"Is your trunk ready, Darsie? Are you ready to come down? Lunch is on
the table and we're all waiting. Have you fitted everything in? Oh
dear, oh dear, how bleak and bare the room does look! I shall never
have the heart to enter it after you're gone."
Clemence Garnett, aged twenty years, gave a pitiful glance round the
dismantled room, which a few hours before had been decorated with the
many and varied objects which were Darsie's treasures. She looked at
the wooden wardrobe, the doors of which swung wide, showing a row of
empty pegs, at the scattering of paper and rejected ends of ribbon and
lace which littered the floor, and finally back at the figure of Darsie
herself, kneeling before the great black trunk, with her golden hair
ruffling round a flushed, eager face.
"Sit on it, Clemence, like a lamb. It's _got_ to meet, but it's inches
apart still. Sit down with a flop, and be your heaviest, while I fight
with the lock."
"Better take something out. If you make it so full, it may burst half-
way. How would you like that?"
"Not much; but better than leaving anything behind. It wouldn't dare to
burst after costing so much money. There! It's done. You're a pretty
substantial weight, my dear. Now then for lunch and a rest; I've had a
terrific morning."
Darsie rose to her feet and stood for a moment before the mirror,
putting a tidying touch to hair and dress. She was a tall, slim girl,
nearly a head taller than the more substantial Clemence, and the easy
grace which characterised her movements was the first thing which
attracted an unaccustomed eye. Even Clemence, with perceptions dulled
by custom, felt dimly that it was an agreeable thing to watch Darsie
brush her hair and shake out her skirts, though in another person such
acts would be prosaic and tiresome. The crisp hair needed nothing but a
brush and a pat to settle itself into a becoming halo of waves, and the
small face on the long white neck had a quaint, kitten-like charm.
Clemence looked from the real Darsie to the reflected Darsie in the
glass, and felt a sudden knife-like pang.
"Oh, how I _hate_ you going! How dull it will be. Why _couldn't_ you
be content to stay at home instead of taking up this Newnham craze? I
shall miss you hideously, Darsie!"
Darsie smiled involuntarily, then nobly tried to look sad.
"I expect you will, but one grown-up at home is as much as we can
afford, and there'll be lovely long vacs. You must think of those, and
the letters, and coming up to see me sometimes, and term time will pass
in a flash. I'll be back before you realise that I'm gone."
Clemence pouted in sulky denial.
"Nothing of the sort. It will seem an age. It's easy to talk! People
who go away have all the fun and excitement and novelty; it's the poor
stay-at-homes who are to be pitied. How would you like to be me,
sitting down to-morrow morning to darn the socks?"
"Poor old Clem!" said Darsie lightly. A moment later, with relenting
candour, she added: "You'll like it a lot better than being examined by
a Cambridge coach! So don't grouse, my dear; we've both got the work we
like best--come down to lunch, and let's see what mother has provided
for my go-away meal!"
Darsie slid a hand through Clemence's arm as she spoke and the two
sisters squeezed down the narrow staircase, glad in their English,
undemonstrative fashion of the close contact which an inherent shyness
would have forbidden except in this accidental fashion. Across the oil-
clothed passage they went, into the red-walled dining-room, where the
other members of the family waited their arrival.
Mrs Garnett smiled at the traveller with a tinge of wistfulness on her
face; the four young people stared, with a curiosity oddly infused with
respect. A girl who was on the eve of starting for college had soared
high above the level of ordinary school. Lavender, at "nearly
seventeen," wore her fair locks tied back with a broad black ribbon; her
skirts reached to her ankles; she was thin and angular; her head was
perpetually thrust forward, and a pair of spectacles were worn
perpetually over the bridge of her pointed little nose. The description
does not sound attractive, yet in some mysterious manner, and despite
all drawbacks, Lavender _did_ manage to be attractive, and had a select
band of followers at school who practised stoops and poked-out heads out
of sheer admiration of her defects.
Harry's voice was beginning to croak, which, taken together with a
dawning passion for socks, ties, and brilliantine, was an unmistakable
sign of growing up; Russell was preternaturally thin and looked all arms
and legs; while Tim had forsaken knickers for full-fledged trousers, and
resented any attempt at petting as an insufferable offence.
One and all were on their best company manners on the occasion of
Darsie's last lunch, and the most honeyed replies took the place of the
usual somewhat stormy skirmish of wits; nevertheless, there was a
universal feeling of relief when the meal was over, and a peal at the
bell announced the arrival of the cab which was to convey Darsie and a
girl companion on the first stage of their journey.
