Priscilla was hesitating whether to begin to unpack her trunk or not when a light knock was heard at her door. She said “Come in,” and two girls burst rather noisily into the apartment.
“How do you do?” they said, favouring the fresh girl with a brief nod. “You came to-day, didn’t you? What are you going to study? Are you clever?”
These queries issued rapidly from the lips of the tallest of the girls. She had red hair, tousled and tossed about her head. Her face was essentially commonplace; her small restless eyes now glanced at Priscilla, now wandered over the room. She did not wait for a reply to any of her queries, but turned rapidly to her companion.
“I told you so, Polly,” she said. “I was quite sure that she was going to be put into Miss Lee’s room. You see I’m right, this is Annabel Lee’s old room; it has never been occupied since.”
“Hush!” said the other girl.
The two walked across the apartment and seated themselves on Priscilla’s bed.
There came a fresh knock at the door, and this time three students entered. They barely nodded to Priscilla, and then rushed across the room with cries of rapture to greet the girls who were seated on the bed.
“How do you do, Miss Atkins? How do you do, Miss Jones?”
Miss Jones and Miss Atkins exchanged kisses with Miss Phillips, Miss Marsh, and Miss Day. The babel of tongues rose high, and everyone had something to say with regard to the room which had been assigned to Priscilla.
“Look,” said Miss Day, “it was in that corner she had her rocking-chair. Girls, do you remember Annabel’s rocking-chair, and how she used to sway herself backwards and forwards in it, and half-shut her lovely eyes?”
“Oh, and don’t I just seem to see that little red tea-table of hers near the fire,” burst from Miss Marsh. “That Japanese table, with the Japanese tea-set – oh dear, oh dear! those cups of tea – those cakes! Well, the room was luxurious, was worth coming to see in Annabel’s time.”
“It’s more than it is now,” laughed Miss Jones in a harsh voice. “How bare the walls look without her pictures. It was in that recess the large figure of ‘Hope’ by Burne-Jones used to hang, and there, that queer, wild, wonderful head looking out of clouds. You know she never would tell us the artist’s name. Yes, she had pretty things everywhere! How the room is altered! I don’t think I care for it a bit now.”
“Could anyone who knew Annabel Lee care for the room without her?” asked one of the girls. She had a common, not to say vulgar, face, but it wore a wistful expression as she uttered these words.
All this time Priscilla was standing, feeling utterly shy and miserable. From time to time other girls came in; they nodded to her, and then rushed upon their companions. The eager talk began afresh, and always there were looks of regret, and allusions, accompanied by sighs, to the girl who had lived in the room last.
“Well,” said one merry little girl, who was spoken to by the others as Ada Hardy, “I have no doubt that by-and-by, when Miss – ” She glanced towards Priscilla.
“Peel,” faltered Priscilla.
“When Miss Peel unpacks her trunk, she’ll make the room look very pretty, too.”
“She can’t,” said Miss Day, in a tragic voice; “she never could make the room look as it used to – not if she was to live till the age of Methuselah. Of course you’ll improve it, Miss Peel; you couldn’t possibly exist in it as it is now.”
“I can tell you of a capital shop in Kingsdene, Miss Peel,” said Miss Marsh, “where you can buy tables and chairs, and pretty artistic cloths, and little whatnots of all descriptions. I’d advise you to go to Rigg’s! he’s in the High Street, Number 48.”
“But Spilman has much the most recherché articles, you know, Lucy,” interposed Miss Day. “I’ll walk over to Spilman’s to-morrow with you, if you like, Miss Peel.”
Before Priscilla had time to reply there was again a knock at the door, and this time Nancy Banister, looking flushed and pretty, came in.
She took in the scene at a glance: numbers of girls making themselves at home in Priscilla’s room, some seated on her trunk, some on her bureau, several curled up in comfortable attitudes on her bed, and she herself standing, meek, awkward, depressed, near one of the windows.
“How tired you look, Miss Peel!” said Nancy Banister.
Priscilla smiled gratefully at her.
“And your trunk is not unpacked yet?”
“Oh! there is time enough,” faltered Priscilla.
“Are we in your way?” suddenly spoke Miss Marsh, springing to her feet. “Good-night. My name is Marsh, my room is thirty-eight.”
She swung herself lazily and carelessly out of the room, followed, at longer or shorter intervals, by the other girls, who all nodded to Priscilla, told her their names, and one or two the numbers of their rooms. At last she was left alone with Nancy Banister.
“Poor thing! How tired and white you look!” said Nancy. “But now that dreadful martyrdom is over, you shall have a real cosy time. Don’t you want a nice hot cup of cocoa? It will be ready in a minute or two. And please may I help you to unpack?”
“Thank you,” said Priscilla; her teeth were chattering. “If I might have a fire?” she asked suddenly.
“Oh, you poor, shivering darling! Of course. Are there no matches here? There were some on the mantelpiece before dinner. No, I declare they have vanished. How careless of the maid. I’ll run into Maggie’s room and fetch some.”
Miss Banister was not a minute away. She returned with a box of matches, and, stooping down, set a light to the wood, and a pleasant fire was soon blazing and crackling merrily.
“Now, isn’t that better?” said Nancy. “Please sit down on your bed, and give me the key of your trunk. I’ll soon have the things out, and put all to rights for you. I’m a splendid unpacker.”
But Priscilla had no desire to have her small and meagre wardrobe overhauled even by the kindest of St. Benet’s girls.
“I will unpack presently myself, if you don’t mind,” she said. She felt full of gratitude, but she could not help an almost surly tone coming into her voice.
Nancy drew back, repulsed and distressed.
“Perhaps you would like me to go away?” she said. “I will go into Maggie’s room, and let you know when cocoa is ready.”
“Thank you,” said Prissie. Miss Banister disappeared, and Priscilla sat on by the fire, unconscious that she had given any pain or annoyance, thinking with gratitude of Nancy, and with feelings of love of Maggie Oliphant, and wondering what her little sisters were doing without her at home to-night.
By-and-by there came a tap at her door. Priscilla ran to open it. Miss Oliphant stood outside.
“Won’t you come in?” said Priscilla, throwing the door wide open, and smiling with joy. It was already delightful to her to look at Maggie. “Please come in,” she added, in a tone almost of entreaty.
Maggie Oliphant started and turned pale. “Into that room? No, no, I can’t,” she said in a queer voice. She rushed back to her own, leaving Priscilla standing in amazement by her open door.
There was a moment’s silence; then Miss Oliphant’s voice, rich, soft, and lazy, was heard within the shelter of her own apartment.
“Please come in, Miss Peel, cocoa awaits you. Do not stand on ceremony.”
Priscilla went timidly across the landing, and the next instant found herself in one of the prettiest of the students’ rooms at