Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. A Sweet Girl Graduate by L. T. Meade (ebook reader with internet browser txt) 📖
- Author: L. T. Meade
Book online «A Sweet Girl Graduate by L. T. Meade (ebook reader with internet browser txt) 📖». Author L. T. Meade
“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 straight-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. Rumor, in the shape of Hetty Jones’ 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 mantel-piece and two on her bureau, she proceeded to stir up her fire and to make her room warm and cozy.
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 color 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 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, or even £20, 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. Afterward 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.
SEALSKIN AND PINK CORAL
Monday arrived. It wanted now less than three weeks to the end of the term. A good many of the girls were talking about home and Christmas, and already the hard-worked, the studious, the industrious were owning to the first symptoms of that pleasant fatigue which would entitle them to the full enjoyment of their merited holiday.
Priscilla was now a happy girl. She had found her niche in the college; her work was delightful. Under Maggie’s advice she became a member of the Debating Society and rather reluctantly allowed her name to be entered in the Dramatic Club. She felt very shy about this, but that was because she did not know her own power. To her astonishment, Priscilla found that she could act. If the part suited her she could throw herself into it so that she ceased to be awkward, ungainly Priscilla Peel. Out of herself she was no longer awkward, no longer ungainly. She could only personate certain characters; light and airy parts she could not attempt, but where much depended on passion and emotion Priscilla could do splendidly. Every day her friends found fresh points of interest in this queer girl. Nancy Banister was really attached to her, Maggie was most faithful in her declared friendship and Miss Heath took more notice of Priscilla than of any other girl in the hall. The different lecturers spoke highly of Miss Peel’s comprehension, knowledge and ability. In short, things were going well with her, and she owned to her own heart that she had never felt happier in her life.
Prissie, too, was looking forward to the Christmas holidays. She was to return home then, and her letters to her three little sisters, to Aunt Raby and to Mr. Hayes were full of the delights of her college life.
No one could have been more angry than poor Prissie during that miserable time at the Elliot-Smiths’. Many complaints did she resolve to make, and dire was the vengeance which she hoped would fall on Rose’s devoted head. But, during her talk with Mr. Hammond, some of her anger had cooled down. He had touched on great subjects, and Prissie’s soul had responded like a musical instrument to the light and skilled finger of the musician. All her intellectual powers were aroused to their utmost, keenest life during this brief little talk. She found that Hammond could say better and more comprehensive things than even her dear old tutor, Mr. Hayes. Hammond was abreast of the present-day aspect of those things in which Prissie delighted. Her short talk with him made up for all the tedium of the rest of that wretched afternoon.
On her walk home Priscilla made up her mind to have nothing further to say to Rose, but also not to make a complaint about her. She would pass the matter over in silence. If questioned, she would tell her own friends where she had been; if not questioned, she would volunteer no information.
Maggie and Nancy did ask her casually what had kept her out so long.
“I was at the Elliot-Smiths’ with Miss Merton,” replied Priscilla.
They both started when she said this and looked at her hard. They were too well-bred, however, to give utterance to the many comments which crowded to their lips. Prissie read their thoughts like a book.
“I did not like it at all,” she said; “but I’d rather say nothing about it, please. After Mr. Hammond came I was happy.”
“Mr. Hammond was there?” said Nancy in an eager voice. “Geoffrey Hammond was at the Elliot-Smiths’? Impossible!”
“He was there,” repeated Prissie. She glanced nervously at Maggie, who had taken up a book and was pretending to read. “He came and he spoke to me. He was very, very kind, and he made me so happy.”
“Dear Prissie,” said Maggie suddenly. She got up, went over to the young girl, tapped her affectionately on the shoulder and left the room.
Prissie sat, looking thoughtfully before her. After a time she bade Nancy Banister “good night” and went off to her own room to study the notes she had taken that morning at the French lecture.
The next few days passed without anything special occurring. If a little rumor were already beginning to swell in the air, it scarcely reached the ears of those principally concerned. Maggie Oliphant continued to make a special favorite of Miss Peel. She sat near her at breakfast and at the meetings of the Dramatic Society was particularly anxious to secure a good part for Prissie. The members of the society intended to act The Princess before the end of the term, and as there was a great deal to work up and many rehearsals were necessary, they met in the little theater on most evenings.
Maggie Oliphant had been unanimously selected to take the part of the Princess. She electrified every one by drawing Miss Peel toward her and saying in an emphatic voice:
“You must be the Prince, Priscilla.”
A look of dismay crept over several faces. One or two made different proposals.
“Would not Nancy Banister take the part better, Maggie?” said Miss Claydon, a tall, graceful girl, who was to be Psyche.
“No; Nancy is to be Cyril. She sings well and can do the part admirably. Miss Peel must be the Prince: I will have no other lover. What do you say, Miss Peel?”
“I cannot; it is impossible,” almost whispered Prissie.
“‘Cannot’ is a word which must not be listened to in our Dramatic Society,” responded Maggie. “I promise to turn you out a most accomplished Prince, my friend; no one shall be disappointed in you. Girls, do you leave this matter in my hands? Do you leave the Prince to me?”
“We cannot refuse you the privilege of choosing your own Prince, Princess,” said Miss Claydon with a graceful curtsy.
The others assented, but unwillingly. Miss Oliphant was known to be more full of whims than any one else in the college. Her extraordinary and sudden friendship for Prissie was regarded as her latest caprice.
Rosalind Merton was not a particularly good actress, but her face was too pretty not to be called into requisition. She was to take the part of Melissa.
The
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