve any little scolding you intend to bestow upon me until we get out into the street, and please do not tread upon my dress!"

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

POLLY SINGLETON.

Miss Day was having quite a large party for cocoa in her room. She had invited not only her own chosen friends from Heath Hall, but also two or three congenial spirits from Katharine Hall. Five or six merry-looking girls were now assembled in her room. Miss Day's room was one of the largest in the college; it was showily furnished, with an intention to produce a Japanese effect. Several paper lanterns hung from the ceiling, and were suspended to wire supports, which were fastened to different articles of furniture.

In honour of Miss Day's cocoa, the lanterns were all lit now, and the effect, on fans and pictures and on brilliant bits of colour, was grotesque and almost _bizarre_.

Miss Day thought her room lovely. It was dazzling, but the reverse of reposeful.

The girls were lounging about, chatting and laughing; they were having a good time, and were absolutely at their case. One, a red-haired girl, with frank, open blue eyes, and a freckled face, an inmate of Katharine Hall, was sending her companions into fits of laughter.

"Yes," she was saying, in a high, gay voice, "I'm not a bit ashamed of it; there's never the least use in not owning the truth. I'm used up, girls: I haven't a penny piece to bless myself with, and this letter came from Spilman to-night. Spilman says he'll see Miss Eccleston if I don't pay up. Madame Clarice wrote two nights ago declaring _her_ intention of visiting Miss Eccleston if I didn't send her some money. I shall have no money until next term. There's a state of affairs!"

"What do you mean to do, Polly?" asked Lucy Marsh, in a sympathising tone.

"Do? My dear creature, there's only one thing to be done. I must have an auction on the quiet I shall sell my worldly all. I can buy things again, you know, after dad sends me his next allowance."

"Oh, Polly, but you cannot really mean it!" Miss Marsh, Miss Day, and two or three more crowded round Polly Singleton as they spoke.

"You can't mean to have an auction," began Miss Day; "no one ever heard of such a thing at St Benet's. Why, it would be simply disgraceful!"

"No, it wouldn't--don't turn cross, Annie. I'll have an auction first, and then a great feed in the empty room. I can go on tick for the feed; Jones, the confectioner, knows better than not to oblige me. He's not like that horrid Spilman and that mean Madame Clarice."

"But, Polly, if you write to your father, he'll be sure to send you what you want to clear off those two debts. You have often told us he has lots of money."

"My dears, he has more tin than he knows what to do with; but do you think I am going to have the poor old dear worried? When I was coming here he said, `Polly, you shall have thirty pounds every term to spend as pocket-money; not a penny more, not a penny less. And you must keep out of debt on it; mind that, Polly Singleton.' I gave the dear old dad a hug. He's the image of me--only with redder hair and more freckles. And I said, `I'll do my best, dad, and anyhow, you sha'n't be put out whatever happens.'"

"Then you didn't tell him you'd keep out of debt?"

"No, for I knew I'd break my word. I've always been in debt ever since I could remember. I wouldn't know how it felt not to owe a lot of money. It's habit, and I don't mind it a bit. But I don't want dad to know, and I don't want Miss Eccleston to know, for perhaps she would write to him. If those old horrors won't wait for their money till next term, why there's nothing for it but an auction. I have some nice things, and they'll go very cheap; so there's a chance for you all, girls."

"But if Miss Eccleston finds out?" said Miss Day.

"What if she does? There's no rule against auctions, and, as I don't suppose any of you will have one, it isn't worth making a rule for me alone. Anyhow, I'm resolved to risk it. My auction will be on Monday, and I shall make out an inventory of my goods to-morrow."

"Will you advertise it on the notice-board in your hall, dear?" asked Lucy Marsh.

"Why not? A good idea! _The great A. will be held in Miss Singleton's room, from eight to ten o'clock on the evening of Monday next. Great Bargains! Enormous Sacrifice! Things absolutely given away_! Oh, what fun! I'll be my own auctioneer."

Polly lay back in her armchair, and laughed loudly.

"What is all this noise about?" asked a refined little voice, and Rosalind Merton entered the room.

Two or three girls jumped up at once to greet her.

"Come in, Rosie; you're just in time. What _do_ you think Miss Singleton is going to do now?"

