It was Christmas Day; fifteen eventful months had passed by since Darsie
Garnett and Hannah Vernon had made their appearance in Clough in the
character of modest and diffident Freshers. Now, advanced to the
dignity of second-year girls, they patronised new-comers with the best,
and talked, thought, and behaved as though, deprived of their valuable
support, the historical centre of Cambridge must swiftly crumble to the
dust.
The little air of assurance and self-esteem which seems inseparable from
a feminine student had laid its hand on Darsie's beauty, robbing it of
the old shy grace, and on each fresh return to the old home Clemence and
Lavender eloquently described themselves as "squelched flat" by the
dignified young woman who sailed about with her head in the air, and
delivered an ultimatum on every subject as it arose, with an air of "My
opinion is final. Let no dog bark!"
These mannerisms, however, were only, after all, a veneer; and when two
or three days of merry, rollicking family life had passed by, the old
Darsie made her appearance once more, forgot to be learned and superior,
forbore to refer to college and college ways in every second or third
sentence, and showed a reviving interest in family affairs.
Clemence was fatter than ever, a subject of intense mortification to
herself, though at each fresh meeting she confided in whispered asides
that she had "lost five pounds--ten pounds," as the case might be. No
one believed in these diminutions, but if one happened to be amiably
disposed, one murmured vaguely, and affected conviction; and if one were
not, one openly jeered and scoffed! Lavender was sentimental and wrote
poetry in which "pale roses died, in the garden wide, and the wind blew
drear, o'er the stricken mere." She had advanced to the dignity of long
skirts, and dressed her hair--badly!--in the latest eccentricity of
fashion.
Vie Vernon, on the contrary, had developed into a most elegant person,
quite an accomplished woman of the world, darkly suspected of "going to
be engaged" to a young lawyer with a dark moustache, who had lately
developed a suspicious fondness for her father's company.
It really gave one quite a shock to realise _how_ grown-up the old
companions had become even the brothers Harry and Russell were
transformed into tall striplings who bought newspapers on their own
account, and preferred, actually _preferred_, to be clean rather than
dirty! It was a positive relief to listen to Tim's loud voice, look at
his grimy paws, and reflect that one member of the family was still in
the enjoyment of youth.
As usual, the postman's arrival was the first excitement of Christmas
morning. He brought with him an armful of letters and parcels, and
Darsie was quick to spy Ralph Percival's handwriting upon one of the
smallest and most attractive-looking of the packets.
The colour came into her cheeks as she looked, but after holding the
parcel uncertainly for a moment, she laid it down again, and proceeded
to open other letters and boxes, leaving this particular one to the
last. An onlooker would have been puzzled to decide whether it was more
dread or expectation which prompted this decision; and perhaps Darsie
herself could hardly have answered the question. The table was soon
spread with envelopes and wrappings of paper which had enclosed
souvenirs from college friends, and the more costly offerings from Mrs
Percival and her girls, inscribed with the orthodox words of greeting.
Darsie ranged them in order, and then, still hesitating, turned to the
last packet of all.
Inside was a note folded so as to act as additional wrapper for a small
white box. Ralph's writing, large and well-formed like himself, filled
the half-sheet.
"Dear Darsie,--I hope you will accept the enclosed trifle which has been
made for you, from my own design. You will understand its meaning! I
am more than ever in need of pulling up! Don't fail a fellow, Darsie!
"Yours,--
"Ralph B. Percival."
Inside the box lay a small but beautifully modelled anchor brooch, with
a fine golden rope twined round the stock. Darsie looked at it with the
same mingling of joy and pain which seemed inseparable from each stage
of her friendship with this attractive but irresponsible young man.
It was just like Ralph to have thought of this pretty and graceful way
of expressing his sentiments, and it was not in girl nature to resist a
glow of gratified vanity; but as she turned the golden anchor in her
hands and realised the significance of the symbol, an old impatience
stirred in Darsie's heart. A man who trusted to another for anchorage
in life, and who was ever in danger of breaking loose and drifting on to
the rocks, was not the strong knight of a young girl's dreams. There
were moments when the protecting tenderness which had prompted the last
year's efforts gave place to sudden intolerance and resentment.