If anything could have added to Darsie's joy in the fulfilment of a
lifelong ambition, it would have been the fact that Hannah Vernon was to
be her companion at Newnham, as she had been through the earlier
schooldays. All the Vernon family were dears of the first water, and
might have been specially created to meet the needs of their neighbours,
the Garnetts. It is true that the Vernons possessed the enviable
advantage of a big grown-up brother, but when the Garnetts felt
particularly tried on this score, they sought comfort from the
reflection that a brother so solemn and scholarly, so reserved and
unresponsive, hardly counted as a brother at all. Dan was already in
the second year of his Cambridge course, and was expected to do great
things before he left. So far as such a sober person could be made
useful, Darsie Garnett intended to use him towards the furtherance of
her own enjoyment of the new life.
For the rest, Vie, the eldest daughter of the Vernon household, was the
sworn ally and confidante of Clemence, and John, the younger son, was in
himself such a tower of mischievous strength that the Garnett trio sat
at his feet. Last, but certainly not least, came Hannah, and Hannah
was--Darsie would have found it an almost impossible task to describe
"plain Hannah" to an unfortunate who had not the honour of her
acquaintance. Hannah was Hannah, a being distinct by herself--
absolutely different from any one else. To begin with, she was
extraordinarily plain; but, so far from grieving over the fact, Hannah
wore it proudly as the foremost feather in her cap.
It was she herself who had originated and sanctioned the continued use
of the sobriquet, which had its origin in a juvenile answer given by
herself to a stranger who inquired her name.
Now Hannah was the only member of the family who was limited to one
cognomen, so she answered unthinkingly, "Hannah; _plain_ Hannah!" and
instantly descrying the twinkling appreciation in that stranger's eyes,
she twinkled herself, and henceforth led the adoption of the title.
Long use had almost deadened its meaning in the ears of the family, but
strangers still suffered at the hearing.
Plain Hannah's face peered cheerily out of the cab window, her little
eyes twinkled merrily, her preposterous eyebrows arched in derision of
the melancholy group upon the doorsteps. No one dared shed a tear when
she was so evidently on the watch for any sign of weakness, sentimental
farewells were checked upon the speaker's lips, and the whole business
of parting assumed a lighter, a more matter-of-fact air.
A second big box was hoisted on to the cab roof, a few kisses
shamefacedly exchanged, and then the travellers were off, and nothing
remained to the watchers but to trail drearily back into a house from
which half the brightness seemed to have departed.
Well might Clemence say that the worst pain of a parting fell on those
who were left behind! While the stay-at-homes struggled heavily through
a long afternoon, in every moment of which the feeling of loss became
even more acute, Darsie and plain Hannah were enjoying one of the most
exciting experiences of their lives.
In spite of an almost lifelong interest in Cambridge, neither girl had
as yet visited the town itself, so that each incident of the journey was
full of interest and excitement. The station was disappointingly like
other stations, and they had abundant opportunity of examining it at
leisure, since the porters rushed in a body to attend to the male
students who had arrived at the same time, and who could be trusted to
give larger tips than their female companions. The drive through the
streets also fell short of expectations; but, after all, Cambridge meant
Newnham, and there could be no disappointment there! Peered at through
the cab window, the building appeared unexpectedly large and imposing.
It gave one a thrill of importance to realise that for the next three
years one would be part and parcel of its life, an inhabitant of its
great halls.
The cabman descended from the box and rang a peal at the bell, and it
came as something as a shock to see an ordinary-looking maid throw open
the door, though what exactly they had imagined the girls would have
found it difficult to say. The maid inquired their names, led them
forward through a long corridor, and flung open the door of a sitting-
room where a lady sat before a desk. It was a pretty, cheerful-looking
apartment, full of flowers, books, pictures, and quaint old-world
furniture, and the lady herself looked so much like other middle-aged
ladies, that if you had not known it you would never have suspected her
of being the Vice-President of a Women's College.
She was kind and agreeable. She shook hands, and hoped you were well;
hoped you had had a pleasant journey, hoped you would be happy in
College, hoped you would like your rooms; but there was a certain
mechanical quality in her voice which betrayed the fact that she had
said the same thing over and over again on innumerable occasions, would
say it twenty times or more this very afternoon, and that your own
personal arrival left her perfectly calm and cool.
The girls stuttered and stammered in response, felt vaguely crestfallen,
and worried as to what they should do next, but the Vice herself was in
no doubt. "She hoped they were ready for tea," and with a wave of the
hand summoned the maid to lead them a stage forward on their journey.
