Chapter 17 The Girls of St. Wode's by L. T. Meade
THE “MERRY ALICE”
Leslie knew that she must on no account awaken her. Approaching her softly, she took her hand. Annie immediately stopped in her wild pacings; she did not withdraw her hand from Leslie’s. Leslie led her toward the bed, taking care not to speak. Using a little force, she got Annie to sit down on the edge of the bed; then raising her feet gently she covered her with the bedclothes, and stood by her, still retaining her hand. After a time, Annie seemed to feel the comfort of that warm pressure; she ceased to moan, her eyes closed, the frown vanished from her brows, and she fell into a heavy sleep.
Leslie now knelt down and gazed into the face of the sleeper.
“What can be the matter with her?” she thought. “Can I find out? Is there any way in which I can comfort her? I wish mother were here. There is no doubt she is carrying a terrible heavy burden, and she won’t let anyone help her. What did that letter mean?”
The sleeper moaned heavily.
“This will kill me,” she muttered; “I can’t stand it.”
“God will give you strength, dear,” said Leslie aloud. She stooped and kissed Annie on her brow, then she went back to her own bed.
During the rest of the night Leslie hardly slept, but Annie never stirred. In the morning Annie got up, looking much as usual, but having not the slightest remembrance of the little scene through which both she and her roomfellow had lived during the night.
The day’s work began and continued. Annie was if possible even more assiduous in her studies. She had only one lecture to attend that morning, and, the moment it was over, returned to her desk by the open window, and worked away without intermission at her mathematics.
Leslie had three lectures to go to, and was thankful for this, as she did not care to be alone in the room with Annie.
“She won’t let me comfort her, and it is dreadful to see that dull look of agony and suffering in her eyes,” thought Leslie.
Immediately after luncheon that day, just as the girls were preparing to leave the dining-hall, Miss Penrose, the principal of South Hall, who always sat at a little table with a few favored pupils, stood up and sounded a silver gong. The girls immediately stopped, turned, and faced her.
“I wish to mention,” she said, “that Miss Lauderdale expects you all to come to East Hall at half-past eight this evening; the entire college is to meet there on a special and important matter. Miss Lauderdale is sorry that the notice is so brief. She begs, however, that the students, without exception, will attend to it. Those, therefore, who contemplated going out must send word to their friends that they will have to postpone their visits.”
Miss Penrose then immediately left the hall, and the girls went into the central hall and stood about discussing the sudden summons.
Leslie was eagerly pounced upon by the Chetwynds, who asked her what she thought Miss Lauderdale could want with them all. Just then Annie Colchester darted past the little group, and ran quickly upstairs.
“Annie!” called out Leslie to her, “you will be sure to be ready to go with me to East Hall this evening?”
Annie made no reply.
“She heard what Miss Penrose said,” remarked Eileen. “I noticed that she was standing by the door when the principal sounded the gong.”
“All the same, she does not always hear what is said,” replied Leslie. “She lives in a wonderful and strange world of her own. I often doubt if she notices what goes on around her.”
“Well, then, you had better remind her. By the way, do you object to us also coming with you to East Hall this evening?”
“I shall be very glad,” replied Leslie. “I have not seen much of Miss Lauderdale yet, and am most anxious to hear her speak to-night. I wonder what she can want with us all?”
“Well, there is no good in guessing,” said Eileen; “and besides it only wastes time. What do you mean to do this afternoon, Miss Gilroy?”
“I have not made any special plans.”
“Well then, won’t you come out on the water with us. You have passed your swimming test, so it is all right. Belle Acheson will be with us; we should like you to know her.”
Leslie promised to come, and the next moment ran up to her own room. Annie was already seated at her desk, and bending over her endless problems.
“We ought to be ready to start for East Hall at 8.25,” said Leslie as she came in. “You will be quite ready then, won’t you, Annie dear? I’ll put out your dress, and leave everything quite nice and neat for you.”
Annie gazed full up into Leslie’s face. When Leslie paused, she said abruptly:
“I do wish, Leslie Gilroy, you would not worry me.”
Leslie started back, looking hurt and dismayed.
“I don’t mean to worry you,” she said in a low voice. “Of course if you really feel that I worry you, I had better leave you alone.”
“You do annoy me dreadfully. I liked you very much yesterday, but I feel now that you are watching me all the time, and I can’t stand it. Do let me alone. Aren’t you going out? I know it is not necessary for you to spend all your time in study; but I am different. Do go and leave me. I don’t wish to be ungrateful; but I wish you would let me have the room to myself for a little.”
