Chapter 2 Three Girls from School by L. T. Meade
The Temptation
Priscilla, when she left the girls’ special sitting-room, went out into the grounds. She saw a group of her young companions standing on the lawn. She was, on the whole, a favourite in the school, particularly with the younger girls, for she was gentle and good-natured, often helping them with their studies and sympathising with their small sorrows. But now she avoided her companions, and going to a shrubbery at one side of the grounds, paced up and down a shady walk.
Priscilla was very ambitious, and the letter she had received was the end of everything. She was an only child. Her father was in India, her mother dead. She was left under the care of an uncle, her mother’s brother, a rough, fairly good-natured, but utterly unsympathetic person. Priscilla’s father was a clerk, with only a very small salary, in one of the Government Houses at Madras. He could do little more than support himself, and Priscilla was therefore left to the care of Uncle Josiah. It was he who paid for her schooling, who received her during the holidays, who gave her what clothes she possessed—in short, who supplied what he considered her every want.
Occasionally she heard from her father; but by this time he had married again, had one or two little children, and found it more than ever impossible to do anything for Priscilla. When he wrote he urged her to make the most of her education, for when she was really properly educated she could support herself as a governess, or a coach, or a mistress at one of the high schools.
Priscilla was full of ambition, and the letter which she had just received seemed at that moment like her death-blow.
“What am I to do?” she thought. “When I am with Uncle Josiah, he and Aunt Susan will make me nothing whatever but a household drudge. Does not his letter—his horrid letter—say so?”
She took it out of her pocket and read the contents:
“You have had sufficient money spent on your schooling. You will be eighteen your next birthday, and surely by then you can earn your living. I don’t want you to take a post as teacher, for by all accounts teachers are badly paid. You can stay with us for six months and learn dairy-work under your aunt, and how to manage a household. There will be plenty for a hearty lass to do in looking after the little ones and attending to the linen, and helping your aunt, whenever you have an odd minute, at making the children’s clothes. If you don’t turn out a success—and your aunt Susan will tell you that pretty smart—I will apprentice you to Miss Johnson in the village, where you can learn dressmaking—a fifty times better thing, in my opinion, than teaching. We will expect you this day fortnight, and I will come to the station in the spring-cart to meet you.—Your affectionate uncle, Josiah Henderson.”
Priscilla crushed up the letter, flung it from her, and stamped on it. She was employed in this way when a voice behind caused her to turn her head, and she saw Annie Brooke running to meet her.
“Oh Priscie, whatever is the matter? What are you killing? You are stamping your foot with all your might. What poor creature has been silly enough to offend you?”
“It is this poor creature,” said Priscilla. She lifted the mangled letter and held it between her finger and thumb. “It is this horror,” she said. “I am nearly mad. If you had a future like mine hanging over you, you would be off your head too.”
“Oh, poor Priscie!” said Annie. “I do sympathise—I do really. Your uncle must be a dreadful man. Why, of course you must not leave school; you are cleverer than all the rest of us put together. Mrs Lyttelton thinks no end of you. She is prouder of you than of any other pupil she possesses. Of course you must not go.”
“It is very kind of you to be so sympathetic, Annie, replied Priscilla; person who pays for my schooling is Uncle Josiah. He has paid for it ever since father went back to India, and he doesn’t mean to pay any more. He says so in this letter. He says I am to go back to help Aunt Susan; and if I fail in pleasing her I am to be apprenticed to a country dressmaker. He considers either occupation preferable to that of a teacher. So here I am, Annie, and no one can alter the state of things.”
“But you would give anything in the world to stay, notwithstanding your uncle’s letter?”
“Anything,” cried Priscilla. “I said just now what is true, that I would give ten years of my life; I would be twenty-eight instead of just eighteen, and you know what that means—all one’s youth gone.”
“You must be desperately in earnest,” said Annie, “if you mean that, for of course to be twenty-eight means to be quite an old maid. I do pity you, poor Priscilla!”
Priscilla did not reply. She walked on a little faster. She wanted Annie to leave her, but instead of doing this, Annie Brooke slipped her hand through Priscilla’s arm.
“Have you written your prize essay yet?” she said.
Priscilla brought herself back to the subject of the essay with an effort.
“Oh yes,” she replied; “I finished it last night.”
“I suppose it is very good?” said Annie.
“I thought it was at the time,” answered Priscilla; “but where is the use of worrying about it? Uncle Josiah wouldn’t think a scrap more about me if I wrote the finest prize essay in the world. On the contrary, he would be more disgusted than pleased. If I had received this letter a week ago I should not have bothered about the essay. I don’t even know now that I shall compete.”
“I wonder,” said Annie.
“What is the matter with you, Annie?”
“I have a thought in my head, Priscie—such a funny thought. You know Mabel Lushington?”
“Why, of course.”
“She is just as angry as you are. You remember you both got letters at the same time. You read yours and told us about it. Then you left the room. Afterwards she read hers. What do you think her letter was about?”
“I am afraid I neither know nor care,” replied Priscilla.
“That is very selfish of you, for you ought to care. Well, I will tell you. She has got to stay at school, whether she likes it or not.”
“Lucky, lucky girl!” said Priscilla.
“But that is just the point, you old silly. She doesn’t consider herself at all lucky. She hates and detests school, and wants to go; she would give all the world to go.”
“And can’t she?”
“No; at least there is scarcely a chance. Her aunt has subjected her to a ridiculous test. She says that if by any chance Mabel wins the first prize in the literature competition she may leave school and join her in Paris. If she does not win it, she has to stay here for another year. Mabel is nearly mad, for of course she has not a chance of the prize.”
“Not a chance,” said Priscilla.
“But you don’t care about winning it, and you are the one who is sure to do so.”
“I don’t greatly care,” said Priscilla. “Of course, I would rather win than not win; that is about all.”
“Suppose—suppose,” said Annie—“I am not saying it could be done, and I am not saying it is right—I am not pretending to any conscience in the matter; but—suppose—you and Mabel changed essays; and—suppose you had your dearest wish, and Mabel her dearest wish—you stayed at school for another year and Mabel went to Paris to join her aunt. Now—just suppose.”