"I can't tell; what?" asked Rosalind. "Something _outre_, I feel certain."

Polly made a wry face, and winked her eyes at her companions.

"I know I'm not refined enough for you, Miss Merton," she drawled. "I'm rough, like my dad, rough and ready; but, at any rate, I'm honest--at least, I think I'm honest. When I owe money, I don't leave a stone unturned to pay what I owe. Having sinned, I repent. I enter the Valley of Humiliation, and give up all: who can do more?"

"Oh, dear, Polly, I don't think I'd call owing a little money, sinning," said Lucy Marsh, whose ideas were known to be somewhat lax.

"Well, my dear, there's nothing for those in debt but to sell their possessions. My auction is on Monday. Will you come, Rosalind?"

"You don't mean it?" said Rose, her blue eyes beginning to sparkle.

"Yes, I do, absolutely and truly mean it."

"And you will sell your things--your lovely things?"

"My things, my lovely, lovely things must be sold."

"But not your clothes? Your new sealskin jacket, for instance?"

Polly made a wry face for a moment. Putting her hand into her pocket she pulled out Spilman's and Madame Clarice's two bills.

"I owe a lot," she said, looking with a rueful countenance at the sum total. "Yes, I even fear the sealskin must go. I don't want to part with it; dad gave it me just before I came here."

"It's a lovely seal," said Annie Day, "and it seems a sin to part with it; it's cut in the most stylish way too, with those high shoulders."

"Don't praise it, please," said Polly, lying back in her chair, and covering her eyes with her hand. "It cuts like a knife to part with dad's last present. Well, I'm rightly punished. What a fool I was to get all those Japanese things from Spilman, and that fancy ball-dress for the theatricals. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"

"Perhaps you won't want to part with your seal, dear," said Lucy, who was not so greedy as some of the other girls, and really pitied Polly. "You have so many beautiful things without that, that you will be sure to realise a good bit of money."

"No, Lucy, I owe such a lot; the seal must go. Oh, what a worry it is!"

"And at auctions of this kind," said Rosalind, in her low voice, "even beautiful things don't realise much. How can they?"

"Rosalind is after that seal," whispered Lucy to Annie Day.

"The seal would swallow you up, Rosie," said Annie, in a loud voice. "Don't aspire to it; you'd never come out alive."

"The seal can be brought to know good manners," retorted Rose, angrily. "His size can be diminished, and his strength abated. But I have not said that I want him at all. You do so jump to conclusions, Miss Day."

"I know what I want," said a girl called Hetty Jones, who had not yet spoken: "I'm going in for some of Polly's ornaments. You won't put too big a price upon your corals, will you, Poll?"

"I shall bid for your American rocking-chair, Polly," exclaimed Miss Day.

"I tell you what you must do, Miss Singleton," shouted another girl, "you must get those inventories ready as soon as possible, and send them round the college for everyone to read, for you have got such nice things that there will be sure to be a great rush at your auction."

"Don't sell any of the college possessions by mistake, my dear," said Lucy Marsh. "You would get into trouble then. Indeed, as it is, I don't see how you are to keep out of it."

Polly pushed her hands impatiently through her bright red hair.

"Who's afraid?" she said, and laughed.

"When are we to see your things, Polly?" asked Miss Jones. "If the auction is on Monday, there must be a show day, when we can all go round and inspect. I know that's always done at auctions, for I've been at several in the country. The show day is the best fun of all. The farmers' wives come and pinch the feather-beds between their thumbs and forefingers, and hold the blankets up to the light to see if the moths have got in."

"Hetty, how vulgar!" interposed Miss Day. "What has Polly's auction of her _recherche_ things to do with blankets and feather-beds? Now the cocoa is ready. Who will help me to carry the cups round?"

"I had some fun to-day," said Rosalind, when each of the girls, provided with their cups of cocoa, sat round and began to sip. "I took Miss Propriety to town with me."

"Oh, did you, darling? Do tell us all about it!" said Annie Day, running up to Rosalind and taking her hand.

"There isn't much to tell. She behaved as I expected; her manners are not graceful, but she's a deep one."

"Anybody can see that who looks at her," remarked Lucy Marsh.

