There were several women’s colleges at Wingfield, but the largest and the best known, and the most important, was St. Wode’s. It stood in its own spacious grounds, and consisted of four large buildings, which were called respectively the North, the South, the East, and the West Halls. There was also an extensive library standing a little back from the halls of residence, a great gymnasium, and another building devoted entirely to class and lecture rooms. Endless money had been spent upon St. Wode’s College, which now ranked as one of the largest and most important colleges for women in the whole of England. It numbered from three to four hundred students: but the place was so popular, the system on which everything was worked was so admirable, that girls who wished to go to St. Wode’s, had as a rule to put down their names a couple of years in advance.
It so happened, however, that there was a vacancy for two sisters at West Hall, and owing to the breaking-down of a highly nervous student who had worked too hard for classical honors, there was also a vacancy in the North Hall.
North Hall was the house of residence where Belle Acheson carried on her vagaries, and pleased herself with the idea that she was one of the cleverest and most distinguished girls in college. She owned to a qualm of disgust, however, when she learned that Letitia was to be under the same roof as herself, having a thorough scorn for that young lady; but, as she was allowed no choice in the matter, she felt that there was nothing for it but to submit to the inevitable.
Mr. Parker had himself visited St. Wode’s College, had seen the principal, Miss Lauderdale, and had pleaded the cause of Leslie Gilroy with such passion and effect that special arrangements had been made in her favor, and she was admitted to the same hall as Marjorie and Eileen. For the first term she must share a large room with another girl; but that was a trifling matter to Leslie, who, now that things were thoroughly arranged, wished to start on her new career without a moment’s delay. As she had already passed the London Matriculation, there was no difficulty about her admission as soon as room could be found for her. This being arranged, she was able to go to St. Wode’s at the beginning of Trinity term. It so happened, therefore, that Letitia, Eileen, Marjorie, and Leslie Gilroy all found themselves on a certain afternoon in the same cab, driving to St. Wode’s from the railway station, a mile and a half distant. The girls’ luggage was to follow them; and as there happened to be a place in the cab for a fourth, and Leslie was standing, looking just a little forlorn, on the platform, Marjorie went up to her and suggested that they should all go together.
“For I know you are a St. Wode’s girl,” she said.
“How could you possibly guess that?” replied Leslie, looking with admiration at Marjorie whose plain dress could never take away from the charm of her handsome face.
“There was really no mystery about it.” said Marjorie, after a pause. “I am not a magician; but I happened to see the name of St. Wode’s on that basket-trunk a minute or two ago. Will you come with us?”
“I shall be only too delighted,” was the reply. “I was feeling quite lost and strange. It would be nice to go to college in company. Is this your first term?” she added, as she seated herself in the cab.
“Yes, yes; we are all freshers,” replied Lettie. “We shall all have a most unenviable position, that I can foretell. There is a certain Miss Acheson, who resides in North Hall, who has told us of some of the discomforts, and, for my part, if I had not promised——”
“Oh, hush, please, Lettie; don’t say any more,” said Eileen. “You need not begin by frightening Miss Gilroy. You look, Miss Gilroy, as if you intended to have a good time.”
Leslie did not reply, except with her eyes, which were smiling. She was looking her best, dressed neatly and suitably, with her white sailor hat making an effective contrast to the meshes of her bright golden hair.
“Well, I do wonder how everything will turn out,” said Eileen. “By the way, Miss Gilroy, you did not tell us which Hall you were going to?”
“I believe I am to share a room with another student at North Hall,” she answered. Then she continued, the smiles which she could not suppress now visiting her eyes, “Is not the whole scheme delightful? I do wonder what the other students will be like.”
“And what the tutors will be like,” continued Marjorie eagerly. “There are two resident tutors in each house, and also a vice-principal. Miss Lauderdale is, of course, the principal over the entire college. I expect I shall be somewhat afraid of her.”
“I don’t intend to be afraid of anyone,” said Eileen. “When one makes up one’s mind to lead a really useful life, surely small matters, such as little nervousnesses, ought not to count.”
Leslie gazed hard at Eileen, as if she would read her through.
Marjorie bent suddenly forward and laid her hand on Leslie’s knee.
“Will you tell me something?” she asked earnestly. “Are you coming to St. Wode’s to be a useful member of society, or a learned, or an ornamental one?”
“I have not thought of it in that light,” said Leslie. “I want to go in for learning, of course. As to being ornamental, I have no time to think about that; and useful—well, I hope that learned and useful will, in my case, go together. I have a great deal to do during the three years which are before me—a delightful three years I have no doubt they will prove. What special subjects do you mean to take up, Miss——”
“Chetwynd is my name,” said Eileen; “but I hope you won’t call me it. I am sure we shall be friends, more particularly as we are to start our new life in the same hall. Oh, I shall have much to tell you by and by. Lettie, why is that frown between your brows?”
“I did not know that I was frowning,” answered Letitia, “I was only thinking of the ornamental part of life, and how I could carry it out most effectively.”
Letitia was dressed with special care, not unsuitably, for she had too good taste for that; but so daintily, so exquisitely, with such a careful eye to the smallest details that Marjorie and Eileen looked rough and gauche beside her. Their serge skirts had been made by a work-girl, as nothing would induce them to waste money on a dressmaker. The work-girl had been discovered by Eileen in Fox Buildings. She had a lame knee and a sick brother, and Eileen seized upon her at once as a suitable person for the job, as she expressed it. Finally, she was given most of the girls’ outfits to undertake.
She worked neatly, but had not the slightest idea of fitting. With numberless blouses, however, and a couple of serge skirts, and sailor hats, though cheap, at least looking clean, the girls passed muster, and were totally indifferent to their own appearance.
“When once we have plunged into our new work we shall be as happy as the day is long,” said Eileen. “I wonder if Belle arrived yesterday or to-day?”
“I sincerely trust she won’t come till to-morrow,” said Letitia, with a shudder. “I do not know for what sin I am doomed to reside under the same roof with that terrible girl.”
“A terrible girl? Who can she be?” asked Leslie.
“You will know for yourself before you have been many days at St. Wode’s,” was Lettie’s enigmatical reply. “Oh, and here we are, turning in at the gates! My heart does go pit-a-pat.”
Leslie’s face also became suffused with pink as the cabman drew up at the large wooden gates, which were presently opened by a neatly dressed young woman who lived at the lodge just within.
The grounds were three-quarters of a mile in length, and the four halls, built round a quadrangle, stood in the middle. There was a wide and smoothly kept grass lawn in front of the halls, and a gravel sweep going right round them. The cab presently delivered up its four occupants, and Eileen, Marjorie, and Leslie found themselves in a small waiting room inside West Hall, where they were to remain until the housekeeper could arrive to take them to their several rooms. They had not to wait long. A cheery young woman of about seven-and-twenty presently made her appearance, asked them their names, told them that their trunks would be brought to their rooms as soon as ever they arrived, and then requested them to follow her.
