A College Girl, Mrs George de Horne Vaizey [good non fiction books to read txt] 📗

female, received instructions as to their future work, and had the excitement of witnessing the return of the second and third year girls, whose manner was strikingly different from that of the modest Freshers. Dinner that evening was more of an ordeal than ever, with a galaxy of such assured, not to say aggressive, young women, staring with all their eyes at their new companions, and, to judge from the expressions on their faces, forming the meanest opinion of their intelligence!

Hannah Vernon was of all the Freshers the least upset by their scrutiny, but then plain Hannah was proverbially thick-skinned about the opinion of others.

“Let ’em stare if it amuses ’em—I don’t mind! Long time since I’ve been so much admired,” she returned composedly to Darsie’s indignant whisper. “Every dog has its day. Wait till it’s our turn! I’ll wear specs for that day—if I never do again, and glare over them like our friend in green. I’ve been taking notes, and her glare is worth all the rest put together. I feel sure she sees into my pocket, and knows exactly how much there is in my purse. Perhaps she’s jealous of you. You’re the prettiest girl here—old or new!”

“Oh, am I? Nice!” cried Darsie, dimpling. She peered around the tables, examining the faces of the girls within sight with an appraising eye, compared them with the reflection which looked back at her out of her own mirror, and felt an agreeable sense of conviction. There was one slim, dark-eyed girl with a bright rose flush on her cheeks, as to whose claim she felt a moment’s uncertainty, but when she turned her head—lo, a nose was revealed soaring so unbecomingly skyward that Darsie breathed again. Yes! she was the prettiest. Now if she could just manage to be the most popular also, and, not the cleverest, of course—that was too much to expect—but well in the front rank, how agreeable it would be, to be sure!

The dining-hall looked much more cheery tonight, when the long table was surrounded by over sixty students in their brightly coloured dresses; the buzz of conversation rose steadily throughout the meal, and by the time that coffee was served curiosity seemed satisfied, for the staring had come to an end.

“I think you must be Dan Vernon’s sister. May I introduce myself? I am Helen Ross.” A tall girl, with brown hair brushed low over her ears, stood beside Hannah’s chair, holding out her hand with an air of assurance which plainly intimated that the mention of her name was expected to arouse instant recognition. Hannah, who had never heard it before, and was not skilled in the art of pretence, stared back in blank surprise.

“Oh–h! Really? Yes, I’m Hannah Vernon. This is my friend Miss Garnett.”

Helen Ross nicked her eyelashes at Darsie by way of a bow, but bestowed no spoken greeting.

“Rather beastly, the first day, isn’t it?” she drawled, turning to Hannah once more. “Feel such a pelican in the wilderness, wandering about, not knowing what to be after next. Make me useful, do! I’d like to be useful. Told your brother I’d show you the ropes. Did you get your milk last night? Half a pint each is your allowance. You get it from the pantry directly after dinner, and take it upstairs for cocoa. Have you discovered your gyp-room yet?”

Hannah stolidly shook her head, whereupon Miss Ross proceeded to further explanations. The gyp-room was a species of pantry, one of which was to be found on each corridor, whence cups, saucers, and other utensils for the preparation of the famous ten o’clock “cocoas” could be obtained. You helped yourself, don’t you know, and you took the things back when you had done with them, but you didn’t wash them up. The gyp-room owned a presiding dignitary of its own who was known as the “gyp-woman,” who obligingly performed that service. Then Miss Ross expressed a wish to see Hannah’s room, and the three girls ascended the stairs together, and the two Freshers stood by meekly while the two-year girl indulged in candid criticism.

“Humph! Not so bad. Rather a barn at present, but it’ll look all right when you’ve fixed it up. Always takes a few days to settle down, but one lives in one’s room so much that it’s worth taking pains. You can get no end into the coffin, that’s one blessing!”

“Coffin!” Hannah and Darsie jerked at the ominous word, whereupon Miss Ross smiled with complacent superiority.

“Ah! of course, you don’t know that name. The chest’s the ‘coffin,’ and you keep hats in it, likewise odd boxes, and evening cloaks, and other perishable splendours. Every one calls them coffins, so you’ll have to get used to it, I’m afraid; and the bureau’s a ‘burry,’ and the screen’s a ‘farce,’ and a topply one at that. You’ll have to buy another to take its place. They never do supply you with decent screens. By the way, there’s an auction on to-night! Did any one tell you? That’s your chance of picking up the things you want. It’s held in the Gym. at ten o’clock, and is not bad fun. I’ll come along and take you, if you’d care to go.”

“Thanks. Yes, I’d like to see everything that’s going on. What sort of things are for sale?”

“All sorts of discards that have been left behind by other girls—screens, bed-covers, curtains, china flower-pots, chairs, kettles, pictures. Sometimes there’s quite a fine show.”

“Sounds attractive! And who is the auctioneer?”

“A second-year girl—the one who is credited with the greatest amount of wit.”

There was a moment’s silence while the two Freshers each mentally leaped a year ahead, and saw herself in this proud and enviable position.

“Who’s the one to-night?”

“Margaret France.” Miss Ross’s lips curled expressively. “I hope you won’t judge us by her standard. She’s certainly not the one whom I should have chosen to fill the position!”