Inspired by Mrs Reeves's words in her first term at college, Darsie had
set gallantly to the task of influencing Ralph Percival for good, and
preventing his further deterioration. At first it had appeared a
forlorn hope; and she would have despaired many a time if it had not
been for the encouragement which she received from Mrs Reeves and her
"curate," Margaret France. Then gradually and surely her influence had
begun to make itself felt. It could not truthfully be said that she had
so inspired Ralph that he had turned over a new leaf, and abandoned bad
practices from a desire for the right itself. If the truth must be
told, desire for his pretty mentor's approbation and praise had been a
far stronger factor in the improvement which seemed to have been
effected.
Ralph was emotional, and as his interest in Darsie deepened into the
sentimental attachment which seemed a natural development of their
intimacy, he grew increasingly anxious to stand well in her estimation.
During the May term there had been teas in the college gardens,
breakfast parties at the Orchard, picnics on the river, which had
afforded opportunities of _tete-a-tete_ conversations when, amidst the
flowers and the sunshine, it had been quite an agreeable sensation to
lament over one's weaknesses and shortcomings, and to receive in return
the wisest of counsels from Darsie's pretty lips.
"To please _you_, Darsie!--I'm hanged if I care what other people think,
but if _you_ ask me--" The promises gained were all couched in this
personal vein. "If you chuck me, Darsie, I shan't worry any more."
This was the threat held out for the future. Unsatisfactory, if you
will, yet the fact remained that for the first part of the last term
Ralph _had_ appeared to show greater interest in work than he had before
manifested, and had been involved in a minimum of scrapes.
There were moments when, remembering these facts, Darsie felt proudly
that she had not lived in vain; moments when Ralph's dependence on
herself and graceful acknowledgments of her help seemed the chief
interest in life. But there were also other moments when the bond
between them weighed heavy as a chain. In less than two years the
training days would be over, Ralph would be a man, and she herself a
woman on the threshold of life. Would she be expected to play the part
of permanent anchor, and, if so, could she, should she undertake the
task?
For the last few weeks of the term Darsie had been so absorbed in her
own surroundings that she had had no time or thought to bestow on
outside interests, and Mrs Reeves being abroad, no college news came to
her ears from that source.
Now since the beginning of the holidays Ralph's name had hardly been
mentioned, since family interests were predominant, and Darsie had
learned from experience that the subject of "Percival" was calculated to
send Dan Vernon into his most taciturn mood.
On this Christmas morning, however, Darsie was in a mood of somewhat
reckless gaiety; let the future take care of itself. For to-day, at
least, she was young and happy and free; the Vernon family was coming
over in bulk to spend the evening, when the presence of one of Dan's
chums would supply an agreeable element of novelty to the occasion. Not
one single gloomy thought must be allowed to cloud the sunshine of this
Christmas Day!
Dinner was served at seven o'clock, and was truly a festive occasion.
The dining-room table being unequal to the task of providing
accommodation for sixteen people, the schoolroom table had to be used as
a supplement. It was a good inch higher than the other, and supplied
with a preponderance of legs, but these small drawbacks could not weigh
against the magnificent effect of the combined length, covered, as it
was, with fruit, flowers, and a plethora of bright red bonbons and
crackers. The girls wore their prettiest evening frocks; the turkey,
the goose, the plum-pudding, and the mince-pies were all paragons of
their kind, while dessert was enlivened by the discovery of small
surprise presents cunningly hidden away within hollowed oranges, apples,
and nuts. Silver thimbles, pocket-calendars, stamp-cases, sleeve-links,
and miniature brooches, made their appearance with such extraordinary
unexpectedness that Darsie finally declared she was afraid to venture to
eat even a grape, lest she might swallow a diamond alive!
When the hilarious meal had come to an end, the company adjourned into a
drawing-room illumined by firelight only, but such firelight! For over
a week those logs had been stacked by the kitchen grate so that they
might become "as dry as tinder."