She tripped up some wide stone stairs, destitute of carpets, and then down a corridor, slippery with parquetry work. The next moment she had flung open a door, and revealed a good-sized room, which was occupied by another girl at the farther end, who wore a shock of red hair rather untidily put up in a loose knot at the back of her head.
“Miss Colchester, I see you have arrived,” said Miss Payne the housekeeper. “This is your room-fellow; may I introduce you to Miss Leslie Gilroy?”
“Pray come in, Miss Gilroy; you are heartily welcome,” said Miss Colchester, jumping up, coming forward, and gazing hard at Leslie. She then extended an awkward hand.
“I am glad to see you,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind the room being in disorder. I have only just begun to unpack, and everything is helter-skelter. I was never tidy—no, never! I begin to think I like things helter-skelter.”
“Oh, I don’t mind, of course!” answered Leslie; but her heart sank. In her mother’s small house the motto impressed upon each child was the old-fashioned one: “A place for everything, and everything in its place.”
“I suppose I shall have one side of the room to myself?” she continued.
Marjorie and Eileen had been left on the landing. They overheard Leslie’s last somewhat despairing words, glanced at one another, and smiled. They were then conducted to their rooms at the farther end of the corridor.
“This is your room, Miss Eileen,” said Miss Payne. “Miss Marjorie has an exact counterpart at the other side of the corridor. Behind this screen you will keep your washhand-stand. This sofa forms your bed at night. This chest of drawers is for your linen and the bodice of your dresses. Behind this curtain you will hang your skirts. Here is your writing-table. It remains with yourself to make your room pretty and neat, or the reverse. You may buy any ornaments in the way of pictures, or anything else you fancy. When you touch this handle you turn on the electric light. Would you care for a fire? Here are coal and wood for the purpose, and I will send in a servant to light it at once, if you wish.”
“No, thank you; it is quite a warm evening,” replied Eileen. “Is Marjorie’s room just the same?”
“Precisely; but I think you have the prettier view.”
“Oh, how lovely!” exclaimed Eileen. “Do look, Marjorie; there is that great park in the distance, and the river down there. Oh, please——” She turned to speak to Miss Payne, but Miss Payne had already vanished.
“Well, we are landed at last!” she said, clasping her sister’s hand. “Does it not seem almost too delightful?”
“Splendid!” cried Marjorie. “Do you know, Eileen, I have taken a fancy to that pretty Miss Gilroy?”
“So have I,” answered Marjorie. “But I expect she will have a bad time, poor dear, with Miss Colchester. Anyone can see Miss Gilroy is of the orderly sort. Now, I don’t care a bit about having things in perfect order.”
“But, Marjorie,” said Eileen, “I have been reading up about that lately, and I think you and I ought to cultivate order very assiduously if we mean to be really useful women. Oh, by the way! our hair is beginning to grow; we must find a barber to-morrow in order to reduce our crops to the right length.”
“An inch and a half being the length permitted,” said Marjorie, with a smile. “I am curious to see poor old Belle. Lettie will have awful tales to tell of her. Well, this life is interesting, is it not, Eileen?”
Meanwhile, Miss Colchester and Leslie Gilroy, standing in the middle of their room, gazed one at the other. Miss Colchester put up her hand to ruffle her red locks. Presently she uttered a short, sharp sigh.
“I see by the build of your head and your figure that you are painfully tidy,” she said. “I had hoped that it might have been the will of Providence to allow a congenial spirit to share this room with me; but, evidently, that is not to be my lot. How much space do you require?”
“Half the room, I suppose,” said Leslie.
“Half! My dear, good creature, impossible! Don’t you see that my things are everywhere? You will notice, too, that I am absorbed in study. I am working hard for mathematical honors, and I have only this term in which to prepare.”
“Surely a long time?” said Leslie.
“No time at all, I assure you. Come here; I will show you the list of books I have to get through. Oh, I declare, here comes your trunk—two trunks. What do you want two trunks for? How perfectly fearful! Put them down, please, porter—there, near the door. Now then, we had better settle this matter at once. You must promise that you will on no account encroach on my half of the room. I take this side with the bay window; you have the back, with the little side window. I require light for my work. I give you permission to keep your part, just there in the corner, as tidy as you please. Do you understand?”
“I shall certainly keep my part of the room tidy,” said Leslie with some spirit. “And may I ask what this screen is for?”
“Oh! you can use it or not as you please. It is supposed to hide the washhand-stand: most unnecessary in my opinion. Some of the students here even go the length of turning the chest of drawers, so that the drawers may face the wall; then they put an ornamental sort of piano-sheet over the back of the drawers, and make it look like a piece of ornamental furniture, ornamental instead of useful. Ridiculous! Does not one want to bang open a drawer, stuff in one’s things, shut it again as quickly as possible, and then not give another thought to the matter? Surely there are untidy girls in the college: why was it my lot to have you sent to share my room—you who are the very pink of neatness?”
“I see you are very sorry to have me, and, of course, I am sorry, too, that you should be put out,” said Leslie, who thought it best to take the bull by the horns. “But suppose, Miss Colchester—suppose I, who may not have quite so much work to do at present as you have——”
“Of course you won’t, you silly girl; I am working for honors, I told you.”
“Well, well; do let me finish. Suppose I undertake the tidying of the whole room?”
“But, my dear, good creature, I like it untidy. I hate to have everything in its place. When things are in their right places they can never be found; that’s my opinion. Do you see my study table? I know exactly where I have put my things; but, if anybody attempts to tidy them, woe betide my comfort in the future! Well, I see you are good-natured, and I don’t want to be disagreeable. You have a nice face, too, and I dare say we shall pull together all right. If you wish to tidy just round my table, you may. For instance, if you see my stockings on the floor, you can roll them up and pop them into my drawer, any drawer, it doesn’t matter which; and, if I do forget to put my boots outside at night, you may gather them up with your own and fling them on the landing. Oh, dear, dear, it is such a worry even to speak about it! But what I was about to say,” continued Miss Colchester, “is this: You may tidy for me if you please; but there is one point on which I am resolved. This table is never to be touched. The housemaid knows it, and now I warn you. Think what it means to me—I may make a note, through my brain may be evolved an idea, which a careless housemaid may throw into the waste-paper basket. Just think what it would mean! How do you suppose I am to work in a place like this if I think of small, petty things which occupy home-girls? You are a home-girl: have you a tidy mother? Of course you have.”
“Yes,” said Leslie, “and a very hard-working and clever mother, too. She spends a great deal of her time out, but she has trained my sisters and myself——”
“I do believe you are going to quote that awful proverb about a place for everything,” said Miss Colchester. “Don’t, I beg of you.”
“I was thinking of it. I did not mean to quote it,” said Leslie.
“Well, I must not waste any more time talking. I suppose you must have your way. I am afraid your bedstead is a little uncomfortable. The spring is broken; but you don’t mind, do you?”