The second stage deposited the new-comers in the dining-hall, where tea
was already in progress, and about a dozen disconsolate-looking Freshers
were munching at bread-and-butter and cake in a silence which could be
felt. Apparently Darsie and Hannah were the only ones of the number
lucky enough to have come up in pairs, but even their tried powers of
speech were paralysed beneath the spell of that terrible silence, and
still more so by the relentless scrutiny of those twelve pairs of eyes.
And how those Freshers _did_ stare! The whites of their eyes positively
shone, as with one accord the pupils turned towards the opening door.
They had been stared at themselves, had come through the ordeal of being
the last arrival; now, with thanksgiving, they were revenging themselves
upon fresh victims! Darsie felt a horrible certainty that she would
drop her cup, and spill the tea over the floor; plain Hannah munched and
munched, and looked plainer than ever, with her shoulders half-way up to
her ears and her chin burrowed in her necktie.
Presently the door opened again, and another Fresher entered, cast a
frightened glance around, and subsided on to the nearest chair, while
every eye turned to gaze upon her, in her turn. This programme was
enacted several times over before Darsie and Hannah had finished tea,
and were ready to be escorted to the upstairs apartments, which were to
act as bedroom and study combined.
Mercifully the rooms were close together, so that, leaving Darsie half-
way along the corridor, the maid could point to a door near at hand,
where she could join her friend when her inspection was complete. She
entered with the feeling of one on the threshold of a new life, and
stood gazing around in mingled disappointment and delight. The first
impression was of bareness and severity, an effect caused by the absence
of picture or ornament of any kind. A small white bed stood in one
corner; a curtain draped another, acting as a substitute for a wardrobe;
a very inadequate screen essayed unsuccessfully to conceal a wooden
washstand, and a small square of glass discouraged vanity on the part of
an occupant. So far, bad! but, on the other hand, the room contained
inexpensive luxuries, in the shape of an old oak chest, a bureau, a
standing bookcase, and a really comfortable wicker chair.
Darsie could hardly believe that these treasures were meant for her own
use; it seemed more likely that they had belonged to a former student,
who would presently demand their return. She was sorrowfully resigning
herself to this contingency when the door burst open, and in rushed
Hannah, aglow with excitement.
"I've got a chest, and a bookcase, and a bu--"
Her eyes rounded with surprise. "I say! So have you--I thought I _was_
swag! Do you suppose it's the usual thing?"
"Can't say. Topping for us if it is. But the screen's a wretch, and
the walls will need a _lot_ of covering. My few mites of pictures will
go nowhere. There's not _too_ much room for our clothes, either. We'd
better unpack, I suppose, and get out things for dinner. What are you
going to wear?"
"Oh, something--whatever comes handy," replied plain Hannah in her most
casual manner.
The subject seemed to her of infinitesimal importance; but Darsie went
through many agitations of mind before she decided on a high-necked
summer frock, and then suffered still keener pangs because, on
descending to Hall, several Freshers were discovered in full evening
dress, and, in her imagination at least, eyed her lace yoke with
disdain.
Dinner was almost as silent as tea--an ordeal of curious, appraising
eyes, as each Fresher continued to stare at every other Fresher,
condemning her mentally for want of frankness and kindliness, while
utterly neglecting to practise these virtues on her own account. Then
one by one the girls slunk upstairs, tired, shy, and homesick, and crept
gratefully into their narrow beds.
Sleep was long in coming to Darsie Garnett that night: she lay awake
hour after hour, living over again in thought the events of the last
three years.
First and foremost her thoughts went back to the old great-aunt to whose
generosity she owed the present fulfilment of her ambition. Until Lady
Hayes's death, a year ago, Darsie had spent the major part of her
holidays at The Towers, and the friendship between the old woman and the
girl had developed into a very real affection.
It had been a wonderful experience, Darsie reflected, to watch the
gradual mellowing of character, the patient endurance of suffering, the
peaceful death which was so truly a "falling asleep." Until that time
Darsie had felt all a girl's natural shrinking from death, but the sight
of Aunt Maria's peaceful face had dissipated that fear once for all. As
she knelt by the bedside looking at the still, majestic features, she
offered the most fervent prayer of her life--a prayer that she, too,
might be enabled to "submit her way," and so in the end find peace in
her soul!
Her acquaintance with the Percival family had ripened into friendship,
so that, though Noreen and Ida could never by any chance supplant the
Vernon sisters, there were moments when she actually felt more at home
with Ralph than with queer, silent Dan.