Placed in the big grate, they sent up a leaping, crackling flame which
was in itself an embodiment of cheer, and when the sixteen chairs were
filled and ranged in a circle round the blaze, there was a Christmas
picture complete, and as goodly and cheery a picture as one need wish to
see. A basket of fir-cones stood at either side of the grate, and the
order of proceedings was that each guest in turn should drop a cone into
the heart of the fire, and relate an amusing story or coincidence the
while it burned. Results proved that the amount of time so consumed
varied so strangely that suggestions of foul play were made by more than
one raconteur.
"It's not fair! Some one has got at these cones! Some of them have
been soaked to make them damp!--"
Be that as it may, no one could possibly have foretold who would happen
to hit on this particular cone, so that the charge of injustice fell
swiftly to the ground.
Mrs Garnett opened the ball with a coincidence taken from her own life,
the cone burning bright and blue the while.
"When I was a girl of twenty, living at home with my father and mother,
I had a curiously distinct dream one night about a certain Mr
Dalrymple. We knew no one of that name, but in my dream he appeared to
be a lifelong friend. He was a clergyman, about sixty years of age--not
handsome, but with a kind, clever face. He had grey hair, and heavy
black eyebrows almost meeting over his nose. I was particularly
interested in his appearance, because--this is the exciting part!--in
my dream I was engaged to him, and we were going to be married the
following month... Next morning, when I awoke, the impression left was
unusually distinct, and at breakfast I made them all laugh over my
matrimonial plans. My sisters called me `Mrs Dalrymple' for several
days, and then the joke faded away, and was replaced by something newer
and more exciting. Two years passed by, and then, in the summer
holidays, I went to Scotland to pay a visit. A slight accident on the
line delayed me at a small station for a couple of hours, and I strolled
through the village to pass the time by seeing what could be seen. It
was a dull little place, and the principal street was empty of every one
but a few children until, when I reached the end, a man in a black coat
came suddenly out of a house and walked towards me. He was tall and
elderly and thin, his hair was grey, his eyebrows were dark and met in a
peak over his nose. My heart gave a great big jump, for it was the face
of the man I had seen in my dream--the man who was to have been my
husband! You can imagine my surprise! It was many, many months since I
had given a thought to the silly old dream, but at the first glance at
that face the memory of it came back as clear and distinct as on the
morning after it had happened. I walked towards him quite dazed with
surprise, and then another extraordinary thing happened! He was
evidently short-sighted, and could not distinguish figures at a
distance, but presently, as we drew nearer together, he in his turn
started violently, stared in my face as if he could hardly believe his
eyes, and then rushed forward and seized me by the hand. `I _am_ glad
to see you--I _am_ glad! This _is_ a pleasure! When did you come?'
Poor old man! My blank face showed him his mistake, and he dropped my
hand and began to mumble out apologies. `I've made a mistake. I
thought you were--I thought you were--' He frowned, evidently searched
in vain for a clue, and added feebly, `I thought I knew you. _Your face
is so familiar_!' It was all over in a minute. He took off his hat,
and hurried on overcome with embarrassment, and I turned mechanically in
the direction of the church. It was closed, but by the gate stood a
board bearing the hours of services, and beneath them the name of the
minister of the parish. I read it with a thrill. The name was `_The
Rev. John Dalrymple_'!"
Mrs Garnett lay back in her chair with the contented air of a
_raconteuse_ who has deftly led up to a _denouement_, and her audience
gasped in mingled surprise and curiosity.
"How _thrilling_! How weird!"
"What an extraordinary thing! Go on! Go on! And what happened next?"
Mrs Garnett chuckled contentedly.
"I met your father, married him, and lived happily ever after! As for
Mr Dalrymple, I never met him again nor heard his name mentioned. The
sequel is not at all exciting, but it was certainly an extraordinary
coincidence, and caused me much agitation at the time. I have timed
myself very well--my cone has just burned out. Who's turn comes next?"
There followed a somewhat lengthened pause while every one nudged a
next-door neighbour, and disdained responsibility on his own account.
Then Mr Vernon stepped into the breach.
