“No, I won’t. I missed Mr Hayes to-day when he called, and I must see him before I go back to St. Benet’s. I have a question or two to ask him, and I know every step of the way. Let me go, auntie, please, do!”
“You always were a wilful girl, Priscilla, and I think that college has made you more obstinate than ever. I suppose the half-mannish ways of all those girls tell upon you. There, if you must go—do. I’m in no mood for arguing. I’ll have a bit of a sleep while you are out: the muggy weather always makes me so drowsy.”
Aunt Raby uttered a very weary yawn, and turned her face from the light. Priscilla stepped into the hall, put on her waterproof and oldest hat, and went out. She knew her way well to the little vicarage, built of grey stone, and lying something like a small, daring fly against the brow of the hill. The little house looked as if any storm must detach it from its resting-place; but to-night there was no wind, only clinging mist, and damp and thick fog.
Priscilla mounted the rough road which led to the vicarage, opened the white gate, walked up the gravel path, and entered the little porch. Her knock was answered by the vicar himself. He drew her into the house with an affectionate word of welcome, and soon she was sitting by his study fire, with hat and jacket removed.
In the vicar’s eyes Priscilla was not at all a plain girl. He liked the rugged power which her face displayed; he admired the sensible lines of her mouth, and he prophesied great things from that brow, so calm, so broad, so full. Mr Hayes had but a small respect for the roses and lilies of mere beauty. Mind was always more to him than matter. Some of the girls at St. Benet’s, who thought very little of poor Priscilla, would have felt no small surprise had they known the high regard and even admiration this good man felt for her.
“I am glad you have called, Prissie,” he said. “I was disappointed in not seeing you to-day. Well, my dear, do as well in the coming term as you did in the past. You have my best wishes.”
“Thank you,” said Prissie.
“You are happy in your new life, are you not, my dear child?”
“I am interested,” said Priscilla, in a low voice. Her eyes rested on her shabby dress as she spoke. She laid one hand over the other. She seemed to be weighing her words. “I am interested; sometimes I am absorbed. My new life fills my heart; it crowds into all my thoughts. I have no room for Aunt Raby—no room for my little sisters. Everything is new to me—everything fresh and broad. There are some trials, of course, and some unpleasantness; but, oh, the difference between here and there! Here it is so narrow; there, one cannot help getting enlightenment, daily and hourly.”
“Yes,” said Mr Hayes, when Priscilla paused, “I expected you to say something of this kind. I knew you could not but feel the immense, the immeasurable change. But why do you speak in that complaining voice, Priscilla?”