Chapter 29 A Sweet Girl Graduate by L. T. Meade
At the Elliot-Smiths’ Party
Rosalind Merton had been in the wildest spirits all day; she had laughed with the gayest, joined in all the games, thrown herself heart and soul into every project which promised fun, which gave a possibility for enjoyment. Rosalind’s mood might have been described as reckless. This was not her invariable condition; she was a girl who, with all her gay spirits, took life with coolness. She was not given to over-excitement; her nerves were too well balanced for anything of this kind.
To-day, however, something seemed wrong with these equable nerves of hers: she could not keep still; her voice was never quiet; her laugh was constant. Once or twice she saw Annie Day’s eyes fixed upon her; she turned from their glance; a more brilliant red than usual dyed her cheeks; her laugh grew louder and more insolent.
On this evening the Elliot-Smiths would give their long-promised party. The wish of Annie Day’s heart was gratified; she had angled for an invitation to this merry-making and obtained it. Lucy Marsh was also going, and several other St. Benet’s girls would be present.
Early in the evening Rosalind retired to her own room, locked her door, and, taking out her new white dress, laid it across her bed. It was a very pretty dress, made of soft silk, which did not rustle, but lay in graceful puffs and folds on body and skirt. It was just the dress to make this young, slight figure of Rosalind’s look absolutely charming. She stood over it now and regarded it lovingly. The dress had been obtained, like most of Rosalind’s possessions, by manoeuvres. She had made up a piteous story, and her adoring mother had listened and contrived to deny herself and some of Rosalind’s younger sisters to purchase the white robe on which the young girl’s heart was set.
Deliberately and slowly Rosalind made her toilet, her golden, curling hair was brushed out, and then carefully coiled round her head. Rosalind had no trouble with her hair: a touch or two, a pin stuck here, a curl arranged there, and the arrangement became perfect—the glistening mass lay in natural waves over the small, graceful head.
Rosalind’s hair arranged to her satisfaction, she put on her lovely white dress. She stood before her long glass, a white-robed little figure, smiles round her lips, a sweet, bright colour in her cheeks, a dewy look in her baby-blue eyes. Rosalind’s toilet was all but finished; she stood before her glass now and hesitated. Should she go to the Elliot-Smiths’ as she was, or should she give the last finishing touch to render herself perfect? Should she wear her beautiful coral ornaments?
The coral was now her own, paid for to the uttermost farthing; Polly Singleton could not come up to Rosalind now, and disgrace her in public by demanding her coral back again. The coral was no longer Polly’s; it was Rosalind’s. The debt was cleared off; the exquisite ornaments were her own. Unlocking a drawer in her bureau she took out a case, which contained her treasures; she touched the spring of the case, opened it, and looked at them lovingly. The necklace, the bracelets, the earrings, and pins for the hair looked beautiful on their velvet pillow. For the sake of the pink coral, Rosalind had manoeuvred for her white dress; for its sake she had knowingly stinted her mother and sisters; for its sake she had also stolen a five-pound note from Maggie Oliphant. She dreamt many times of the triumphs which would be hers when she appeared at the Elliot-Smiths’ in her white silk dress, just tipped with the slight colour which the pink coral ornaments would bestow. Rosalind had likened herself to all kinds of lovely things in this beautiful yet simple toilet—to a daisy in the field, to a briar-rose: in short, to every flower which denoted the perfection of baby innocence.
Yet, as she held the coral necklace in her hand to-night, she hesitated deeply whether it would be wise to appear at the Elliot-Smiths’ in her treasured ornaments.
Rose had not felt comfortable all day. She had banished thought with the usual device of extra hilarity; she had crushed the little voice in her heart which would persistently cry, “Shame! shame!” which would go on telling her, “You are the meanest, the most wicked girl in St. Benet’s; you have done something for which you could be put in prison.” The voice had little opportunity of making itself heard that day, and, as Maggie Oliphant evidently did not intend to investigate the matter, Rosalind had every hope that her sin would never be found out. Nevertheless, she could not help feeling uneasy; for why did Annie Day, her own chosen and particular friend, so persistently avoid her? Why had Lucy Marsh refused to walk with her yesterday? and why did Annie so often look at her with meaning and inquiry in her eyes? These glances of Annie’s caused Rosalind’s heart to beat too quickly; they gave her an undefined sense of uneasiness.
She felt as she stood now before her glass that, after all, she was doing a rash thing in wearing her coral. Annie Day knew of her money difficulties; Annie knew how badly Rosalind had wanted four guineas to pay the debt she still owed for the ornaments. If Rosalind wore them to-night, Annie would ask numerous questions. Oh, yes, there was a risk—there was a decided risk—but Rosalind’s vanity was greater than her fears.