“I shall go by and by,” said Leslie coldly. She was more hurt than she cared to own. She left Annie’s window, and, going to her own side of the room, took up a novel and tried to bury herself in its contents. The other girls had promised to sing out to her, from the gravel sweep below, when they were ready. Until then, she would remain in her own side of the room, notwithstanding Annie’s objection to her doing so.
Annie went on muttering to herself, rustling her papers, and turning the leaves of her books; once or twice she dropped her pen; once a moan as bitter and laden with sorrow as those she uttered in the night burst from her lips. Leslie heard the moan, and found it impossible to forget her. She felt restless and unlike herself. After a time she got up, put her book back in its place, and walked to the door.
“Ah! thank goodness you are going,” said Annie.
“Don’t you think, Annie, you are a little unkind to me?” replied Leslie.
“Oh, what does a little unkindness matter?” said Annie. “Do you mind, as you are leaving the room, shutting that window. I have been enduring the tortures of a draught for the last hour, and have lately been suffering from neuralgia.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” said Leslie, penitent at once, “why did you not tell me so, or,” she added, “why did you not shut your own window?”
“Because I require fresh air,” said Annie, with that utter selfishness which had characterized her before Leslie came, and which had been growing a little better lately.
Leslie went to her window and shut it, sighed as she thought how close her part of the room would be when she returned later on; and then, putting on her hat and gloves, she ran downstairs.
She was met in the hall by Lettie. Lettie was extremely popular in her own hall of residence, and had made several friends already in North Hall. She now ran eagerly up to Leslie.
“The Chetwynds say you are coming boating with us?”
“Yes,” replied Leslie.
“And Belle Acheson is to be one of the party,” continued Lettie. “I think it well to tell you; you must be prepared for a very peculiar person. But you look worried, Miss Gilroy; is anything wrong?”
“Oh, nothing,” answered Leslie. “I am a little anxious about Annie Colchester.”
“That queer, red-haired girl? I saw her in chapel on Sunday.”
“There are many fine points about her,” said Leslie; “but I don’t think she is quite well, and I wish she would not work so hard. However, I won’t think of her now. I cannot do anything to help her just at present, and I mean to enjoy myself.”
“Then had not you better come down to the quay. I told the other girls I would bring you. The boat we are to have this afternoon is the Merry Alice. Did you pass your swimming test well?”
“I passed it last week, and was crowned with honors,” said Leslie with a merry smile. All her usual good spirits returned when she was out in the open air. The other girls came up, and Belle was duly presented to Leslie Gilroy. Belle was in a dark-brown zephyr dress, made in the simplest fashion, and a leather belt encircled her waist. On her head was a brown hat, mushroom-shaped, trimmed with a plain band of ribbon of the same color. She was drawing brown cotton gloves on her hands when the introduction to Leslie was made.
“This is our great friend, Miss Gilroy,” said Eileen in an affectionate tone.
Belle adjusted her spectacles, and looked full at Leslie out of her short-sighted eyes.
“How do you do?” she said abruptly. She then turned and spoke to Marjorie.
“Come on in front, please; I have something I specially wish to say to you on the subject of a life of absolute devotion. Those great truths which ought to agitate the souls of each man and woman worthy of the name have been specially borne in upon me during the last few hours. I have just been reading a passage which I should be glad to repeat to you.”
Marjorie went on a little unwillingly. Eileen stayed behind. Lettie looked at Leslie, and her eyes filled with laughter.
“There’s a slap in the face,” she said; “and to you, too, Miss Gilroy. Did I not tell you she was an oddity.”
“Now, Lettie,” said Eileen, in an imploring voice, “don’t laugh at poor Belle; don’t prejudice Miss Gilroy against her. If everybody else was quite as earnest and sincere, what a different world it would be!”
“What an appalling world it would be!” exclaimed Lettie; “it would not be endurable.”
They reached the boats. Eileen and Marjorie, who both rowed well, took the oars. Lettie sat in the stern and held the rudder ropes. Leslie and Belle thus found themselves facing each other. Lettie instantly guided their little craft into midstream.
“Yes,” began Belle, “I have submitted for one hour, under protest.”
As she spoke she looked full at Leslie.
“I don’t quite understand you,” said Leslie in some astonishment.
