If there were innumerable good points in an acquaintance with the
Percival family, there was certainly the inevitable drawback, for on the
days when she was alone with her great-aunt, Darsie was rendered
lonelier and more restless than before by the knowledge that a couple of
miles away were three agreeable young companions who would be only too
pleased to include her in their pastimes. The different points of view
held by youth and age were, as usual, painfully in evidence. Darsie
considered that it would be desirable to meet the Percivals "every
single day"; Aunt Maria was glad that you had enjoyed yourself; was
pleased that you should meet young friends, and suggested a return
invitation, "some day next week!" pending which far-off period you were
expected to be content with the usual routine of morning drive,
afternoon needlework, and evening patience. Really--really--really, to
have lived to that age, and to have no better understanding! Letters
from the seaside did not tend to soothe the exile's discontent. It
seemed callous of the girls to expatiate on the joys of bathing,
fishing, and generally running wild, to one who was practising a lady-
like decorum in the society of an old lady over seventy years of age,
and although Dan kept his promise to the extent of a letter of two whole
sheets, he gave no hint of deploring Darsie's own absence. It was in
truth a dull, guide-booky epistle, all about stupid "places of interest"
in the neighbourhood, in which Darsie was frankly uninterested. All the
Roman remains in the world could not have counted at that moment against
one little word of friendly regret, but that word was not forthcoming,
and the effect of the missive was depressing, rather than the reverse.
Mother's letters contained little news, but were unusually loving--
wistfully, almost, as it were, _apologetically_ loving! The exile
realised that in moments of happy excitement, when brothers and sisters
were forgetful of her existence, a shadow would fall across mother's
face, and she would murmur softly, "_Poor_ little Darsie!" Darsie's own
eyes filled at the pathos of the thought. She was filled with
commiseration for her own hard plight... Father's letters were bracing.
No pity here; only encouragement and exhortation. "Remember, my dear,
a sacrifice grudgingly offered is no sacrifice at all. What is worth
doing, is worth doing well. I hope to hear that you are not only an
agreeable, but also a cheerful and cheering companion to your old aunt!"
Darsie's shoulders hitched impatiently. "Oh! Oh! Sounds like a copy-
book. _I_ could make headlines, too! Easy to talk when you're not
tried. Can't put an old head on young shoulders. Callous youth, and
crabbed age..."
Not that Aunt Maria was really crabbed. Irritable perhaps, peculiar
certainly, finicky and old-fashioned to a degree, yet with a certain
bedrock kindliness of nature which forbade the use of so hard a term as
_crabbed_. Since the date of the hair episode Darsie's admiration for
Lady Hayes's dignified self-control had been steadily on the increase.
She even admitted to her secret self that in time to come--far, far-off
time to come,--she would like to become like Aunt Maria in this respect
and cast aside her own impetuous, storm-tossed ways. At seventy one
_ought_ to be calm and slow to wrath, but at fifteen! Who could expect
a poor little flapper of fifteen to be anything but fire and flame!
Wet days were the great trial--those drizzling, chilly days which have a
disagreeable habit of intruding into our English summers. Darsie,
shivering in a washing dress, "occupying herself quietly with her
needlework" in the big grim morning-room, was in her most prickly and
rebellious of moods.
"Hateful to have such weather in summer! My fingers are so cold I can
hardly work."
"It is certainly very chill."
"Aunt Maria, couldn't we have a fire? It would be _something_ cheerful
to look at!"
"My dear!" Lady Hayes was apparently transfixed with amazement. "A
fire! You forget, surely, the month! The month of August. We never
begin fires until the first of October."
"You'd be much more comfortable if you did."
There being no controverting the truth of this statement, Lady Hayes
made no reply. But after the lapse of a few minutes she volunteered a
suggestion.
"There is a grey Shetland shawl folded up under the sofa rug. You had
better put it over your shoulders, since you feel so cold."
"_I_?" Darsie gave an impatient laugh. "Fancy me wrapped up in a
Shetland shawl! I'd sooner freeze."