“I do mind,” answered Leslie. “I shall ask to have the spring mended to-morrow. There is no good in having an uncomfortable bed; but for to-night it does not matter.”
“Oh, I see you are going to be good-natured! That is your screen—you can take the best of the two, because I never open mine. You can paste any pictures you like on it if you are given that way; but I hope to goodness you are not. The screen is to put round your washhand-stand. That is your table, and that is your chest of drawers. Now, for goodness’ sake, like a dear, good creature, put your things in order, and don’t speak to me again. I must go on with my calculus of finite differences.”
“What do you mean?” asked Leslie.
“Do you wish for an explanation? If so, pray sit down opposite to me and don’t expect to stir for a week; it will take me at least as long to explain the matter. Oh, don’t say any more just now, and do move as softly as you can! Do just consider that my winning honors in mathematics is a little more important than that your drawers should be in immaculate order. Do you comprehend?”
“Perfectly.”
“Well, don’t say another word.”
The red-haired maiden returned to her desk, stuffed both her hands through her fiery locks, which stuck out now like great wings on each side of her head, and began murmuring slowly to herself.
Leslie stood still for a moment with a sense of dismay stealing over her.
“What is to be done?” she thought. “Miss Colchester is a very peculiar girl. What does a calculus of finite differences mean? I almost wish dear old Lew had been mathematical, then perhaps I should have known. Well, never mind; I won’t disturb that poor, dear scholarly girl; but unpack my things I simply must.”
Thanks to her mother’s excellent training, Leslie was a proficient in the art of stowing away things in small spaces; and before the gong for dinner sounded she had put all her belongings away, had arranged the screen round her washhand-stand, and had even brought out much-loved photographs of her mother and her brother Llewellyn to ornament the top of her chest of drawers. These gave a home look to the room, and she glanced at them with satisfaction. Her bedstead, turned into a sofa by day by means of a crimson rug, was now tidy and in order, and Leslie sat down on the edge of it waiting for Annie Colchester to stir.
The second gong pealed through the house, and Annie suddenly started to her feet.
“Good gracious! Oh, I forgot all about you. What is your name?”
“Leslie Gilroy.”
“Leslie Gilroy, please tell me if that is the first or second gong?”
“The second,” replied Leslie.
“And who are you?” continued Annie Colchester, gazing in a sort of vacant way at her roomfellow.
“The girl who has come to share your room.”
“And you have put all your things away and made no noise? Excellent! Did you say that that was the second gong, Miss——”
“Leslie Gilroy is my name.”
“Is that the second gong?”
“The second gong sounded two or three minutes ago.”
“Then we must fly. Oh, never mind our hands. Ink? Yes, I have ink on my hands and on my face and on my hair; but never mind, never mind; they know me now. I am called ‘Inky Annie.’ I rather glory in the name.”
“But I should have thought that a mathematical scholar would have been the essence of order,” said Leslie. “Surely mathematics ought to conduce to order of mind and body.”
“You know nothing whatever about it,” said Annie, casting a withering glance at Leslie. “I wonder if you are clever or what you have come here for. Girls who are merely orderly have no niche at St. Wode’s. But you will learn doubtless; and if you are good-natured I will stick up for you of course. Come along now; you are a fresher, you know, this term, and will be treated accordingly.”
“But how are freshers treated, and why must I be given that unpleasant name?” asked Leslie.
“Custom, my dear—custom. We always call the new girls freshers; you’ll get used to it. No one is unkind to a fresher unless she makes herself disagreeable, which I rather guess you won’t.” Here Annie smiled brightly into Leslie’s face.
“Well, I hope we shall be good friends, and that I won’t inconvenience you,” said the other girl.
“You won’t if you are silent and keep to your side of the room. Now then, let’s join hands and fly downstairs.”
“Oh, yes, we are fearfully late, and the others have gone into the dining hall.”
“Well, come this way,” said Annie. “I’ll squeeze you into a seat by me, if you like, for this evening, Leslie Gilroy.”
Nearly one hundred girls were in the great dining hall. They were all seated at the different tables when Annie Colchester and Leslie Gilroy appeared. Annie went straight up to her own table, bowed somewhat awkwardly to Miss Frere the tutor, who was at the head, and then, seeing that the teacher’s eyes were fixed on Leslie, said in an abrupt voice:
“This is my roomfellow, Miss Leslie Gilroy, Miss Frere.”
“How do you do, Miss Gilroy?” said Miss Frere in a pleasant voice. “I think you will find a seat next to Miss Colchester. Move down a little, please, Jane,” she continued, turning to another girl with a rosy face and dark eyes. “Yes, there is plenty of room now. I will have a talk with you after dinner, if you like, Miss Gilroy.”
“Thank you, I shall be very glad,” replied Leslie. Her bright eyes and lovely face, her whole manner and pleasant expression, made many of the girls turn and glance at her; but nobody stared in at all an unpleasant manner.
The girl called Jane began to talk to Leslie, and told her some of the rules of the place. Leslie was glad to learn what she could; but her eyes anxiously glanced from table to table in the hope of once more seeing her two companions of the cab. Presently she observed Marjorie and Eileen seated at a table at the other end of the room. They were together, looking already quite at home and perfectly contented. They talked to one another; when they caught Leslie’s eyes they nodded to her in a pleasant, hail-fellow-well-met manner.
“Who are those two girls?” said Jane Heriot suddenly. “They are freshers like yourself, are they not?”
“I do not know much about them,” replied Leslie. “Yes; they have just come to St. Wode’s—their names are Marjorie and Eileen Chetwynd. They were kind enough to share a cab with me coming from the station, and seem to be very nice girls indeed.”
“I like their faces,” said Miss Heriot; “but what a funny way they do their hair. I don’t care for that short hair; do you?”
“Not personally,” replied Leslie; “but they seem nice girls and have handsome faces.”
“Yes, I am sure they are charming, and also out of the common. I only trust they won’t join the oddities. We have a few oddities here, of course. I am so glad you are not going to be one.”
As Jane spoke she glanced toward Annie Colchester, who looked back at her and nodded.
“I overheard you, Jane,” she said; “and you are perfectly welcome to speak of me as the oddity of all oddities. Miss Leslie Gilroy has found out that fact for herself already; have you not, Miss Gilroy?”
“I have found you quite willing to put up with the discomfort of having me in your room,” answered Leslie, coloring as she spoke.
“You are sure to have a room to yourself after this term,” said Jane Heriot. “This is always our most crowded term; but if Annie takes honors, which she is very likely to do, she will be leaving St. Wode’s, and then the governors will give you another room.”
The dinner proceeded. Leslie asked a few more questions of Jane, who always replied in a pleasant, intelligent manner; and, when the meal had come to an end, she asked Leslie if she would like to come with her to her own room.
