Priscilla slowly and stiffly withdrew her hands; her lips moved. She was repeating Miss Oliphant’s words under her breath—
“At one time we were friends.”
“Won’t you speak?” said Maggie, impatiently.
“Oh, yes, I’ll speak; I’ll tell you the reason. You won’t understand, but you had better know—” Prissie paused again; she seemed to swallow something; her next words came out slowly with great difficulty: “When I went home for the Christmas recess I found Aunt Raby worse. You don’t know what my home is like, Miss Oliphant; it is small and poor. At home we are often cold, and often hungry. I have three little sisters, and they want clothes and education; they want training, they want love, they want care. Aunt Raby is too weak to do much for them now; she is very, very ill. You have not an idea—not an idea—Miss Oliphant, in your wealth and your luxury what the poverty of Penywern Cottage is like. What does such poverty mean? How shall I describe it to you? we are sometimes glad of a piece of bread; butter is a luxury; meat we scarcely taste.” Prissie again broke off to think and consider her next words. Maggie, whose sympathies were always keenly aroused by any real emotion, tried once again to take her hands; Prissie put them behind her. “Aunt Raby is a good woman,” continued Priscilla; “she is brave, she is a heroine. Although she is just a commonplace old woman, no one has ever led a grander life in its way. She wears poor clothes—oh, the poorest; she has an uncouth appearance, worse even than I have, but I am quite sure that God—God respects her—God thinks her worthy. When my father and mother died (I was fourteen when my dear mother died) Aunt Raby came and took me home and my three little sisters. She gave us bread to eat. Oh, yes, we never quite wanted food, but before we came Aunt Raby had enough money to feed herself, and no more. She took us all in and supported us, because she worked so very, very hard. Ever since I was fourteen—I am eighteen now—Aunt Raby has done this. Well,” continued Priscilla, slow tears coming to her eyes and making themselves felt in her voice, “this hard work is killing her; Aunt Raby is dying because she has worked so hard for us. Before my three years have come to an end here, she will be far, far away: she will be at rest for ever—God will be making up to her for all she has done here. Her hard life which God will have thought beautiful will be having its reward. Afterwards I have to support and educate the three little girls. I spoke to Mr Hayes—my dear clergyman, about whom I have told you, and who taught me all I know—and he agrees with me that I know enough of Greek and Latin now for rudimentary teaching, and that I shall be better qualified to take a good paying situation if I devote the whole of my time while at St. Benet’s to learning and perfecting myself in modern languages. It’s the end of a lovely dream, of course, but there is no doubt—no doubt whatever—what is right for me to do.”
Prissie stopped speaking; Maggie went up again and tried to take her hand; she drew back a step or two, pretending not to see.
“It has been very kind of you to listed,” she said; “I am very grateful to you, for now, whatever we may be to each other in future, you will understand that I don’t give up what I love lightly. Thank you, you have helped me much. Now I must go and tell Miss Heath what I have said to you. I have had a happy reading of Euripides and have enjoyed listening to you. I meant to give myself that one last treat—now it is over. Good-night.”
Priscilla left the room—she did not even kiss Maggie as she generally did at parting for the night.