Chapter 2 A Sweet Girl Graduate by L. T. Meade
The Delights of being a Fresher
The college was quite shut away in its own grounds, and only from the upper windows did the girls get a peep of the old University town of Kingsdene. From these, however, particularly in the winter, they could see the gabled colleges, the chapels with their rich glory of architecture, and the smooth lawns of the college gardens as they sloped gently down to the river.
St. Benet’s, the College for Women, was approached by a private road, and high entrance gates obstructed the gaze of the curious. Inside there were cheerful halls and pleasant gardens, and gay, fresh, unrestrained life. But the passer-by got no peep of these things unless the high gates happened to be open.
This was the first evening of term, and most of the girls were back. There was nothing very particular going on, and they were walking about the gardens, and greeting old friends, and telling each other their experiences, and more or less picking up the threads which had been broken or loosened in the long vacation.
The evenings were drawing in, but the pleasant twilight which was soon to be rendered brilliant by the full moon seemed to the girls even nicer than broad daylight to linger about in. They did not want to go into the houses; they flitted about in groups here and there, chatting and laughing merrily.
St. Benet’s had three Halls, each with its own Vice-Principal, and a certain number of resident students. Each Hall stood in its own grounds, and was more or less a complete home in itself. There were resident lecturers and demonstrators for the whole college, and one Lady Principal, who took the lead, and was virtually head of the college.
Miss Vincent was the name of the present Principal. She was an old lady, and had a Vice-Principal under her at Vincent Hall, the largest and newest of these spacious homes, where young women received the advantages of University instruction to prepare them for the battle of life.
Priscilla was to live at Heath Hall—a slightly smaller house, which stood at a little distance away—its grounds being divided from the grounds of Vincent Hall by means of a rustic paling. Miss Heath was the very popular Vice-Principal of this Hall, and Prissie was considered a fortunate girl to obtain a home in her house. She sat now a forlorn and rather scared young person, huddled up in one corner of the fly which turned in at the wide gates, and finally deposited her and her luggage at the back entrance of Heath Hall.
Priscilla looked out into the darkness of the autumn night with frightened eyes. She hated herself for feeling nervous. She had told Aunt Raby that, of course, she would have no silly tremors, yet here she was, trembling, and scarcely able to pay the cabman his fare.
She heard a girl’s laugh in the distance, and it caused her to start so violently that she dropped one of her few treasured sixpences, which went rolling about aimlessly almost under the horse’s hoofs.
“Stop a minute, I’ll find it for you,” said a voice. A tall girl with big, brown eyes suddenly darted into view, picked up the sixpence as if by magic, popped it into Priscilla’s hand, and then, vanished. Priscilla knew that this was the girl who had laughed; she heard her laughing again as she turned to join someone who was standing beside a laurel hedge. The two linked their arms together, and walked off in the darkness.
“Such a frightened poor Fresher!” said the girl who had picked up the sixpence to her companion.
“Maggie,” said the other in a warning voice, “I know you, I know what you mean to do.”
“My dear good Nancy, it is more than I know myself. What awful indiscretion does your prophetic soul see me perpetrating?”
“Oh, Maggie, as if anything could change your nature! You know you’ll take up that miserable Fresher for about a fortnight, and make her imagine that you are going to be excellent friends for the rest of your life, and then—p-f! you’ll snuff her out as if she had never existed; I know you, Maggie, and I call it cruel.”
“Is not that Miss Banister I hear talking?” said a voice quite close to the two girls.
They both turned, and immediately with heightened colour rushed up eagerly to shake hands with the Vice-Principal of their college.
“How do you do, my dears?” she said in a hearty voice. “Are you quite well, Maggie, and you, Nancy? Had you a pleasant holiday? And did you two great chums spend it together?”
The girls began answering eagerly; some other girls came up and joined the group, all anxious to shake hands with Miss Heath, and to get a word of greeting from her.
At this moment the dressing-gong for dinner sounded, and the little group moved slowly towards the house.
In the entrance-hall numbers of girls who had recently arrived were standing about; all had a nod, or a smile, or a kiss for Maggie Oliphant.
“How do you do, Miss Oliphant? Come and see me to-night in my room, won’t you, dear?” issued from many throats.
Maggie promised in her good-natured, affectionate, wholesale way.
Nancy Banister was also greeted by several friends. She, too, was gay and bright, but quieter than Maggie. Her face was more reliable in its expression, but not nearly so beautiful.
“If you accept all these invitations, Maggie,” she said, as the two girls walked down the corridor which led to their rooms, “you know you will have to sit up until morning. Why will you say ‘yes’ to everyone? You know it only causes disappointment and jealousy.”
Maggie laughed.
“My dear, good creature, don’t worry your righteous soul,” she answered. “I’ll call on all the girls I can, and the others must grin and bear it. Now we have barely time to change our dresses for dinner. Stay, though, Nance, there’s a light under Annabel Lee’s door; who have they dared to put into her room? It must be one of those wretched Freshers. I don’t think I can bear it. I shall have to go away into another corridor.”