“This is our debate evening,” she said. “I will bring you down to the hall presently, and introduce you to several of the girls; but now do come down to my room and have a chat. We don’t debate before half-past eight. I am sure we shall be friends.”
“But Miss Frere said something about wishing to see me after dinner,” said Leslie. “She is one of the tutors, is she not?”
“Oh, yes, such a darling; the dearest, sweetest woman on earth. But surely you don’t want to talk over books to-night?”
“Yes, I do. I should like to settle down to my work as quickly as possible.”
“Well, of course you can speak to Miss Frere; but I don’t think she can give you much of her time, for she is to open the debate. She is our classical tutor. Are you classical, Miss Gilroy?”
“No: I came here to study literature,” replied Leslie.
“In that case you won’t have anything to do with Miss Frere. Miss Maple is the tutor who will look after you and arrange your lectures. I will just speak to Miss Frere. Oh, come with me if you like; we can both speak to her.”
Jane Heriot slipped her hand through Leslie’s arm, drew her up the room to where Miss Frere was talking to a number of students, and then touched the tutor on the arm.
“Ah, my dear,” said Miss Frere, turning to Leslie, “you would like to have a little talk with me?”
“But, please, Miss Frere,” interrupted Jane, “Miss Gilroy has just told me that she is going to study literature.”
“In that case I am not the tutor who will have to look after you,” replied Miss Frere. “Shall I introduce you to Miss Maple now, or will you wait until the morning?”
“Do wait until the morning,” said Jane. “I am dying to show you my room; and afterwards you must come to hall. You won’t, of course, take part in the debate to-night, but you can look on and find out how far you are likely to enjoy yourself amongst us.”
“With so many temptations, I think I will wait to be introduced to Miss Maple until to-morrow,” said Leslie.
“I think you are acting wisely,” said Miss Frere; “and remember, if you want anything at any time, I shall be very glad to help you. I will speak to Miss Maple about you, and she will see you after prayers to-morrow.”
Leslie and Jane Heriot left the dining hall together. Annie Colchester had long since departed.
“Ought I not to go to her?” said Leslie; “she may think it rude.”
“Rude?” cried Jane with a laugh. “Annie think it rude to be left alone? She is hard at work at her studies already. Let me tell you, you will be in luck if you get into that room at all to-night, for one of her unpleasant habits is to lock the door, then she goes to bed without thinking anything more about it. Alice Hall, her last roomfellow, was once kept out of the room all night in consequence of Annie’s behavior. Poor Alice had to share my sofa-bed, and, I assure you, it was a tight fit.”
“In that case would it not be wise for me to run up immediately and remove the key?”
Jane Heriot laughed again.
“Excellent,” she said; “and Annie will never miss it. She is the most eccentric creature I ever met. Her brown-studies are too wonderful. We all laugh at her, but we all like her, for she really is a good old thing, although such an oddity. Well, I’ll come with you, for my room is in the same corridor. Let us go at once. There are two or three friends who are certain to come and see me to-night, and I should like to introduce you to them.”
Just as the two girls were about to ascend the stairs they met Eileen and Marjorie, who, arm in arm, were looking at the regulation board. As soon as they saw Leslie they turned to speak to her.
“I hope you are comfortable, Miss Gilroy?” said Marjorie. “We are—very.”
“Please introduce me, Miss Gilroy,” said Jane Heriot, touching Leslie on her sleeve.
Leslie did what was required.
“You don’t know anybody here yet, do you?” asked Jane, turning to Eileen.
“No,” replied Eileen; “one or two girls spoke to us at dinner, but——”
“In that case you had better come and join my party,” said Jane. “The girls will call on you to-morrow evening, so you must be at home; but they will not do so to-night, as it is the first night of term. Do come, both of you. Miss Gilroy is coming, and we shall make quite a cozy party.”
Eileen and Marjorie said they would be delighted to comply, and the girls went upstairs side by side. Leslie went to her own room, secured the key, slipped it into her pocket, and joined the rest on the threshold of Jane’s room.
Jane Heriot happened to have one of the prettiest and most tastefully arranged rooms in North Hall. It was a corner room, and had queer little nooks and crannies in all sorts of unexpected places. It was papered with a very artistic paper, and had a deep dado, which Jane herself had painted, with a running pattern of wild flowers and birds. Some good photogravures of pictures by Burne-Jones and Watts hung upon the walls, the curtains were of Liberty silk, the floor was covered with a self-colored drugget, the bed was turned into a tastefully arranged sofa and the chest of drawers was rendered unique and graceful by a piano cloth concealing its back. The screen which hid the washing apparatus was a Liberty one, and very pretty. A bright little fire burned in the grate, which was agreeable, as the evening was somewhat chilly. One of the windows stood slightly open, and the room was full of fresh air without draught.
“We must all go down to debate within an hour,” said Jane; “and then I hope you will return to my room, girls, for cocoa. I am giving a cocoa party to-night, you know.”
“How delightful!” said Leslie. “How pleasant everything seems to be!”
“When did you say the debate would begin?” asked Eileen.
“Within an hour.”
“Then you have time first to tell us something of your college life.”
“I can do so if you like. We have a great deal of liberty here; and, provided we don’t break the rules, we are not likely to get into hot water. The studious girls work as a rule in the morning, play games in the afternoon, and work again after dinner, until whatever hour they wish to go to bed. We are all expected to be in bed soon after midnight, and no one is allowed to be outside the gates after half-past ten, unless special leave is given. By the way, do you know any people in Wingfield, Miss Gilroy?”
“I have an introduction to one of the Dons, Mr. Matcheson,” said Leslie; “but I don’t know him yet.”
“Oh, you are in great luck if you get into the Matcheson set,” said Jane with a slight look of envy flitting across her face. “They are some of the nicest people in Wingfield, and they have such delightful Sunday evenings; they are sure to invite you to them. Do you know any people, Miss Chetwynd?”
“Not a soul,” said Marjorie, sinking down upon a corner of Jane’s sofa, “and I am not likely to,” she added; “for when once we take up our work in earnest we shall have no time for social frivolities.”
“Social frivolities!” repeated Jane; “but half the good of the place is its social life. You won’t get the benefit you ought to derive from a residence at St. Wode’s unless you take up the social as well as the learned side of the life.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Marjorie, knitting her pretty brows.
“I must try and explain. I see by Miss Gilroy’s face that she does.”
Leslie nodded and smiled.
“One of the many benefits of coming to college is to strengthen the social side of one’s character,” said Jane. “When Miss Frere or Miss Maple ask you to tea, they will discourse much on that point. A college girl ought to have wider sympathies, and to be less selfish all round, than a girl who knows only the ordinary home life. Oh, I have not a word to say against home girls, but certainly college life does strengthen one. Now, here we have heaps of opportunities; we know so many girls, we enter into their lives, we have a delightful feeling of comradeship. The wide outside world, which we get a glimpse of from our own dear little paradise, is most strengthening to our characters. You ask some of the older girls here what they think of St. Wode’s. They will tell you that it is a paradise, an oasis. We are all happy; devoid of care. And the hockey and tennis clubs, and the boating club—they are all so charming that we cannot but have a gay time. There are twenty boats belonging to St. Wode’s College; and on the long summer afternoons we go up the river a good distance, and very often do our work under the trees; so you can imagine how jolly everything is. But of course there are certain rules. No girl can belong to the boating club, for instance, unless she can swim in fifty feet of water.”