"I heard a curious thing the other day. A friend of mine was taken
suddenly ill on a hillside in Switzerland, was carried into a chalet and
most kindly tended by the good woman. When, at the end of several
hours, he was well enough to leave, he wished to make her a present of
money. She refused to take it, but said that she had a daughter in
service in England, and that it would be a real pleasure to her, if,
upon his return, my friend would write to the girl telling her of his
visit to the old home. He asked for the address, and was told, `Mary
Smith, care of Mr Spencer, The Towers, Chestone.' He read it, looked
the old woman in the face and said, `_I_ am Mr Spencer! _I_ live at
The Towers, Chestone; and my children's nurse is called Mary Smith!'
There! I can vouch for the absolute truth of that coincidence, and I
think you will find it hard to beat."
"And what did he say to the nurse?" asked literal Clemence, to the
delight of her brothers and sisters, whose imaginary dialogues between
master and maid filled the next few minutes with amusement.
Dan's friend hailed from Oxford, and gave a highly coloured account of a
practical joke in several stages, which he had played on an irritating
acquaintance. The elder members of the party listened with awe, if
without approval, but Tim showed repeated signs of restlessness, and in
a final outburst corrected the narrator on an all-important point.
"That's the way they had it in _Britain's Boys_!" he declared, whereupon
the Oxford man hid his head under an antimacassar, and exclaimed
tragically that all was discovered! "Now it's Darsie's turn! Tell us a
story, Darsie--an adventure, your own adventure when you went out in
that punt, and the mill began working--"
"Why should I tell what you know by heart already? You'd only be
bored."
"Oh, but you never tell a story twice over in the same way," persisted
Clemence with doubtful flattery. "And Mr Leslie has never heard it.
I'm sure he'd be interested. It really _was_ an adventure. So
romantic, too. Ralph Percival is _so_ good-looking!"
"I fail to see what his looks have to do with it," said Darsie in her
most Newnham manner. "Strong arms were more to the purpose, and those
he certainly does possess."
"Strong arms--stout heart!" murmured Lavender in sentimental aside.
"Well, then, tell about the treasure-hunt in the Percivals' garden--and
how you--you know! Go on--that's another _real_ adventure."
"All Miss Darsie's adventures seem to have been in connection with the
Percival family!" remarked the Oxford man at this point.
Darsie flushed with annoyance, and retired determinedly into her shell.
She was seated almost in the centre of the circle, between her father
and John Vernon, and the leaping light of the fire showed up her face
and figure in varying shades of colour. Now she was a rose-maiden,
dress, hair, and face glowing in a warm pink hue; anon, the rose changed
into a faint metallic blue, which gave a ghostlike effect to the slim
form; again, she was all white--a dazzling, unbroken white, in which the
little oval face assumed an air of childlike fragility and pathos. As
she sat with her hands folded on her knee, and her head resting against
the dark cushions of her chair, more than one of the company watched her
with admiration: but Darsie was too much occupied with her own thoughts
to be conscious of their scrutiny.
As each story-teller began his narrative, she cast a momentary glance in
his direction, and then turned back to fire-gazing once more. Once or
twice she cast a curious glance towards the far corner where Dan Vernon
was seated, but he had drawn his chair so far back that nothing could be
distinguished but the white blur of shirt-front. Darsie wondered if Dan
were uninterested, bored, asleep--yet as her eyes questioned the
darkness she had the strangest impression of meeting other eyes--dark,
intent eyes, which stared, and stared--
Vie Vernon was telling "a _most interesting_ coincidence," her opening
sentence--"It was told to me by a friend--a lawyer,"--causing
surreptitious smiles and nudges among her younger hearers. "There was a
girl in his office--a typewriting girl. All the money had been lost--"
"Whose money? The lawyer's or the office's?"
"Neither! Don't be silly. The girl's father's, of course."
"You never told us that she had a father!"
"Russell, if you interrupt every minute, I won't play. Of course he'd
lost it, or the girl wouldn't have been a typist. Any one would know
that! Ed--the lawyer did sea-sort of business--what do you call it?--
marine things--and the girl typed them. Years before a brother had
disappeared--"
"The lawyer's brother?"
"No! I'm sorry I began. You are so disagreeable, The _girl's_ uncle,
of course, and they often wanted to find him, because he was rich, and
might have helped them now they were poor. One day, when she was typing
out one of the depositions--"
"Ha!" The unusual word evoked unanimous comment. "`De-pos-itions--if
you please'! How legal we are becoming, to be sure!"