Silence again, while the Freshers reflected that they knew very well whom Miss Helen Ross would have chosen if she had had the chance, and were glad that she hadn’t.

“Well, I’ll call round about ten. Make up your fire, and be comfortable. You’re allowed a scuttle of coals a day, and let me warn you to use it! If it’s not all burnt, keep a few lumps in a convenient cache—a box under the bed will do. It comes in handy for another day, and when it gets really cold you can stoke up at night and have a fire to dress by in the morning. The authorities don’t approve of that—they say it’s bad for the stoves. Personally I consider myself before any stoves.”

She nodded casually and strode from the room, leaving the two friends divided between gratitude for her kindness and prejudice against her personality.

“Don’t like her a bit, do you?”

“Humph. So-so! Means well, I think. Wonder how she knows Dan? He never mentioned her name.”

“Not at all the sort of girl Dan would care for! Such a bumptious manner. A good many of them have, I observe. Fearfully self-possessed. Perhaps it’s a special effort to impress the Freshers. She didn’t take much notice of me, but I’m coming with you all the same to buy fixings for my room, and hear the second-year auctioneer. Call for me when you’re ready, like a dear. I’m off now to read until ten o’clock.”

Darsie shut herself in her room, and set to work at her burry with all the ardour of a beginner, so that the hour and a half passed like a flash, and it seemed as if she had scarcely begun before Hannah’s solid bang sounded at the door, and she went out into the corridor to follow Helen Ross to the Gym.

The auction had already begun, and the auctioneer, a fresh-looking girl with grey eyes planted extraordinarily far apart, was engaged in extolling the excellencies of an aged kettle to a laughing circle of girls. She wore a black dress cut square at the neck, and a rose-coloured ribbon twined round her head. She held out the kettle at the length of a bare white arm, and raised her clear voice in delightful imitation of the professional wheedle.

“Friends and Freshers! We now come to Lot Three, one of the most striking and interesting on the catalogue. A kettle, ladies, is always a useful article, but this is no ordinary kettle. We have it on unimpeachable authority that this kettle was the kettle in residence at the establishment of our late colleague Miss Constantia Lawson, the Senior Classic of her year! The kettle of a Senior Classic, Freshers! The kettle which has ministered to her refreshment, which has been, in the language of the poem, the fount of her inspiration! What price shall I say, ladies, for the kettle of a Senior Classic? Sixpence! Did somebody say sixpence! For the kettle of a Senior Classic! Eightpence! Thank you, madam. For the kettle of a— What advance on eightpence? Freshers would do well to consider this opportunity before it is too late. What an—an inebriating effect, if I may use the word without offence to the late lamented poet, would be added to the cup that cheers by the thought that the same handle, the same spout, the same—er—er—furry deposit in the inside, have ministered to the refreshment of one of the master spirits of our day! Going at eightpence—eightpence-halfpenny—I thank you, madam! At tenpence! No advance on tenpence? Going—going—gone!”

The hammer descended with a rap, the auctioneer leaned back with an air of exhaustion, and handed the kettle to her clerk, in blue silk and crystal beads.

“Lady to the right. Tell the lady, Joshua, that the small hole in the bottom can easily be soldered by an obliging ironmonger, or, if she prefers, she can hang the kettle on the wall as an object of vertu!”

Peals of laughter greeted this tragic disclosure. The lady to the right refused for some minutes to hand over her tenpence, but finally succumbed to the feeling of the meeting, when a crumpled cotton bed-cover was next produced for sale.

“Lot Four. Handsome Oriental bedspread—design of peacocks, vultures, and pear-trees, in gorgeous colourings. Encircling border on a background of blizzard white, and corner pieces complete. Eight feet by three. Joshua! carry the bedspread round and allow the ladies to examine it for themselves. It is excessively hurtful to our feelings when purchasers imply that deception has been practised in order to induce them to purchase our goods. Show the ladies the spread! Pure cotton, ladies. Fast colours. Design by Alma Tadema, in his happiest mood. You could not possibly purchase such a spread in any establishment, ladies, under the sum of two-and-six. Fine Oriental goods, warranted to impart an air of opulence to the humblest bedstead. Any Fresher wishing to give the last touch of costly elegance to her room should not neglect this opportunity. What am I to say, ladies, for this handsome spread? Sixpence again! Thank you, madam! Sixpences seem in the ascendant to-night. Let us hope the collections on Sunday next will benefit from the ensuing dearth. Ninepence! At ninepence. Pardon, madam? The lady in the eyeglasses wishes to make a remark, Joshua. The lady in the eyeglasses remarks that one side of the spread has been torn. The lady is evidently unaware that that fact is a proof positive of the authenticity of the spread. No Eastern article, as all travellers are aware, is ever even at both sides.” Another burst of laughter greeted this point. The auctioneer showed her pretty white teeth in a complacent smile, her wide grey eyes roved round the room, and met Darsie’s eyes raised to her in beaming admiration.

“One-and-six did you say, madam?” she cried instantly. “Did I understand you to say one-and-six? The opportunity will never occur again. At one-and-six for the lady in violet. Take the name and address if you please, Joshua.” And Darsie, with a shrug and a laugh, paid out her one-and-six, and received in return the