“I can stand that test,” said Marjorie eagerly, “and I should rather like to be in a boat. Eileen and I have rowed a good deal on the sea since we were quite children.”
“Can you swim, Miss Gilroy?” asked Jane.
“I am afraid I cannot,” replied Leslie; “but I don’t think I am much of a coward, and can soon learn,” she added. “You see I have spent all my life in London, and have not had a chance of learning.”
“Oh, if you are a London girl you ought to have courage for anything! Then, besides the boating club, we have our bicycle clubs, and our debating society, and our dramatic society. Oh, yes, it is a very full life, and those derive most benefit from the college who enter into it in its divers branches as much as possible.”
“All that social frivolity will not suit me,” said Marjorie, breaking the silence that followed Jane’s rapid flow of words.
“Why so?”
“Because my sister and I—I am sure I can speak for her as well as myself—have come here for a definite purpose. If we had stayed at home we should have gone in for all those other things. We know a very earnest student who belongs to this college, and she has given us quite different particulars with regard to the life. She did not speak of it as you have done, Miss Heriot.”
“May I know the name of that girl?” asked Jane.
“Certainly you may; she is a great friend of ours. I believe her room is in West Hall; her name is Belle Acheson.”
A queer, convulsed sort of look passed over Jane’s face for a quarter of a second, then vanished. She looked solemnly at Eileen.
“Are you a great friend of Miss Acheson’s?” she asked.
“Certainly. We have known her since we were children. But why do you inquire?”
“I am sorry—that is all,” said Jane.
“Sorry? What can you mean? Do you know her?”
“We all know her more or less. I have nothing to say against her personally except that she does not take the best the college affords. I hope you will not—— But forgive me. I am a stranger to you; I ought not to interfere.”
“It would certainly be better for you to say nothing more,” said Marjorie in her gentle voice. “Belle is a friend of ours. Yes,” she continued, “we have come here to learn, and we don’t wish to be narrow-minded; but we are quite determined that we will not waste our time nor our money in dress or ornaments.”
Here she glanced disapprovingly round the exquisitely furnished little room.
“We mean to work hard; we shall have no time for amusement.”
Jane muttered something under her breath; then she said cheerfully:
“I am not the one to lecture you. Come, what shall I show you? It will soon be time to go down to hall to the debate. Now, how can I amuse you?”
“We don’t want amusing,” said Eileen; “that’s just the very point we wish you to clearly understand. If you can tell us anything about the poor in Wingfield, or what philanthropic societies are started, or if there are classes for the teaching of cookery and domestic economy, we shall be greatly obliged to you.”
“But why did you come here?” said Jane, opening her eyes wide. “This is a place for the acquiring of academic learning, not for——”
“It is the place where Belle Acheson is acquiring her profound knowledge of life,” said Marjorie in a slow voice.
Jane looked at her with a puzzled expression.
Just then there came a tap at the door, and two girls named Alice and Florrie Smart, put in an appearance. They were fashionably dressed, and rushed up to Jane and kissed her.
“Dear old Janie, how are you?” said Alice.
“Oh, we have had such a jolly time,” interrupted Florrie. “We were out with the Davidsons all the afternoon, and thought we should be late. We wouldn’t miss the debate to-night for a thousand worlds. Freshers? Do I see freshers here? Pray introduce me, Janie.”
Jane performed her duties in a somewhat perfunctory manner. She was puzzled by Eileen and Marjorie, could not understand them, and was scarcely prepared to like them; but Leslie had already stolen into her heart.
“Are the graces forgotten by the modern woman?” was the subject of the debate that evening. The opener’s speech was made by Miss Frere, who boldly threw down the gauntlet, reminded the girls assembled before her of some of the perils which lay across their paths, and assured them that the old graces of politeness, of gentleness, of loving service, of all that made woman noble and graceful ought to be part of the new life which was opening its doors wider and wider each day for the happy modern girl.
“If in grasping the new we let go of the old, we make a vast mistake,” she continued, her eyes flashing with suppressed fire. “We leave out what has made woman noble and great in the past. We shut away deliberately a vast influence which would otherwise help to pervade the world, for a woman can be graceful, pleasant to look at, agreeable, and not silly. She may be sympathetic without being sentimental. She may be, in the best sense, womanly without sinking into a nonentity.”
Miss Frere’s words were full of feeling, and Leslie listened to her with an ever-growing admiration. In such tones, with almost similar words, had her own mother often spoken to her. From that moment she believed in Miss Frere, and determined to do her utmost to secure the friendship of one who looked so noble and spoke so well.
Marjorie and Eileen, however, fidgeted, rumpled up their short locks, and glanced impatiently one at the other.
The opener’s speech lasted about twenty minutes; then came the speech from the opposition. Marjorie could not help starting as she heard Belle Acheson’s well-known voice. Her words were forcible and full of power, put together with much grammatical fluency, and absolutely to the point. She did her utmost to crush Miss Frere, declaring that if woman, the modern woman, who had such a vast work before her, was to spend her life devoting herself to the pleasures of the toilet, to society, to mere ornamentation, to the thought of what others would think of her, she would be frittering away her birthright, and would be a despicable creature.
“There are no two sides,” cried Belle. “Woman has got to choose. If she means to take up her whole mission, she must drop that which has hindered her in the past; she must cast away her crutch and stand alone.”
“Hear! hear!” burst from some of the students whose ideas coincided with Belle’s.
“For shame!” muttered others.
“Yes,” continued Belle, raising her short-sighted eyes and glancing down the hall to right and left of her. “I repeat once again that there are no two sides. I disagree with Miss Frere in toto. Away with shams! Away with shams!”
As Belle said the last words she brought down her hand upon the table with a great clap which caused the glass and bottle of water standing upon it to rattle ominously.
There was a stamping of feet when she sat down. Marjorie and Eileen looked no longer displeased; their eyes were bright and their cheeks flushed.
“Dear old Belle,” whispered one of the girls to the other; “it is quite refreshing to hear her and to see her again.”
“How true to her colours she is,” said Eileen. “I respect her more than words can say.”
After the speeches from the opener and the opposition, the debate proceeded with enthusiasm. Girls argued for Miss Frere and against Miss Frere; but finally, when the summing-up was over, Miss Frere was able to declare that she had a small victory on her side. She then thanked the girls for their polite attention, hoped that those who differed from her would by and by see matters in another light, and broke up the debate.