“Maggie, dear—you are far too sensitive. Could the college afford to keep a room empty because poor dear Annie Lee occupied it?”
“They could, they ought,” burst from Maggie. She stamped her foot with anger. “That room is a shrine to me. It will always be a shrine. I shall hate the person who lives in it.” Tears filled her bright brown eyes. Her arched proud lips trembled. She opened her door, and going into her room, shut it with a bang, almost in Nancy Banister’s face.
Nancy stood still for a minute. A quick sigh came from her lips.
“Maggie is the dearest girl in the college,” she said to herself; “the dearest, the sweetest, the prettiest, yet also the most tantalising, the most provoking, the most inconsequent. It is the greatest wonder she has kept so long out of some serious scrape. She will never leave here without doing something outrageous, and yet there isn’t a girl in the place to be named with her. I wish—” here Nancy sighed again, and put her hand to her brow as if to chase away some perplexity. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she went up to the door of the room next to Maggie’s and knocked.
There was a moment’s silence, then a constrained voice said—
“Come in.”
Nancy entered at once.
Priscilla Peel was standing in the centre of the room. The electric light was turned on, revealing the bareness and absence of all ornament of the apartment; a fire was laid in the grate but not lit, and Priscilla’s ugly square trunk, its canvas covering removed, stood in a prominent position, half on the hearthrug, half on the square of carpet, which covered the centre of the floor. Priscilla had taken off her jacket and hat. She had washed her hands, and removed her muddy boots, and smoothed out her straight, light brown hair. She looked what she felt—a very stiff and unformed specimen of girlhood. There was a great lump in her throat, brought there by mingled nervousness and home-sickness, but that very fact only made her manner icy and repellent.
“Forgive me,” said Nancy, blushing all over her rosy face. “I thought perhaps you might like to know one or two things as you are quite strange here. My name is Banister. I have a room in the same corridor, but quite at the other end. You must come and visit me, presently. Oh, has no one lit your fire? Wouldn’t you like one? The evenings are turning so chilly now, and a fire in one’s room gives one a home-like feeling, doesn’t it? Shall I light it for you?”
“No, no, thank you,” said Priscilla stiffly. She longed to rush at Nancy, and smother her with kisses, but she could only stand in the middle of her room, helpless and awkward, held in a terrible bondage of shyness.
Nancy drew back a step, chilled in spite of herself.
“I see there are matches on the chimney-piece,” she said, “so you can light the fire yourself, whenever you like. The gong that will sound in a minute will be for dinner, and Miss Heath always likes us to be punctual for that meal. It does not matter about any other. Do you think you can find your way to the dining-hall? Or shall I come and fetch you?”
“No—thank you. I—I can manage.”
“But I’ll come with pleasure if you like me to.”
“No, I’d rather you didn’t trouble, please.”
“Very well; if you’re sure you know the way. You go down the broad stairs, then turn to the right, then to the left. Good-bye, I must rush off, or I shall be late.”
Nancy shut the door behind her. She did it gently, although she did not feel gentle, for she had a distinct sensation of being irritated.
Meanwhile Priscilla, clasping her hands together behind the closed door, looked yearningly in the direction where the bright face and trim, neat girlish figure had stood. She was trembling slightly, and her eyes slowly filled with tears.
“I feel sick and lonely and horrid,” she said, under her breath. “Talk of nerves; oh, if Aunt Raby could see me now! why, I’m positively shaking, I can scarcely speak, I can scarcely think properly. What would the children say if they saw their Prissie now? And I’m the girl who is to fight the world, and kill the dragon, and make a home for the nestlings. Don’t I feel like it! Don’t I look like it! Don’t I just loathe myself! How hideously I do my hair, and what a frightful dress I have on. Oh, I wish I weren’t shaking so much. I know I shall get red all over at dinner. I wish I weren’t going to dinner. I wish, oh, I wish I were at home again.”
Crash! bang! pealed the great gong through the house. Doors were opened all along the corridor; light steps passed Priscilla’s room. She heard the rustle of silk, and the sweet, high tinkle of girlish laughter.
She stayed in her room till the last footsteps had died away, then in desperation made a rush for it, flew down the wide stairs in a bashful agony, and, as a matter of course, entered the spacious dining-hall by the door devoted to the dons.
A girl’s life at one of the women’s colleges is supposed to be more or less an unfettered sort of existence; the broad rules guiding conduct are few, and little more than those which must be exercised in any well-organised family. But there is the unspoken etiquette made chiefly by the students themselves, which fills the place like an atmosphere, and which can only be transgressed at the risk of surly glances and muttered comments, and even words of derision.
No student was expected to enter the hall by the dons’ entrance, and for this enormity to be perpetrated by a Fresher immediately made her the cynosure of all eyes. Poor Priscilla was unconscious of any offence. She grew scarlet under the gaze of the merciless young eyes, and further added to her sins by sitting down at one of the tables at the top of the hall.