“I dare say you don’t, but my time is all marked out – I keep a time-table, and adhere to it rigidly. If you have not yet commenced such a valuable help to the spending of your time, let me recommend you to do so without delay. Now that I look at you more closely, I observe in your eyes a really serious light. Believe me, I am never mistaken in my judgment of anyone. Long, long ago I saw that those two dear girls behind us, who are using their muscular strength in propelling us downstream, had real intelligence, that fine brains filled their craniums. I regret to say that Miss Lettie Chetwynd, the young person who is steering us, is of different metal. I do not say that she has not her use in the world; but with her and hers I have nothing to do. Now you – what did you say your name was?”
“Leslie Gilroy.”
“You, Leslie Gilroy (what a very booky name!), have a meditative face; there is thought expressed in the firm curves of your lips. You may go far, you may fail; but, on the other hand, to you may be given a great success. Think what an awful responsibility is placed in your hands. You may use life in its fullness, or you may fritter your gifts and be a drone. May I ask you which life you mean to choose – the full or the empty?”
“I shall certainly aim for the full life,” replied Leslie in some astonishment. “Whether I succeed or not remains to be proved.”
“Your success depends on yourself – the single eye, remember, the untarnished soul – ”
Belle’s words were interrupted by a burst of laughter from Lettie.
“I beg your pardon,” she said; “but really, Belle Acheson, you are too absurd for anything.”
Belle closed her eyes and slightly turned her back upon Lettie. She made no other reply of any sort.
“I know you mean kindly, Miss Acheson,” said Leslie, who could never bear to distress anyone; “but how can you know, as you have never seen me before, whether mine is an earnest character or not?”
“Ah, you little guess my capacity,” said Belle in a patronizing voice. “It is my habit to pass each girl, when I see her first, in mental review. Most, I must tell you frankly, require the merest glance to tell me what failures they are certain to be. By a flash of my eyes I can discern how petty and small are the qualities of their souls; but you, Miss Gilroy, have a well-developed soul. Up to the present you have never let it die. Think how awful it is to carry within your breast a dead soul!”
“Yes; it would be very bad,” said Leslie.
“Bad? Awful is the word to use. Strong language is required for such a terrible possession; but it is a fact that many people do. I may almost say that most do. A dead soul. Let us ponder the words; let the thought sink deep. You observe the fact of its existence in the dull and frivolous expression which looks out of so many eyes, in the poor aims which animate so many people, in the ignoble lives they lead. Ah! how great might man be if he could only soar!”
Here Belle raised her eyes to the sky.
“What a mercy she is not steering,” thought Leslie to herself. “We should all be in that bindweed at the other side of the river by now.”
“Belle, dear,” said Eileen, pushing out her foot and giving her friend a kick, “do, please, come down from the clouds. We were so anxious to introduce you to Miss Gilroy, and I am afraid you are frightening her. Don’t be quite so – so outré during your first interview.”
“Do I frighten you?” said Belle. “Am I outré?”
She almost glared into Leslie’s face.
“Miss Gilroy, whatever happens, I cannot but be myself.” As she spoke she started forward, and laid one of her very thin large angular hands on Leslie’s arm. The hand clutched the slight round arm so firmly that it was with difficulty poor Leslie could suppress a scream.
“Yes,” continued Belle; “I can stand things as they are no longer. Even my own familiar friends turn from me. Do you think I want to deceive you? Do you think for one single instant I want you to suppose that I am other than what I am – a girl, nay, a woman, whose aim in life is to dig deep into the vast mines of the mighty past, those great mines which have been left to us by the dead and gone. I want to acquire – why, do you suppose? In order to help my fellow-creatures, in order to impress upon them the greatness of eternity and the frivolity of time, in order, when I really pass away, that I may leave footprints behind me on the sands of time.”
“Hear, hear!” said Marjorie.
“Let us quote from Longfellow now; it would be most appropriate,” said Lettie from the stern.
“Marjorie,” said Belle, “I am sorry that you have interrupted me with that very silly remark. As to the young person in the stern, I refuse to acknowledge her existence; but you, Marjorie, are laughing at me.”
“Indeed, I am not,” said Marjorie.
“Nor do I laugh at you,” said Leslie. “I am sure you mean very well, indeed, and in some ways I agree with you. I also want to lead the earnest life.”
“Do you? Is that a fact? Tell me how you furnish your room?”
“But I cannot imagine what that has to do with it,” said Leslie.
“A vast deal, for it shows the real inclination of the soul. Is the soul going to steep itself in luxury, or is it going to cast away all hindrances, and run its race in fullness, in power? Is it to be clogged and hindered? Speak; don’t keep me in suspense. How have you furnished your room?”