It was now past ten o’clock; and Jane, turning to Leslie, reminded her that she had promised to join the cocoa party in her room.
“And I shall be delighted if your friends will come too,” she said. “Oh, I see they have joined Belle Acheson; I cannot help being sorry for them.”
“Is that girl Belle Acheson?” cried Leslie in some astonishment. “I only met the Chetwynds to-day, and they were speaking of her.”
“Belle is a perfect horror,” said Jane. “She leads the extreme party in the college; but I do not think anyone really likes her. Now, do come to my room.”
Four other girls were already assembled in Miss Heriot’s room. They had provided themselves with seats, and were lounging about in a very free-and-easy manner. Jane proceeded to make cocoa, chatting as she did so. All the talk was intelligent and bright. The girls drew Leslie into their midst, holding out affectionate hands of comradeship. They asked her eagerly about her former life, and what she had done in the way of study. When they heard that she had passed her London Matriculation, they congratulated her, and said that she would be sure to do well at St. Wode’s.
“And you will be popular too,” said Florrie Smart. “I can see that at a glance. Oh, I don’t mean to flatter; but you are not the sort who will go over to the Belle Acheson side.”
“I don’t think I shall,” replied Leslie gently. “I did not approve of what she said. My mother agrees entirely with Miss Frere.”
“And therefore you agree with Miss Frere; is not that so?” said Alice Smart.
“I love my mother more than words can say,” replied Leslie. The tears started to her eyes as she spoke. Florrie Smart held out her hand and gave Leslie an affectionate pressure on her arm.
“I quite understand,” she said. “Alice and I also have a mother—such a darling.”
“But I do wish you had a room to yourself, you poor old thing,” said Alice Smart. “Miss Colchester is a well-meaning creature; but to live with her—oh, it would be a real trial!”
“And I wonder what Miss Gilroy will do when the other girls call on her,” said Jane. “Annie will be so cross; she won’t make herself the least bit agreeable. She is learning-mad; that is the only word I can say for her.”
“I must make the best of it, however matters turn out,” said Leslie. “I am only sorry that Miss Colchester is not a little more tidy; but I dare say I shall get on with her very well.”
“And you know you can make your own part of the room as pretty as you please,” said Florrie, speaking again. “You ought to go to Hunt’s, in the Broad, to-morrow; he is the decorator of all our rooms. Some of us spend a good deal over our rooms; others again are more economical. But Hunt will do the thing in any way you wish, and he won’t send in the account until the end of term. That latter fact is of importance to some of us, I can tell you.”
As Florrie said the last words she rose.
“I am too sleepy to stay up another moment,” she said, “fascinating as your cocoa-parties always are, Janie; but I was out so long this afternoon that I am half-dead with sleep.”
“And I, too, am very sleepy,” said Alice, rising. “Janie, that cocoa was excellent. Ta-ta; sleep well.”
The girls nodded to Leslie, then to Jane Heriot, and the next moment Leslie was also bidding Miss Heriot good-night. She ran down the corridor to her own room. As she approached the door, a furious sound of someone pacing up and down fell on her ears. She felt glad that she had secured the key. She opened the door quickly, and then saw Annie, with her red hair flying wildly about her face and shoulders, pacing up and down the room. Annie was talking aloud with great force.
“What can be the matter?” said Leslie as she entered.
“Oh, is that you, my new roomfellow? Pray don’t disturb me. I have just reached the bottom of a problem; but my brain nearly went in the effort. I see it at last; it is magnificent. I do wish you were mathematical; you could rejoice with me.”
Leslie glanced at her with a smile.
“I don’t know anything whatever about mathematics,” she said; “but, at least, I won’t disturb you.”
She moved softly to her own end, sat down on a corner of her sofa-bed, and taking up her Bible read a verse or two before she went to bed. The familiar words quieted her overexcited heart. She thought of her mother at home, of Llewellyn, and of the younger children; and for the first time a rush of real loneliness visited her.
“But I won’t give way to it,” she said to herself. “Strange as it all is at the present moment, I am certain I shall find it delightful by and by. I intend to make the very best of everything. Poor Annie Colchester—has she a chance to sleep with that terrible mental excitement? I only trust I shan’t go mad over literature in the way she does over mathematics.”
Annie, having worn off some of her surplus excitement, had again sunk down by her desk; her face was buried in her hands, and she was sighing in a feeble sort of fashion. Leslie went up and touched her on her shoulder.
“You ought to go to bed,” she said; “you are absolutely weary from all that work.”
“To bed?” said Annie. “Just feel my brow.” She caught hold of Leslie’s slim hand and held it to her forehead.
“It does burn awfully,” said Leslie. “You really ought not to work too hard.”
“But I must; you can never guess what depends on my work. There, I ought not to confide in a new girl and on the first night.”
“Tell me anything that will comfort you,” said Leslie in a voice full of sympathy. “I quite understand home life, if it is that you allude to.”
“I don’t. I never knew home life, and I cannot possibly tell you to-night, nor, perhaps, ever; but I am willing to say this much: There is a great, a terrible reason why I must succeed. If I take honors in mathematics all will be well, if not—— Don’t ask me any more, Miss Gilroy.”
“Well, at least, let me help you to go to bed,” said Leslie.
“To bed, with this head of mine! It is almost on fire, and my feet are like ice. I could not possibly sleep. I often lie awake until morning. When matters are very bad, I rise and pace the floor. You won’t mind, will you, if you hear me pacing between two and four, because I do so most nights?”
“I am sorry,” said Leslie, trying to smother her own feelings of annoyance. “I mean I am sorry on your account; but you must go to bed now. I cannot share your room and not feel a certain amount of responsibility with regard to you. I will rub your feet and make them warm if you will let me, and if I put a handkerchief, wrung out of water, to your head the heat will soon leave it. Llewellyn was like that once or twice, and I always got him to sleep in that fashion. He fell asleep while I was rubbing. Oh, it is so soothing! Do let me try it.”
“You are a kind-hearted creature; but who in the world is Llewellyn?”
“My brother, and the darling of my heart.”
“Your brother, the darling of your heart,” echoed Annie. A queer expression filled her eyes; they flashed with sudden fire. She started to her feet.
“I am glad you are my roomfellow,” she said impulsively. “I feel that by and by we shall be friends. Do give me your hand; put it on my forehead. It is true that you have a soothing touch.”
“The thing to remember just now,” said Leslie, speaking as brightly as she could, “is that it is almost twelve o’clock. It is very wrong indeed of you to be up so late; and when did you eat anything last? I happened to notice that you scarcely touched your dinner.”
“When did I eat? I can never eat when my brain is on fire.”
“Have you nothing in the room now—biscuits, or anything of that sort?”
“I have a dim sort of idea that a tin of very stale biscuits stands behind that rubbish on the top of the chest of drawers.”
