Part 37 (1/2)
Typhus fever was raging at Kingsdene at this time, and Annabel Lee had taken it in its most virulent form. The doctors (and two or three were summoned) gave up all hope of saving her life from the first. Maggie also gave up hope. She accused herself of having caused her friend's death. She believed that the shock of her tidings had killed Annabel, who, already suffering from fever, had not strength to bear the agony of knowing that Hammond's love was given to Maggie.
On the night of Annabel's death Maggie wrote to Hammond refusing his offer of marriage, but giving no reason for doing so. After posting her letter she lay down on her own sick bed and nearly died of the fever which had taken Annabel away.
All these things happened a year ago. The agitation caused by the death of one so young, beautiful and beloved had subsided. People could talk calmly of Annabel, and although for a long time her room had remained vacant, it was now occupied by a girl in all respects her opposite.
Nothing would induce Maggie to enter this room, and no words would persuade her to speak of Annabel. She was merry and bright once more, and few gave her credit for secret hours of misery, which were seriously undermining her health and ruining what was best of her character.
On this particular day, as she lay back in her carriage, wrapped in costly furs, a great wave of misery and bitterness was sweeping over her heart. In the first agony caused by Annabel's death Maggie had vowed a vow to her own heart never, under any circ.u.mstances, to consent to be Hammond's wife. In the first misery of regret and compunction it had been easy to Maggie Oliphant to make such a vow; but she knew well, as the days and months went by, that its weight was crus.h.i.+ng her life, was destroying her chance of ever becoming a really strong and good woman. If she had loved Hammond a year ago her sufferings made her love him fifty times better now. With all her outward coldness and apparent indifference, his presence gave her the keenest pain. Her heart beat fast when she caught sight of his face; if he spoke to another, she was conscious of being overcome by a spirit of jealousy. The thought of him mingled with her waking and sleeping hours; but the sacrifice she owed to the memory of her dead friend must be made at all hazards. Maggie consulted no one on this subject. Annabel's unhappy story lay buried with her in her early grave; Maggie would have died rather than reveal it. Now, as she lay back in her carriage, the tears filled her eyes.
”I am too weak for this to go on any longer,” she said to herself. ”I shall leave St. Benet's at the end of the present term. What is the winning of a tripos to me? What do I want with honors and distinctions? Everything is barren to me. My life has no flavor in it.
I loved Annabel, and she is gone. Without meaning it, I broke Annabel's heart. Without meaning it, I caused my darling's death, and now my own heart is broken, for I love Geoffrey-- I love him, and I can never, under any circ.u.mstances, be his wife. He misunderstands me-- he thinks me cold, wicked, heartless-- and I can never, never set myself right with him. Soon he will grow tired of me and give his heart to some one else, and perhaps marry some one else. When he does, I too shall die. Yes, whatever happens, I must go away from St.
Benet's.”
Maggie's tears always came slowly; she put up her handkerchief to wipe them away. It was little wonder that when she returned from her drive her head was no better.
”We must put off the rehearsal,” said Nancy Banister, She came into Maggie's room and spoke vehemently. ”I saw you at lunch, Maggie: you ate nothing-- you spoke with an effort. I know your head is worse. You must lie down, and, unless you are better soon, I will ask Miss Heath to send for a doctor.”
”No doctor will cure me,” said Maggie. ”Give me a kiss, Nance; let me rest my head against yours for a moment. Oh, how earnestly I wish I was like you.”
”Why so? What have I got? I have no beauty; I am not clever; I am neither romantically poor, like Prissie, nor romantically rich, like you. In short, the fairies were not invited to my christening.”
”One of two fairies came, however,” replied Maggie, ”and they gave you an honest soul, and a warm heart, and-- and happiness, Nancy. My dear, I need only look into your eyes to know that you are happy.”
Nancy's blue eyes glowed with pleasure. ”Yes,” she said, ”I don't know anything about dumps and low spirits.”
”And you are unselfish, Nancy; you are never seeking your own pleasure.”
”I am not obliged to: I have all I want. And now to turn to a more important subject. I will see the members of our Dramatic Society and put off the rehearsal.”
”You must not; the excitement will do me good.”
”For the time, perhaps,” replied Nancy, shaking her wise head, ”but you will be worse afterward.”
”No. Now, Nancy, don't let us argue the point. If you are truly my friend, you will sit by me for an hour and read aloud the dullest book you can find, then perhaps I shall go to sleep.”
CHAPTER XXVIII
”COME AND KILL THE BOGIE”
NOTWITHSTANDING Nancy's dismal prognostications, Maggie Oliphant played her part brilliantly that night. Her low spirits were succeeded by gay ones; the Princess had never looked more truly regal, nor had the Prince ever more pa.s.sionately wooed her. Girls who did not belong to the society always flocked into the theater to see the rehearsals.
Maggie's mood scarcely puzzled them. She was so erratic that no one expected anything from her but the unexpected: if she looked like a drooping flower one moment, her head was erect the next, her eyes sparkling, her voice gay. The flower no longer drooped, but blossomed with renewed vigor. After reading for an hour Nancy had left her friend asleep. She went downstairs, and, in reply to several anxious inquiries, p.r.o.nounced it as her opinion that Maggie, with all the good will in the world, could scarcely take part in the rehearsals that night.
”I know Maggie is going to be ill,” said Nancy with tears in her eyes.
Miss Banister was so sensible and so little given to undue alarms that her words had effect, and a little rumor spread in the college that Miss Oliphant could not take her part in the important rehearsals which were to take place that evening. Her appearance, therefore, in more than her usual beauty, with more vigor in her voice, more energy and brightness in her eyes, gave at once a pleasing sense of satisfaction. She was cheered when she entered the little theater, but, if there was a brief surprise, it was quickly succeeded by the comment which generally followed all her doings: ”This is just like Maggie; no one can depend on how she will act for a moment.”
At that rehearsal, however, people were taken by surprise. If the Princess did well, the young Prince did better. Priscilla had completely dropped her role of the awkward and gauche girl. From the first there had been vigor and promise in her acting. To-night there was not only vigor, but tenderness-- there was a pa.s.sion in her voice which arose now and then to power. She was so completely in sympathy with her part that she ceased to be Priscilla: she was the Prince who must win this wayward Princess or die.
Maggie came up to her when the rehearsals were over.