No one reproved her in words, or requested her to take a lower seat, but some rude giggles were not inaudible; and Priscilla, who would thankfully have taken her dinner in the scullery, heard hints about a certain young person’s presumption, and about the cheek of those wretched Freshers, which must instantly be put down with a high hand.
Priscilla had choked over her soup, and was making poor way with the fish that followed, when suddenly a sweet, low voice addressed her.
“This is your first evening at St. Benet’s,” said the voice. “I hope you will be happy. I know you will, after a little.”
Priscilla turned, and met the full gaze of lovely eyes, brown like a nut, soft and deep as the thick pile of velvet, and yet with a latent flash and glow in them which gave them a red, half-wild gleam now and then. The lips that belonged to this face were slightly parted in a smile; the smile and the expression in the eyes stole straight down with a glow of delicious comfort into Priscilla’s heart.
“Thank you,” she said, in her stiff, wooden tone; but her eyes did not look stiff, and the girl began to talk again.
“I believe my room is next to yours. My name is Oliphant—Margaret Oliphant, but everyone calls me Maggie. That is, of course, I mean my friends do. Would you like to come into my room, and let me tell you some of the rules?”
“Thank you,” said Priscilla again. She longed to add, “I should love beyond words to come into your room;” but instead she remarked icily, “I think Miss Heath has given me printed rules.”
“Oh, you have seen our dear Dorothea—I mean Miss Heath. Isn’t she lovely?”
“I don’t know,” answered Priscilla. “I think she’s rather a plain person.”
“My dear Miss—(I have not caught your name)—you really are too deliciously prosaic. Stay here for a month, and then tell me if you think Dorothea—I mean Miss Heath—plain. No, I won’t say any more. You must find out for yourself. But now, about the rules. I don’t mean the printed rules. We have, I assure you, at St. Benet’s all kinds of little etiquettes which we expect each other to observe. We are supposed to be democratic, and inclined to go in for all that is advanced in womanhood. But, oh dear, oh dear! let any student dare to break one of our own little pet proprieties, and you will see how conservative we can be.”
“Have I broken any of them?” asked Priscilla in alarm. “I did notice that everyone stared at me when I came into the hall, but I thought it was because my face was fresh, and I hoped people would get accustomed to me by-and-by.”
“You poor dear child, there are lots of fresh faces here besides yours. You should have come down under the shelter of my wing, then it would have been all right.”
“But what have I done? Do tell me. I’d much rather know.”
“Well, dear, you have only come into the hall by the dons’ entrance, and you have only seated yourself at the top of the table, where the learned students who are going in for a tripos take their august meals. That is pretty good for a Fresher. Forgive me, we call the new girls Freshers for a week or two. Oh, you have done nothing wrong. Of course not, how could you know any better? Only I think it would be nice to put you up to our little rules, would it not?”
“I should be very much obliged,” said Priscilla. “And please tell me now where I ought to sit at dinner.”
Miss Oliphant’s merry eyes twinkled.
“Look down this long hall,” she said. “Observe that door at the farther end—that is the students’ door; through that door you ought to have entered.”
“Yes—well, well?”
“What an impatient ‘Well, well.’ I shall make you quite an enthusiastic Benetite before dinner is over.”
Priscilla blushed.
“I am sorry I spoke too eagerly,” she said.
“Oh, no, not a bit too eagerly.”
“But please tell me where I ought to have seated myself.”
“There is a table near that lower entrance, Miss—”
“Peel,” interposed Priscilla. “My name is Priscilla Peel.”
“How quaint and great-grandmotherly. Quite delicious! Well, Miss Peel, by that entrance door is a table, a table rather in a draught, and consecrated to the Freshers—there the Freshers humbly partake of nourishment.”
“I see. Then I am as far from the right place as I can be.”
“About as far as you can be.”
“And that is why all the girls have stared so at me.”
“Yes, of course; but let them stare. Who minds such a trifle?”
Priscilla sat silent for a few moments. One of the neat waiting-maids removed her plate; her almost untasted dinner lay upon it. Miss Oliphant turned to attack some roast mutton with truly British vigour.
By-and-by Priscilla’s voice, stiff but with a break in it, fell upon her ear.
“I think the students at St. Benet’s must be very cruel.”
“My dear Miss Peel, the honour of the most fascinating college in England is imperilled. Unsay those words.”
Maggie Oliphant was joking. Her voice was gay with badinage, her eyes brimful of laughter. But Priscilla, unaccustomed to light repartee or chaff in any form, replied to her with heavy and pained seriousness.
“I think the students here are cruel,” she repeated. “How can a stranger know which is the dons’ entrance, and which is the right seat to take at table? If nobody shows her, how can a stranger know? I do think the students are cruel, and I am sorry—I am very sorry I came.”