“Stale as they are, they will be better than nothing. You must eat one. I shall get something better for you to-morrow. I am sure that I have been sent to this room to help you a little. Now, do take off your things, and get into bed. Try to remember that if you become seriously ill you won’t be able to help the person you mean to help; you won’t get your honors after all.”
“Are you certain? How seriously you speak!”
“Yes, I am quite certain. A sick brain never gets anything really worth having. My mother has told me that.”
“Your mother; but she must be a middle-aged woman.”
“I do not see what that has to do with it; and at any rate she is only a little over forty.”
“Oh, she is more than middle-aged. She belongs to the dead and gone woman, who never did anything worth speaking of in her life.”
“You are vastly mistaken,” said Leslie, with spirit. “You would not say that if you knew her. My mother is a journalist, and makes a very good income with her work. I don’t think anyone could write a better leader than she, and as to her pars., they are quite the best the Grapho ever receives.”
“Does your mother write for the Grapho?”
“Yes, and for several other leading papers. She is on the staff of the Daily Post.”
“You astound me. She must be a well-informed woman.”
“She does know a few things,” said Leslie, trying to suppress a smile. “Now, please get into bed; for, if you are not tired, I am.”
“Well, just to please you, and as it is your first night. You are a nice creature. I saw that the moment you entered the room, and I am truly sorry I am your roomfellow, for I know I shall worry you terribly. I may as well tell you frankly that annoy you I shall, for I cannot possibly help myself. If I get mathematics on the brain I always go the whole length, and that means pacing the floor and mumbling problems to myself, sometimes for hours. As to tidiness, I have known myself to fling a book from one end of the room to the other in a fit of excitement. I only trust none of my books may hit you by mistake.”
“I echo that wish,” said Leslie; “but, as I have got a screen, I shall put it round my bed now that you have warned me. Please get into your own bed now, for I do not mean to sleep until I see you comfortable, and I am dead tired.”
Annie opened her red-brown eyes very slowly, and fixed them on Leslie’s face.
“To oblige you, I’ll do what you wish,” she said.
She tumbled into bed, did not attempt to say her prayers, flung her head on the pillow, and closed her eyes.
“How my temples do beat,” she said with a sort of a sob, “and my legs are icy up to my knees, and——”
“Drink this cold water to begin with,” said Leslie. “You are under my care now, and must submit to my directions.”
She brought a glass of ice-cold water, and held it to Annie’s lips.
“Oh, thank you; I was so terribly thirsty!” Annie drained the glass off and returned it to her companion.
“You are good,” she repeated. She flung her head down again on her pillow.
Leslie got out one of her own handkerchiefs, wrung it out of cold water, and laid it upon Annie’s brow. Then kneeling down, she softly unfastened the bedclothes, and began to rub the girl’s feet. She did this softly and rhythmically, as she had done often and often for Llewellyn when he was in his fits of literary despair. By slow degrees her efforts took effect; Annie’s groans grew less, her eyes closed, and in half an hour she was asleep.
“Poor thing!” thought Leslie. “I shall see to her having a nice meal to-morrow evening. I shall make her give me some of her money to get the needful things with. We will have our own spirit-stove and a saucepan, and I will buy milk and cocoa. When she has taken something hot, which will be much better than cold water, and goes to bed really warm, she will sleep. I only trust she won’t wake between two and four o’clock, for I am dead tired.”
Remembering Annie’s warning, Leslie put the screen round her bed, next tumbled in; thought that the bed with the broken spring was anything but comfortable, but then reflected that she was too tired to care. She was at St. Wode’s; the dream of her life was fulfilled, and even Annie Colchester could not keep her awake.
Eileen and Marjory had found their way to Belle’s hall. They were standing in the attic which she had described to them so graphically.
“I cannot imagine how you managed to furnish it in this extraordinary way,” began Eileen. “I have heard from one or two of the girls here that the furniture is put in by the heads of the college. Now, our rooms, for instance, are quite decently furnished.”
“Too much furniture,” interrupted Belle. She uttered a groan as she spoke.
“The rooms certainly possess the necessary comforts of civilized life,” pursued Eileen, “and for my part I cannot say that I am sorry. We have no luxuries; but the furniture in the room is good and neat. We have a chest of drawers each, and proper washhand-stands of course, and snug little sofa-beds, and carpets, and curtains to the windows, and——”
“Need you quote any further from that tiresome list?” said Belle again. She was standing by her small attic window with her back to the view.
“One thing is delightful in this room,” said Eileen, running up to the window as she spoke. “You have a splendid view—much better than ours. Do step aside, Belle, and let me look out.”
“If you wish to,” said Belle drearily.
“Wish to! I always love scenery. Surely, Belle, you cannot think it wrong to look out at this lovely view?”
“No, not wrong exactly,” said Belle; “not wrong; but I have little heart to admire anything to-day. I am disappointed, and I must own it.”
“Now, what have we done to annoy you?” said Marjorie.
“Much,” replied Belle. She looked fixedly from one sister to the other. “I had hoped a great deal before you arrived; but already the keenest sense of disillusionment is mine. You are neither of you beginning your college life as I could have hoped. There are two attics on the same floor with this, which you might have got had you given me the management of your affairs. I should have gone to Miss Lauderdale and represented the case to her. I believe she would have been very glad to let them to you. The college is overfull at present, and yet no girls wish to use the attics. These attics are at present unfurnished, and the college would, doubtless, when the matter was properly represented, allow you to have them as bare as you pleased. They did so in my case. I represented that it would be a saving. I managed the thing somehow, and here I am. It is true that I dread the governors visiting my room and ordering some of those useless articles which the other girls weaken their characters by using. But you did not put the matter into my hands, your old friend; and now you are accommodated with some of the nicest rooms in college.”
“Oh, never mind; don’t worry any more about the furniture,” said Eileen. “It seems to me that one can waste time in trying to lead the existence of the anchorite as well as in endeavoring to surround one’s self with luxuries.”
“One thing, at least, we will promise you, Belle—we are not going in for any extras—no pictures nor knick-knacks for us.”
“Thank Heaven!” said Belle, with a deep sigh. “Had you done so, I must have cut you.”
“Don’t you think that would have been rather narrow of you?” said Marjorie.
“Narrow or not, I should have felt it my duty to do it. I have my eccentricities—I own to the fact—and I will cling to them through thick and thin. What you said just now was quite right, Eileen; we will drop the subject of furniture. After all, what does it matter whether one has a chest of drawers or not, whether one has a suitable washhand-stand or not? Are these the things we live at St. Wode’s for? What about the intellect, what about the development of the brain? Your brows are capable of expansion, your eyes are capable of acquiring depth, your——”
“Hear! hear!” said Eileen.
“Do not interrupt me with that senseless remark. I speak to you from my soul. You come here to study, to forget yourselves in the great riches of the past. You are like two miners come to dig out the gold. You have heard of that awful place, Klondike, where people go mad over earthly gold. Yours is the intellectual, the spiritual, the gold which is treasured in the great storehouses of the past.”
