Chapter 16 A Sweet Girl Graduate by L. T. Meade
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.
“I can’t and won’t study to-night,” she said again. “I hate study, and I will not spoil my looks by burning the midnight oil.”
Suddenly she clasped her hands, and the colour rushed into her cheeks.
“How fortunate that I remembered! I must write to mother this very night. This is Thursday. The auction is on Monday. I have not a post to lose.”
Hastily seating herself in front of her bureau, Rosalind scribbled a few lines:—
“Dearest, Precious Mamsie—
“Whatever happens, please send me a postal order for 10 pounds by return. One of the richest girls in the place is going to have an auction, and I shall pick up some treasures. If you could spare 15 pounds, or even 20 pounds, the money would be well spent, but ten at least I must have. There is a sealskin jacket, which cost at least eighty pounds, and such coral ornaments—you know, that lovely pink shade. Send me all you can, precious mamsie, and make your Baby happy.
“Your own little Rose.
“P.S.—Oh, mamsie, such a sealskin! and such coral!”
This artless epistle was quickly enclosed in an envelope, addressed, and deposited in the post-box. Afterwards pretty little Rosalind spent a night of dreamless slumber, and awoke in the morning as fresh and innocent-looking as the fairest of the babies she compared herself to.