Lady Hayes dropped her eyelids and tightened her lips. Her manner
pointed out more eloquently than words the fact that her guest was
wanting in respect, but as hostess it was her duty to consider the
comfort of her guest, so presently she rang the bell and gave
instructions that a cup of hot cocoa should be served at eleven o'clock
instead of the usual glass of milk. She herself was never guilty of the
enormity of eating between meals, so that the listener knew perfectly
well for whose benefit the order was given, but being at once cold,
lonely, and cross, her heart was hardened, and she spoke no word.
Between that time and the appearance of James with the tray Aunt Maria
made three successive attempts to open new topics of conversation, which
were each time checkmated by monosyllabic replies. There was a tone of
relief in her voice, as of one hailing a much-needed assistance, as she
said briskly--
"Now, my dear, here is your cocoa! Drink it while it is hot. It will
warm you up."
"Thank you, I don't drink cocoa. It makes me sick."
There was a moment's silence. James stood at attention, tray in hand.
Lady Hayes tightened her lips, and the little red lines on her cheeks
turned a curious bluish shade. Then she cleared her throat, and said in
her most courteous tones--
"I am sorry. Would you kindly tell James what you would like instead.
Tea--coffee--soup? A warm drink would be better than milk this
morning."
"Nothing, thank you."
"Nothing, James! You may go."
James departed. Aunt Maria went on with her knitting, the click-click
of the needles sounding startlingly distinct in the silent room. Darsie
sat shamed and miserable, now that her little ebullition of spleen was
over, acutely conscious of the rudeness of her behaviour. For five
minutes by the clock the silence lasted; but in penitence, as in fault,
there was no patience in Darsie's nature, and at the end of the five
minutes the needlework was thrown on the floor, and with a quick light
movement she was on her knees by Lady Hayes's side.
"Aunt Maria, forgive me. I'm a pig!"
"Excuse me, my dear, you are mistaken. You are a young gentlewoman who
has failed to behave as such."
"Oh, Aunt Maria, don't, _don't_ be proper!" pleaded Darsie, half-
laughing, half in tears. "I _am_ a pig, and I behaved as much, and
you're a duchess and a queen, and I can't imagine how you put up with me
at all. I wonder you don't turn me out of doors, neck and crop!"
Lady Hayes put down her knitting and rested her right hand lightly on
the girl's head, but she did not smile; her face looked very grave and
sad.
"Indeed, Darsie, my dear," she said slowly, "that is just what I am
thinking of doing. Not `neck and crop'--that's an exaggerated manner of
speaking, but, during the last few days I have been coming to the
conclusion that I made a mistake in separating you from your family. I
thought too much of my own interests, and not enough of yours." She
smiled, a strained, pathetic little smile. "I think I hardly realised
how _young_ you were! One forgets. The years pass by; one falls deeper
and deeper into one's own ways, one's own habits, and becomes
unconscious of different views, different outlooks. It was a selfish
act to take a young thing away from her companions on the eve of a
summer holiday. I realise it now, my dear; rather late in the day,
perhaps, but not too late! I will arrange that you join your family at
the sea before the end of the week."
Darsie gasped, and sat back on her heels, breathless with surprise and
dismay. Yes! dismay; extraordinary though it might appear, no spark of
joy or expectation lightened the shocked confusion of her mind. We can
never succeed in turning back the wheels of time so as to take up a
position as it would have been if the disturbing element had not
occurred. The holiday visit to the seaside would have been joy untold
_if_ Aunt Maria had never appeared and given her unwelcome invitation,
but now!--now a return to Seaview would be in the character of a truant
carrying within her heart the consciousness of failure and defeat. In
the moment's silence which followed Aunt Maria's startling announcement
the words of advice and exhortation spoken by her father passed one by
one through Darsie's brain.
"If you cannot have what you like, try to like what you have... Put
yourself now and then in your aunt's place.--A sacrifice grudgingly
performed is no sacrifice at all... What is worth doing at all, is
worth doing well."
Each word condemned her afresh; she stood as judge before the tribunal
of her own conscience, and the verdict was in every case the same.
Guilty! She had not tried; she had not imagined; everything that she
had done had been done with a grudge; the effort, the forbearance, the
courtesy, had been all on the other side... There fell upon her a panic
of shame and fear, a wild longing to begin again, and retrieve her
mistakes. She couldn't, she could _not_ be sent away and leave Aunt
Maria uncheered, unhelped, harassed rather than helped, as the result of
her visit.