As Belle spoke she paced up and down the room. Her dress was very untidy, and there was a great rent behind. While she was speaking there came a soft tap at the door. She did not hear it. Eileen went and opened it. Lettie stood without.
“Dear me, Lettie, do come in,” said Eileen. “We have not seen you for quite a long time—nearly twenty-four hours.”
She kissed her cousin as she spoke.
“How are you getting on?”
“Capitally,” said Lettie. “I went to your rooms in North Hall and heard that you were here. You did not visit me, so I thought Belle might be engrossing your society. How are you, Belle?”
“Well, thank you,” replied Belle, in an absent voice. “By the way, are you?—oh, yes! I remember now; you are—the girl who ought never to have come to St. Wode’s.”
“You are quite mistaken,” replied Letitia with spirit. “I am a girl who will be very much benefited by the pleasant life which I see opening before me. By the way, Eileen and Marjory, I am going to the Broad now. There are a lot of things I require for my room. I thought perhaps you would like to come too. You will want shelves for your books and a few knick-knacks and——”
“If you go with that young person——” said Belle, making a step forward. She approached Eileen and almost glared into her face.
Eileen laughed.
“Dear Belle, do finish your sentence,” she said. “What is to happen to me if I dare to go to the Broad with poor Lettie?”
“You make my soul sink in despair,” said Belle. “I scarcely know what I feel; my heart is wrung. Oh! how you disappoint me!”
“Whether you buy things or not, Eileen, do come with me,” said Lettie. “I don’t know my way to the Broad at present, and would rather be with you than alone. Whatever you may do in the future, please remember that I am your first cousin, almost your sister, and we have lived together all our lives.”
“Of course, dear Lettie, we will both come,” said Eileen. “Belle, we will visit you another day; we are only interrupting your work now.”
“I was resting when you arrived,” said Belle. She threw herself tragically back against one of the hard-bottomed chairs. “Go—yes go; I don’t expect to see much of any of you. It is the fate of those who would explore, who would delve in the mines of the past, to bring up diamonds alone; we are solitary in our labor. I had a hope, it is true, when I saw you in London; but never mind. Go, all of you; there is the door—go!”
“I wish you’d let me mend your dress first,” said Lettie, whipping a neat little housewife out of her pocket and preparing to thread a needle.
“Mend my dress?” said Belle. “What do you mean?”
“If you will just stand with your back to the light, you can go on thinking and talking; I won’t be a minute sewing up that awful rent. You are not respectable as you are. Now, do let me.”
“Yes, do, Belle; don’t be a goose,” said Marjorie.
Belle’s eyes flashed. Lettie was already attacking her with needle and thread. The rent was presently sewn up.
“I tell you what it is,” said Lettie good-humoredly, “I’m not half such a bad soul as you make me out. Now that I happen to be in the same hall——”
Belle shivered.
“I’ll run up to this desolate attic, now and then, and look after your wardrobe.”
“You won’t; for I shan’t admit you,” said Belle.
“Yes, I will. I shall take opportunities of coming in when you are absent. You are a friend of Marjorie and Eileen; and, for the sake of their respectability, you must not go about in absolute rags. Now, come, girls, and leave her in peace.”
Belle approached her attic window. She stood now with her back to the girls and her face to the view; but it is to be doubted if she saw it. Her dress, a dirty serge, trailed along the floor, one wisp of her thin hair had escaped from the little knot at the back of her head, and was lying on her shoulder.
“Poor Belle,” said Eileen, with a sigh.
“I tell you what it is, girls,” said Lettie, as she went downstairs. “Belle is such an oddity that, if something is not done to save her, she will soon lose her senses. I mean to hunt her up. I was wondering last night what my mission in this place could be. I little thought that I was to be inflicted with Belle Acheson.”
“She certainly doesn’t wish for you, Lettie, so you needn’t take her up unless you like,” said Eileen.
“Oh, I must do something,” said Lettie; “that fact has been well borne in upon me—it is to be Belle Acheson or nothing. No trial could well be greater. I hope I shall benefit by it. But come now; I want to order my things.”
“Must you order them to-day?”
“Of course I must. My room is disgracefully bare; and as I have plenty of money I mean to make it as pretty and cheerful as possible, and as like a dream.”
“Have your lectures been decided for you yet?” said Eileen, in a would-be stern voice.
“Yes; I saw Miss Browning after breakfast. I am going to work a little bit at literature.”
“A little bit at literature! Lettie, you are perfectly awful.”
“Well, I’m not going to kill myself, darling, if that’s what you mean. Of course I shall work for so many hours a day; but I don’t think I shall take honors. If I get through my pass exam., I shall consider that I am doing admirably. Now do come, girls; hurry up. You must have tea with me to-morrow in my room. I expect I shall know all the nicest girls in the place; they are going to call on me most likely this evening. Oh, I shall make my room perfectly sweet. You will all love to come to me; and if I can wheedle that poor old Belle out of her den, I shall feel that I have achieved a triumph. But tell me now, girls, how you are both getting on?”
“Very well, indeed,” said Eileen.
“And you are not going to buy pretty things for your rooms?”
“No.”
“At least let me recommend you to provide yourselves with a tea-service each; because if other girls invite you to tea you must return the compliment. Then they give endless cocoa parties here, and you will be expected to take your share.”
“I don’t see that at all,” replied Eileen. “If we are bound to entertain a great deal at St. Wode’s, we may just as well stay with mother in London. I mean to ask Miss Frere about the poor; surely we can visit them if we like?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” said Letitia. “To quote your own words, you have come here to study. Surely you can visit the poor when you college life is over?”
“We can at least make clothes for them; that is a good idea,” said Marjorie.
“Much better than visiting them,” cried Letitia. “You can buy yards of holland and any other stiff, disagreeable, pricky material you like, and work away in your leisure hours when the rest of us are having fun. By the way, have you seen Miss Gilroy this morning?”
“Two or three times. Poor girl, I rather pity her. She is in a room with a dreadful creature of the name of Annie Colchester.”
“How pretty Miss Gilroy is,” said Lettie. “Might we not call and ask her to come to the Broad with us? She is sure to want things for her room.”
“Just as you please,” said Eileen. “I’ll run up to Miss Colchester’s room and find out if she is in.”
Lettie and Marjorie remained on the sweep of gravel outside the hall. Eileen ran into the house. In a few minutes she returned, accompanied by Leslie.
“This is really kind of you,” said Leslie. “I was wondering how I could get to the Broad, for I don’t know many girls yet; but I am told that some of the students will call on me to-night.”
“They are to call on us, too,” said Eileen. “It is rather formidable, is it not?”
“But, Miss Gilroy, don’t you want to buy things for your room?”
“A few things I must have,” said Leslie, “but I rather despair of making a room shared with Miss Colchester pretty; all the same, I will do my best.”