by L. T. Meade
excitelove."
"But do you give love, Maggie? Do you ever give it back in return?"
"Sometimes. I don't know, I believe I am rather fond of you, forinstance."
"Maggie, was Geoffrey Hammond at St Hilda's this afternoon?"
"I can't possibly say," replied Maggie, in a cold voice. Then she addedexcitedly, "I don't believe the door is shut! You are so careless,Nannie, so indifferent to the fact that there _may_ be eavesdroppersabout."
Priscilla crept back to her room. She had forgotten all about herpurse; every other feeling was completely swallowed up in a burning,choking sense of anger.
CHAPTER FIVE.
WHY PRISCILLA PEEL WENT TO ST BENET'S.
Priscilla had received a shock, and hers was not the sort of nature totake such a blow easily. She was a reserved girl, but her feelings weredeep, her affections very strong. Priscilla had a rather commonplacepast, but it was the sort of past to foster and deepen the peculiaritiesof her character. Her father had died when she was twelve, her motherwhen she was fourteen. They were north-country folk, and they possessedall the best characteristics of their class. They were rigidly uprightpeople, they never went in debt; they considered luxuries bad for thesoul, and the smaller refinements of life altogether unnecessary.
Mr Peel managed to save a little money out of his earnings. He tookyear by year these savings to the nearest County Bank, and invested themto the best of his ability. The bank broke, and in one fell stroke helost all the savings of a life. This affected his health, and he neverheld up his head or recovered his vigour of mind and body again.
He died, and two years afterwards his wife followed him. Priscilla wasthen fourteen, and there were three little sisters several yearsyounger. They were merry little children, strong, healthy, untouched bycare. Priscilla, on the contrary, was grave, and looked much older thanher years.
On the night their mother was buried, Aunt Rachel Peel, their father'ssister, came from her home far away on the borders of Devonshire, andtold the four desolate children that she was going to take them away tolive on her little farm with her.
Aunt Raby spoke in a very frank manner. She concealed nothing.
"It's only fair to tell you, Prissie," she said, addressing the tall,gawky girl, who stood with her hands folded in front of her--"it's onlyfair to tell you that hitherto I've just made two ends meet for onemouth alone, and how I'm to fill four extra ones the Lord knows, but Idon't. Still, I'm going to try, for it shall never be said that AndrewPeel's children wanted bread while his sister, Rachel Peel, lived."
"We have none of us big appetites," said Priscilla, after a long, solemnpause; "we can do with very little food--very little. The only one whoever is _really_ hungry is Hattie."
Aunt Raby looked up at the pale face, for Prissie was taller than heraunt even then, and said in a shocked voice--
"Good gracious, child! do you think I'd stint one of you? You ought allto be hearty, and I hope you will be. No, no, it isn't that, Prissie,but there'll be no luxuries, so don't you expect them."
"I don't want them," answered Priscilla.
The children all went to Devonshire, and Aunt Raby toiled, as perhaps nowoman had ever toiled before, to put bread into their mouths. Katie hada fever, which made her pale and thin, and took away that look ofrobustness which had characterised the little Yorkshire maiden. Nobodythought about the children's education, and they might have grown upwithout any were it not for Priscilla, who taught them what she knewherself. Nobody thought Priscilla clever; she had no brilliance abouther in any way, but she had a great gift for acquiring knowledge.Wherever she went she picked up a fresh fact, or a fresh fancy, or a newidea, and these she turned over and over in her active, strong, youngbrain, until she assimilated them, and made them part of herself.
Amongst the few things that had been saved from her early home there wasa box of her father's old books, and as these comprised several of theearly poets and essayists, she might have gone farther and fared worse.