"We went to the Elliot-Smiths'," continued Rosalind.

"Good gracious, Rosie!" interrupted Hetty Jones. "You don't mean to say you took Propriety to _that_ house?"

"Yes; why not? It's the jolliest house in Kingsdene."

"But fancy taking poor Propriety there. What did she say?"

"Say? She scolded a good deal."

"Scolded! Poor little proper thing! How I should have liked to have seen her. Did she open her purse, and exhibit its emptiness to the company at large? Did she stand on a chair and lecture the frivolous people who assemble in that house on the emptiness of life? Oh, how I wish I could have looked on at the fun!"

"You'd have beheld an edifying sight then, my dear," said Rosalind. "Prissie's whole behaviour was one to be copied. No words can describe her tact and grace."

"But what did she do, Rosie? I wish you would speak out and tell us. You know you are keeping something back."

"Whenever she saw me she scolded me, and she tripped over my dress several times."

"Oh, you dear, good, patient Rosalind, what a bore she must have been."

"No, she wasn't, for I scarcely saw anything of her. She amused herself capitally without me, I can tell you."

"Amused herself? Propriety amused herself? How diverting! Could she stoop to it?"

"She did. She stooped and--conquered. She secured for herself an adorer."

"Rosalind, how absurd you are! Poor, Plain Propriety!"

"As long as I live I shall hate the letter P," suddenly interrupted Annie Day, "for since that disagreeable girl has got into the house we are always using it."

"Never mind, Rosalind; go on with your story," said Miss Jones. "What did Plain Propriety do?" Rosalind threw up her hands, rolled her eyes skywards, and uttered the terse remark--

"She flirted!"

"Oh, Rosie! who would flirt with her? I suppose she got hold of some old rusty, musty don. But then I do not suppose you'd find that sort of man at the Elliot-Smiths'."

This remark came from Lucy Marsh. Rosalind Merton, who was leaning her fair head against a dark velvet cushion, looked as if she enjoyed the situation immensely.

"What do you say to a Senior Wrangler?" she asked, in a gentle voice.

"Rosalind, what--not _the_ Senior Wrangler?" Rosalind nodded.

"Oh! oh! oh! what could he see--Geoffrey Hammond, of all people! He's so exclusive, too."

"Well," said Hetty Jones, standing up reluctantly, for she felt it was time to return to her neglected studies, "wonders will never cease! I could not have supposed that Mr Hammond would condescend to go near the Elliot-Smiths', and most certainly I should never have guessed that he would look at a girl like Priscilla Peel."

"Well, he flirted with her," said Rosalind, "and she with him. They were so delighted with one another that I could scarcely get Prissie away when it was time to leave. They looked quite engrossed--you know the kind of air--there was no mistaking it!"

"Miss Peel must have thanked you for taking her."

"Thanked me? That's not Miss Prissie's style. I could see she was awfully vexed at being disturbed."

"Well, it's rather shabby," said Polly Singleton, speaking for the first time. "Everyone at St Benet's knows to whom Mr Hammond belongs."

"Yes, yes, of course, of course," cried several voices.

"And Maggie has been so kind to Miss Peel," continued Polly.

"Yes--shame!--how mean of little Propriety!" the voices echoed again.

Rosalind gave a meaning glance at Annie Day. Annie raised her eyebrows, looked interrogative, then her face subsided into a satisfied expression. She asked no further questions, but she gave Rosalind an affectionate pat on the shoulder.

Soon the other girls came up one by one to say good-night. Rosalind, Annie, and Lucy were alone. They drew their chairs together, and began to talk.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

PRETTY LITTLE ROSALIND.

"I have done it now," said Rosalind; "the estrangement will come about naturally. Propriety won't head a party at this college, for she will not have Miss Oliphant's support. My dear girls, we need do nothing further. The friendship we regretted is at an end."

"Did you take Priscilla Peel to the Elliot-Smiths' on purpose, then?" asked Miss Day.

"I took her there for my own purposes," replied Rosalind. "I wanted to go. I could not go alone, as it is against our precious rules. It was not convenient for any of my own special friends to come with me, so I thought I'd play Prissie a nice little trick. Oh, wasn't she angry! My dear girls, it was as good as a play to watch her face."