"Oh, Aunt Maria," she cried breathlessly, "give me another chance!
Don't, don't send me away! I'm sorry, I'm ashamed, I've behaved
horribly, but, I _want_ to stay. Give me another chance, and let me
begin again! Honestly, truly, I'll be good, I'll do all that you
want..."
Lady Hayes stared at her earnestly. There was no mistaking the
sincerity of the eager voice, the wide, eloquent eyes, but the poor lady
was plainly puzzled as to what had wrought so speedy a change of front.
With her usual deliberation she waited for several moments before
replying, studying the girl's face with serious eyes.
"My dear, don't imagine that I am thinking of sending you back in
disgrace. Not at all. I will take all responsibility upon myself, and
explain to your parents that I have come to the conclusion that it would
be a mistake to prolong your visit. It has been very dull for you alone
with an old woman, and I am sure that though you have not always
succeeded, you have at least had the intention of making yourself
pleasant and agreeable."
"No!" Darsie shook her bright head in vigorous denial. "I haven't! I
can be fifty times nicer than that, when I really try. Let me stay,
Aunt Maria, and you'll see... It's quite true that I was cross at
first. I hated giving up the holiday with the Vernons, and there seemed
nothing to do; but I've changed my mind. I didn't know you, you see,
and now I do, and I--I would like you to be pleased with me before I
_go_! Please, _please_, Aunt Maria, let me stay!"
"Certainly, my dear, I shall be most pleased." Lady Hayes still wore a
somewhat puzzled expression, but she was undoubtedly gratified by the
girl's appeal, and Darsie bent forward and kissed her cheek with the
feeling of one who has narrowly escaped a great danger.
"That's settled, and now we are going to live happily ever after!"
"Ah, my dear, I am afraid that is too much to expect! I have no
amusements to offer you to relieve the dullness. My health obliges me
to live a quiet life, and I have grown to dread change. Of course,
there are plenty of books to read--improving, well-written books, very
different from the rubbish published to-day. If you would like to have
a little reading aloud, or I could give you lessons in knitting and
crochet..."
Darsie laughed, a bright, audacious laugh.
"I wouldn't like it a bit! I've another plan to suggest, fifty times
nicer and more exciting. Suppose,"--she leaned her arms on the old
lady's knee and looked gaily into her spectacled eyes--"suppose, instead
of your trying to make me old with you, _I_ tried, for a time, to make
you young with _me_? Eh? What do you think? Wouldn't it be far more
fun!"
"You ridiculous child!" But Lady Hayes laughed in her turn, and showed
no signs of dismay. "That would be too difficult an undertaking even
for you. To make me young again, ah, Darsie! that's an impossible
task."
"Not a whit more impossible than to make me old!" cried Darsie quickly.
"Suppose we took turns? That would be only fair. Your day first, when
you would read aloud dull books with the blinds half down; and then my
day, when I'd read funny ones, with the blinds drawn up to the top, and
the sun streaming into the room; your day, when we drove the ordinary
round and came back to lunch; and mine when we went away over the hill
and took a picnic basket and drew up at the side of the road, and ate
it, and got milk from a cottage and drank it out of cups without
saucers! Your night, when we played Patience; and mine when I showed
you tricks and danced figure dances as we do at school. I'm _sure_
you'd like to see me dance the Highland fling! Now--now--promise! I
_know_ you'll promise. I can see the softening in your eye!"
"Ridiculous child!" protested Lady Hayes once more, but Darsie was
right; there was certainly a softening in her eye which bespoke a
disposition to yield. In truth it was not so much of Darsie as of
herself that Lady Hayes was thinking at that moment, for as the young
voice spoke the old heart quickened with quite an agreeable sense of
expectation. Years since she had read a "funny book," years since she
had partaken of a picnic meal; years--many, many years since she had
looked on while a young girl danced! Radical changes and innovations in
the routine of life she could not face at this late day, but Darsie's
girlish plan attempted nothing so ambitious. Let the child have her
way! It would be interesting, undoubtedly interesting, to see how she
behaved.
So Darsie gained her point, and for the next week she and her hostess
played in turn the part of Mistress of the Ceremonies, to their mutual
benefit and satisfaction.