There came a knock at her room door. To Rosalind’s surprise, Annie Day’s voice, with an extremely friendly tone in it, was heard outside.
“Are you ready, Rosie?” she cried; “for, if you are, there is just room for you in the fly with Lucy Marsh and Miss Singleton and myself.”
“Oh, thank you!” cried Rosalind from the other side of the door; “just wait one moment, Annie, and I will be with you.”
Both fear and hesitation vanished at the friendly tones of Annie’s voice. She hastily fastened on her necklace and earrings, slipped on her bracelets, and stuck the coral pins in her hair. She saw a dazzling little image in the glass, and turned away with a glad, proud smile.
“We can’t be kept waiting; are you ready?” called Miss Day’s voice in the passage.
“Yes, yes; in one moment, Annie, dear,” replied Rosalind. She wrapped herself from head to foot in a long white opera cloak, pulled the hood over her head, seized her gloves and fan, and opened the door. The coral could not be seen now, and Annie, who was also in white, took her hand and ran with her down the corridor.
A few moments later the four girls arrived at the Elliot-Smiths’ and were shown into a dressing-room on the ground floor to divest themselves of their wraps. They were amongst the earliest of the arrivals, and Annie Day had both space and opportunity to rush up to Rosalind and exclaim at the perfect combination of white silk and pink coral.
“Lucy, Lucy!” she said, “do come and look at Rosalind’s coral! Oh, poor Polly! you must miss your ornaments; but I am obliged frankly to confess, my dear, that they are more becoming to this little cherub than they ever were to you.”
Polly was loudly dressed in blue silk. She came up, and turned Rosalind round, and, putting her hand on her neck, lifted the necklace, and looked at it affectionately.
“I did love those ornaments,” she said; “but, of course, I can’t grudge them to you, Rose. You paid a good sum for them—didn’t you, dear?—although nothing like what they were worth, so, of course, they are yours by every right.”
“You have paid off the debt? I congratulate you, Rose,” said Annie Day.
“Yes,” said Rosalind, blushing.
“I am glad you were able to get the money, my dear.”
“And I wish she hadn’t got it,” retorted Polly. “Money is of no moment to me now. Dad is just rolling in wealth, and I have, in consequence, more money than I know what to do with. I confess I never felt crosser in my life than when you brought me that five-pound note last Monday night, Miss Merton.”
Rosalind coloured, then grew very pale; she saw Annie Day’s eyes blaze and darken. She felt that her friend was putting two and two together, and drawing a conclusion in her own mind. Annie turned abruptly from Rosalind, and, touching Lucy Marsh on the arm, walked with her out of the dressing-room. The unsuspecting Polly brought up the rear with Rosalind.
The four girls entered the drawing-room, and Rosalind tried to forget the sick fear which was creeping round her heart in the excitement of the moment.
Nearly an hour later Maggie Oliphant arrived. She was also in white, but without any ornament, except a solitary diamond star which blazed in the rich coils of her hair. The beautiful Miss Oliphant was received with enthusiasm. Until her arrival Rose had been the undoubted belle of the evening, but beside Maggie the petite charms which Rose possessed sank out of sight. Maggie herself never felt less conscious of beauty; the heaviness at her heart made her cheeks look pale, and gave her brown eyes a languid expression; she was indifferent to the admiration which greeted her. The admiration which greeted her gave her a momentary feeling of surprise—almost of displeasure.
Meta Elliot-Smith and her mother buzzed round Maggie, and expressed their gratitude to her for coming.
“We expect a friend of yours to arrive presently,” said Meta—“Mr Hammond. You know Mr Hammond, don’t you? I have had a note from him. He says he will look in as soon after ten as possible. I am so glad; I was dreadfully afraid he couldn’t come, for he had to go suddenly into the country at the beginning of this week. You know Mr Hammond very well, don’t you, Miss Oliphant?”
“Yes,” replied Maggie, in her careless voice; “he is quite an old friend of mine.”
“You will be glad to see him?”
“Very glad.”
Meta looked at her in a puzzled way. Reports of Hammond’s love affair had reached her ears. She had expected to see emotion and confusion on Maggie’s face; it looked bright and pleased. Her “very glad” had a genuine ring about it.
“I am so delighted he is coming!” repeated Meta. “I do trust he will be here in good time.”
She led Miss Oliphant to a prominent seat at the top of the room as she spoke.