Rosalind lay back in her chair and laughed heartily. Her laughter was as melodious as the sound of silver bells.

"Well," said Miss Marsh, after a pause, "I wish you would stop laughing and go on with your story, Rose."

Rosalind resumed her grave deportment.

"That's all," she said; "there's nothing, more to tell."

"Did you know, then, that Mr Hammond would be there?"

"No, I had not the least idea that piece of luck would fall in my way. Meta managed that for me most delightfully. You know, girls, how earnestly the poor dear Elliot-Smiths aspire, and how vain are their efforts, to get into what we are pleased to call the `good set' here. It isn't their fault, poor things, for, though they really have no talent nor the smallest literary desires, they would give their eyes to be `hail-fellows-well-met' with some of our intellectual giants. Well, Meta got to know Mr Hammond at a tennis party in the summer, and when she met him last week she asked him to come to her house to-day. She told me she was dying to have him, of course, but when she asked him she could see by his face and manner that he was searching his brains for an excuse to get out of it. All of a sudden it flashed into her head to say, `Some of our friends from St Benet's will be present.' The moment she said this he changed, and got very polite, and said he would certainly look in for a little while. Poor Meta was so delighted! You can fancy her chagrin when he devoted himself all the time to Prissie."

"He thought he'd meet Maggie Oliphant," said Annie Day; "it was a shame to lure him on with a falsehood. I don't wonder at people not respecting the Elliot-Smiths."

"My dear," responded Rosalind, "Meta did not tell a lie. I never could have guessed that you were strait-laced, Annie."

"Nor am I," responded Annie, with a sigh, which she quickly suppressed.

"The whole thing fitted in admirably with our wishes," continued Rose, "and now we need not do anything further in the matter. Rumour, in the shape of Hetty Jones's tongue, and Polly Singleton's hints, will do the rest for us."

"Do you really think that Maggie Oliphant cares for Mr Hammond?" asked Lucy Marsh.

"Cares for him!" said Rosalind. "Does a duck swim? Does a baby like sweet things? Maggie is so much in love with Mr Hammond that she's almost ill about it--there!"

"Nonsense!" exclaimed the other two girls.

"She is, I know she is. She treats him shamefully, because of some whim of hers. I only wish she may never get him."

"He'd do nicely for you, wouldn't he, Rose?" said Annie Day.

A delicate pink came into Rosalind's cheeks. She rose to leave the room.

"Mr Hammond is not in my style," she said. "Much too severe and too learned. Good-night, girls. I must look over the notes of that wretched French lecture before I go to bed."

Rosalind sought her own room, which was in another corridor. It was late now--past eleven o'clock. The electric light had been put out. She was well supplied with candles, however, and lighting two on the mantelpiece and two on her bureau, she proceeded to stir up her fire and to make her room warm and cosy.

Rosalind still wore the pretty light silk which had given her such an elegant appearance at the Elliot-Smiths' that afternoon. Securing the bolt of her door, she pushed aside a heavy curtain, which concealed the part of her room devoted to her wardrobe, washing apparatus, etc. Rosalind's wardrobe had a glass door, and she could see her _petite_ figure in it from head to foot. It was a very small figure, but exquisitely proportioned. Its owner admired it much. She turned herself round, took up a hand-glass, and surveyed herself in profile, and many other positions. Then, taking off her pretty dress, she arrayed herself in a long white muslin dressing-robe, and letting down her golden hair, combed out the glittering masses. They fell in showers below her waist. Her face looked more babyish and innocent than ever as it smiled to its own fair image in the glass.

"How he did scowl at me!" said Rosalind, suddenly speaking aloud. "But I had to say it. I was determined to find out for myself how much or how little he cares for Maggie Oliphant, and, alas! there's nothing of the `little' in his affection. Well, well! I did not do badly to-day. I enjoyed myself, and I took a nice rise out of that disagreeable Miss Peel. Now _must_ I look through those horrid French notes? Need I?" She pirouetted on one toe in front of the glass. The motion exhilarated her, and, raising her white wrapper so as to get a peep at her small, pretty feet, she waltzed slowly and gracefully in front of the mirror.