“My half-room – I only possess half a room – was furnished for me by the governors of the college,” said Leslie. “It is true that I have added a few things, for I like pretty rooms. I like to look nice myself. My mother has always taught me to pay a great deal of attention to personal appearance.”
Belle heaved a deep sigh, and became instantly silent.
“Have you nothing more to say, Belle?” cried Marjorie.
“Nothing,” replied Belle. Her eyes were now shut. “I am disappointed.” She sat back in her seat, and did not trouble herself to glance at Leslie for some time.
“What a blessing for you,” whispered Lettie, bending forward from her place in the stern.
“But I am really sorry for her,” was Leslie’s gentle response. “She is full of earnestness; but she goes too far.”
“For goodness’ sake, don’t let her hear you. Her eyes are closed for the present, and she is only muttering to herself. What a comfort if she remains in that state for the rest of our row!”
“Belle,” said Marjorie, “what are you doing now? You are saying something; what is it?”
“When my nerves are ruffled, I always find that recitation is the greatest help to me,” said Belle. “I am reciting at the present moment a poem from one of our great writers. The frivolous fact that I am out on the water, being rowed by you and Eileen, that I am wasting some of the precious hours of a golden day, must be counteracted as far as possible. But stay; would you two girls,” here she glanced at Marjorie and Eileen, purposely avoiding both Leslie and Lettie, “would you two like me to recite aloud the poem in question?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, no!” cried Lettie; “that would be quite the last straw.”
“I don’t think,” said Belle glancing in Lettie’s direction, “that the remark of the young person who holds the tiller-ropes ought to be considered. What do you two say?”
“Of course Eileen and I would like it very much,” said Marjorie; “but Leslie is our guest, and we must consult her.”
“She would not appreciate,” said Belle; “but perhaps, as you say, she is your guest. Well, I submit. My disappointment has been deep with regard to Miss Gilroy.”
“Whether you are disappointed in me or not, please try to enlighten me by your recitation,” said Leslie, “for I should enjoy it of all things.”
“I don’t suppose for a single instant you will care for it; but I will do my duty. A word may sink in, a tone may have an effect; there is never any saying. A suitable stanza occurs to me. I am about to quote from the great work of Samuel Daniel, who was born at Taunton, in Somersetshire, in 1562, and died in 1619. His ‘History of the Civil Wars between York and Lancaster,’ in eight books, was first published in 1595. The highest quality of his verse is a quiet, pensive reflection. Now, pray, listen. The poem, a stanza of which I will recite, is called ‘Musophilus.’ It is addressed to ‘Philocoslus,’ a lover of the world. Musophilus is a lover of the Muse. It commences thus – ”
“We had better stop rowing,” said Eileen. The girls shipped their oars and bent forward. Belle, with a theatrical gesture, and a flinging up of her right hand, commenced:
“‘Either Truth, Goodness, Virtue are not still
The self-same which they are, and always one,
But alter to the project of our will;
Or we our actions make them wait upon,
Putting them in the livery of our skill,
And cast them off again when we have done.’”
Here Belle raised herself in the boat.
“For goodness’ sake, sit still, or we’ll be upset,” said Lettie. “In addition to poetry of the Middle Ages, a ducking is more than I am prepared for.”
Belle reseated herself, made an impatient gesture, pushed back her mushroom hat, and resumed:
“‘And for the few that only lend their ear,
That few is all the world; which with a few
Do ever live, and move, and work, and stir.
This is the heart doth feel, and only know;
The rest of all that only bodies bear,
Roll up and down, and fill up but the row.’”
“Very fine, indeed,” said Lettie; “and I quite see the allusion to myself. I am one of those who but a body bear, roll up and down, and fill up but the row.”
To this remark Belle did not deign any reply. She now turned again to Leslie.
“Notwithstanding the disappointment you gave me with regard to your room,” she said, “I have not the slightest doubt that you understand what Musophilus alludes to?”
“To a certain extent, yes,” replied Leslie.
Belle stretched out her hand.
“I believe I shall win you,” she cried. “Come to my room to-morrow; I shall see you alone. Don’t fail to be with me between half-past two and three.”
Leslie promised.
“Oh, how could you?” whispered Lettie. “I pity you from my soul; you have done for yourself now.”
“I don’t pity myself,” answered Leslie. “I am certain Miss Acheson has some fine ideas; and that I shall derive benefit from a conversation with her.”