“I shall have to leave soon after ten,” replied Maggie, “so, if Mr Hammond cannot arrive until after that hour, I shall not have the pleasure of seeing him.”
“Oh, but you must really stay later than that; it would be too cruel to leave us so early.”
“I am afraid I cannot. The gates are closed at St. Benet’s at eleven o’clock, and I do not care to remain out until the last moment.”
Meta was obliged, with great reluctance, to leave her guest, and a moment later Annie Day came up eagerly to Maggie’s side.
“It’s all right,” she said, drawing Miss Oliphant into the shelter of a window; “I have found out all I want to know.”
“What is that?” asked Maggie.
“Rosalind Merton is the thief.”
“Miss Day, how can you say such dreadful things?”
“How can Rosalind do them? I am awfully sorry—indeed, I am disgusted—but the facts are too plain.” Miss Day then in a few eager whispers, which Maggie in vain endeavoured to suppress, gave her chain of evidence. Rosalind’s distress; her passionate desire to keep the coral; her entreaties that Miss Day would lend her four guineas; her assurances that she had not a penny in the world to pay her debt; her fears that it was utterly useless for her to expect the money from her mother. Then the curious fact that, on that very same evening, Polly Singleton should have been given a five-pound note by her. “There is not the least doubt,” concluded Miss Day, “that Rosalind must have gone into your room, Miss Oliphant, and stolen the note while Priscilla was absent. You know Miss Peel said that she did leave your room for a moment or two to fetch her Lexicon. Rosalind must have seized the opportunity; there cannot be a doubt of it.”
Maggie’s face turned white; her eyes were full of indignation and horror.
“Something must be done,” continued Annie. “I am no prude, but I draw the line at thieves. Miss Merton ought to be expelled; she is not fit to speak to one of us.”
“The affair is mine,” said Maggie, after a pause. “You must let me deal with it.”
“Will you?”
“I certainly will.”
“To-night?”
“I cannot say; I must think. The whole thing is terrible, it upsets me.”
“I thought you would feel it. I am a good bit upset myself, and so is Lucy Marsh.”
“Does Miss Marsh know, too? In that case, Miss Day, it will, I fear, be my duty to consult Miss Heath. Oh, I must think; I can do nothing hastily. Please, Miss Day, keep your own counsel for the present, and ask Miss Marsh to do the same.”
Annie Day ran off, and Maggie stood by the open window looking out at the starry night. Her head ached; her pulses beat; she felt sick and tired. The noise and laughter which filled the gaily thronged rooms were all discordant to her—she wished she had not come. A voice close by made her start—a hand not only clasped hers, but held it firmly for a moment. She looked up, and said with a sudden impulse, “Oh, Geoffrey! I am glad you are here.” Then, with a burning blush, she withdrew her hand from Hammond’s.
“Can I help you?” he asked. His heart was beating fast; her words were tingling in his ears, but his tone was quiet. “Can I help you?” he repeated. “Here is a seat.” He pulled a chair from behind a curtain, and Maggie dropped into it.
“Something is wrong,” she said; “something dreadful has happened.”
“May I know what it is?”
“I don’t think I have any right to tell you. It is connected with the college; but it has given me a blow, and I was tired beforehand. I came here against my will, and now I don’t want to talk to anyone.”
“That can be easily managed. I will stand here, and keep off all intruders.”
“Thank you.” Maggie put her hand to her forehead.
The headache, which had scarcely left her for a fortnight, was now so acute that all her thoughts were confused; she felt as if she were walking in a dream. It seemed perfectly right and natural that Hammond should stand by her side and protect her from the crowd; it seemed natural to her at that moment, natural, and even right, to appeal to him.
After a long pause, he said—
“I am afraid I also have bad news!”
“How?”
“I went to see my uncle, Mr Hayes.”
“Yes; it was good of you—I remember.”
“I failed in my mission. Mr Hayes says that Miss Peel, our Prissie’s aunt, would rather die than accept help from anyone.”
“Oh, how obstinate some people are!” replied Maggie, wearily. “Happiness, help, and succour come to their very door, and they turn these good things away.”
“That is true,” replied Hammond. “I am firmly convinced,” he added, “that the good angel of happiness is within the reach of most of us once at least in our lives; but for a whim—often for a mere whim—we tell him to go.”
Maggie’s face grew very white. “I must say ‘Good-bye’: I am going home,” she said, rising; then she added, looking full at Hammond, “Sometimes it is necessary to reject happiness; and necessity ought not to be spoken of as a whim.”