One day the old clergyman who lived at a small vicarage near called tosee Miss Peel. He discovered Priscilla deep over Carlyle's "History ofthe French Revolution." The young girl had become absorbed in thefascination of the wild and terrible tale. Some of the horror of it hadgot into her eyes as she raised them to return Mr Hayes' courteousgreeting. His attention was arrested by the look she gave him. Hequestioned her about her reading, and presently offered to help her.From this hour Priscilla made rapid progress. She was not taught in theordinary fashion, but she was being really educated. Her life was fullnow; she knew nothing about the world, nothing about society. She hadno ambitions, and she did not trouble herself to look very far ahead.The old classics which she studied from morning till night abundantlysatisfied her really strong intellectual nature.
Mr Hayes allowed her to talk with him, even to argue points with him.He always liked her to draw her own conclusions; he encouraged herreally original ideas; he was proud of his pupil, and he grew fond ofher. It was not Priscilla's way to say a word about it, but she soonloved the old clergyman as if he were her father.
Some time between her sixteenth and seventeenth birthday that awakeningcame which altered the whole course of her life. It was a summer's day.Priscilla was seated in the old wainscotted parlour of the cottage,devouring a book lent to her by Mr Hayes on the origin of the GreekDrama, and occasionally bending to kiss little Katie, who sat curled upin her arms, when the two elder children rushed in with the informationthat Aunt Raby had suddenly lain flat down in the hayfield, and theythought she was asleep.
Prissie tumbled her book in one direction, and Katie in the other. In amoment she was kneeling by Miss Peel's side.
"What is it, Aunt Raby?" she asked, tenderly. "Are you ill?"
The tired woman opened her eyes slowly.
"I think I fainted, dear love," she said. "Perhaps it was the heat ofthe sun."
Priscilla managed to get her back into the house. She grew betterpresently, and seemed something like herself, but that evening the auntand niece had a long talk, and the next day Prissie went up to see MrHayes.
"I am interested," he said, when he saw her enter the room, "to see howyou have construed that passage in Cicero, Priscilla. You know I warnedyou of its difficulty."
"Oh, please, sir, don't," said Prissie, holding up her hand with animpatient movement, which she now and then found herself indulging in."I don't care if Cicero is at the bottom of the sea. I don't want tospeak about him, or think about him. His day is over, mine is--oh, sir,I beg your pardon."
"Granted, my dear child. Sit down, Prissie. I will forgive yourprofane words about Cicero, for I see you are excited. What is thematter?"
"I want you to help me, Mr Hayes. Will you help me? You have alwaysbeen my dear friend, my good friend."
"Of course I will help you. What is wrong? Speak to me fully."
"Aunt Raby fainted in the hayfield yesterday."
"Indeed? It was a warm day; I am truly concerned. Would she like tosee me? Is she better to-day?"
"She is quite well to-day--quite well for the time."
"My dear Priscilla, what a tragic face! Your Aunt Raby is not the firstwoman who has fainted, and got out of her faint again and been none theworse."
"That is just the point, Mr Hayes. Aunt Raby has got out of her faint,but she _is_ the worse."
Mr Hayes looked hard into his pupil's face. There was no beauty in it.The mouth was wide, the complexion dull, the features irregular. Evenher eyes--and perhaps they were Prissie's best point--were neither largenor dark; but an expression now filled those eyes and lingered roundthat mouth which made the old rector feel solemn.
He took one of the girl's thin unformed hands between his own.
"My dear child," he said, "something weighs on your mind. Tell your oldfriend--your almost father--all that is in your heart."
Thus begged to make a confidence, Priscilla did tell a commonplace, andyet tragic, story. Aunt Raby was a
ffected with an incurable illness.It would not kill her soon; she might live for years, but every year shewould grow a little weaker, and a little less capable of toil. As longas she lived the little farm belonged to her, but whenever she died itwould pass to a distant cousin. Whenever Aunt Raby died, Priscilla andher three sisters would be penniless.
"So I have come to you," continued Prissie, "to say that I must takesteps at once to enable me to earn money. I must support Hattie andRose and Katie whenever Aunt Raby goes. I must earn money as soon as itis possible for a girl to do so, and I must stop dreaming and thinkingof nothing but books, for perhaps books and I will have little to say toeach other in future."
"That