Ralph, at twenty-one, had outgrown many of his boyish failings--or
rather, as Darsie shrewdly surmised, had attained the art of screening
them from _view_. Instead of snubbing his sisters' friends and adopting
airs of haughty superiority, he was now all deference and attention,
transparently eager for her society. Dan, on the contrary, was absorbed
in work; he had taken the Longs in summer, so that Darsie had no chance
of meeting him before starting on her annual visits to Lady Hayes. In
the Easter vac. he had visited France and Germany to study languages,
while at Christmas-times he was at once too shy and too busy to take
part in the daily excursions indulged in by his brothers and sisters.
He was doing brilliantly at College, and as a better preparation for his
life's work had decided on a four-years course--taking the Tripos in two
parts, in both of which it was a foregone conclusion that he would take
a first-class.
Ralph Percival was contentedly slacking it in preparation for a pass
degree. "What did it matter?" he demanded serenely. One came to
Cambridge, don't you know, because all one's people had been there,
because it was the thing to do, and a rattling old place for sport and
having a good time. He would be confoundedly sorry when it was over.
Only wished he could slack it out for twice as long!
Darsie first frowned, and then smiled to herself in the dark as she
recalled those utterances, and the actions fitly symbolised her
sentiments towards the heir of the Percivals. Her head had no mercy for
such an utter want of ambition and energy, but the heart plays often a
bigger part than the head in an estimate of a fellow-creature, and
Darsie's heart had a way of making excuses for the handsome truant, who
smiled with such beguiling eyes, had such a pretty knack of compliment,
and was--generally!--ready to play knight-errant in her service. She
felt herself lucky in possessing so charming a friend to act the part of
gallant, and to be at her service when she chose to call. And then
quite suddenly she drew a sharp breath and said aloud in a trembling
voice, "Oh, Aunt Maria, dear Aunt Maria!" and her pillow was wet with
tears; for Aunt Maria was dead, had died too soon to hear of her grand-
niece's experiences at Newnham, to which she had looked forward with
such interest, but not before evoking a real love and gratitude in
Darsie's heart. How thankful the girl was to remember that she had been
able to cheer the last year of that lonely life, to recall every loving
word and action, every tiny scrap of self-denial on her own part which
had repaid in some small way the great gift to herself. Thankful and
grateful she would be to the end of her life, but she was not, and had
not even pretended to be, _sorry_ that Aunt Maria was dead.
"She was old, and she was lonely, and she was ill. I'm _glad_, not
sorry," she had declared to the scandalised Lavender. "I'm glad she'll
never come hobbling downstairs again, and sit all the long, long day in
one chair, waiting for it to end. I'm _glad_ she's forgotten all about
her back, and her feet, and her head, and her joints, and all the
thousand parts that ached, and could not rest. I'm _glad_ she doesn't
need any more spectacles, and sticks, and false teeth, nor to have
people shouting into her ear to make her hear. I'm thankful! If I'd
hated her I might have liked her to live on here, but I loved her, so
I'm glad. She has gone somewhere else, where she is happy, and
cheerful, and _whole_, and I hope her husband has met her, and that they
are having a lovely, lovely time together..."
Darsie was glad, too, in quite an open, unconcealed fashion, when a
legacy of a few thousand pounds lifted a little of the strain from her
father's busy shoulders, made it possible to send Harry and Russell to a
good boarding-school, continue Clemence's beloved music lessons, and
provide many needfuls for household use. It was not only pleasant but
absolutely thrilling to know that as long as she herself lived she
would, in addition, possess fifty pounds a year--practically a pound a
week--of her very, very own, so that even when she grew too old to
teach, she could retire to a tiny cottage in the country, and live the
simple life. In the meantime, however, she was young, and life
stretched ahead full of delicious possibilities and excitements.
Her great ambition had been achieved. She was a student at Cambridge;
the historic colleges whose names had so long been familiar on her lips
lay but a few streets away, while in her own college, close at hand,
along the very same corridor, lay other girls with whom she must work,
with whom she must play, whose lives must of a surety touch her own.
What would happen? How would she fare? When the last night of her
three-years course arrived, and she lay as now in this narrow white bed,
staring across the darkened room which had been her home, what would her
dreams be then? What pictures would arise in the gallery of her mind?
What faces smile at her out of the mist?
"Oh, God," sighed Darsie in a soft, involuntary appeal, "help me to be
good!"