A College Girl, Mrs George de Horne Vaizey [good non fiction books to read txt] 📗
- Author: Mrs George de Horne Vaizey
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This was the programme—
On Wednesday Afternoon Next (Weather permitting)
In Aid of the Fund for Sick and Suffering Spinsters
A First Performance will be given of
The Blood-Curdling and Hair-Raising Melodrama entitled
The Blue Cabbage
by Allthelotofus.
Dramatis Personae.
Efflorescence (A Guileless Maid)—Miss Darsie Garnett.
Meretricia (1st Villainess)—Mr Harry Garnett.
Mycrobe (2nd Villainess)—Mr Russell Garnett.
Elijah B. Higgins (Hero)—Mr Dan Vernon.
Sigismund La Bas (A False Caitiff)—Mr Percy Lister.
D. Spenser (Certificated Poisonmonger)—Mr John Vernon.
Endeavora (A Well-Meaner)—Miss Clemence Garnett.
The Greek Chorus—Miss Hannah Vernon.
N.B.—There is no Cabbage!
Imagine the feelings of a solitary invalid on receipt of such a programme as the above—a programme of an entertainment organised, composed, and designed wholly and solely for her own amusement! Lavender’s mumps were at a painful stage—so sore, so stiff, so heavy, that she felt all face, had no spirit to read, craved for companionship, and yet shrank sensitively from observing eyes. Let those jeer who may, it is an abominable thing to feel a martyr, and look a clown, and poor Lavender’s sensitive nature suffered acutely from the position. Then oh! it was good to feel that to-morrow something exciting was going to happen—that she would be amused, cheered, comforted; that her dear companions would be near her, so near that once again she would feel one of the merry throng.
If only it were fine! Really and truly Lavender felt that she could not support the blow if it were wet. Mumps seem to sap the constitution of moral force; if she could not see the melodrama, she would weep like a child!
It was fine, however. The very elements conspired in her behalf, and produced a still, unshiny day, when the pageant of the melodrama appeared to the best advantage, and the voices rose clear and distinct to that upper window, before which Lavender stood, a muffled figure, in a fur coat and cap, and a great wool shawl swathed round face and neck after the fashion of an English veil.
The melodrama proved even more thrilling than had been expected. On his, or her, first appearance on the scene, each character advanced to a spot directly in front of the upstairs window, and obligingly related the salient points of his life, character, and ambitions, together with a candid exposition of his intentions towards the other members of the cast; the while Hannah, as Greek Chorus, interposed moral remarks and reflections on the same. After an indulgent hearing of these confessions, it would appear that two ambitions were common to the actors—either they wished to elope with the hero or heroine, or to poison the False Caitiff, and the Villainess Number One or Two, or such a contingent of these worthies as excluded themselves.
The Well-Meaner assiduously endeavoured to foil these intents, and received the scant amount of encouragement which falls to well-meaning interference in real life; the Certified Poisonmonger presided over three tin pails of liquids, labelled respectively, “Lingering,” “Sudden,” and “A highly superior article in writhes and coils. As patronised by the Empress of China” and the demand for these wares was naturally brisk in so quarrelsome a company: the False Caitiff chose a sudden death for his rival, the Hero; Meretricia, the first Villainess, poisoned the Caitiff by a more lingering means; Villainess Number Two, under the false impression that the Hero had given his heart to Meretricia, poisoned that good lady, sparing no money on the deed, whereby Russell was afforded an admirable opportunity of exhibiting his wriggling powers. The guileless maid poisoned herself with the dregs in her lover’s glass; and the Poisonmonger, fatigued with the rush of Christmas business, fainted away, and, being revived by potions from his own pails, survived only long enough to administer a forcible dose in revenge. The Well-Meaner’s fate differed from that of her companions in that she was insidiously poisoned by each actor in turn, so that, figuratively speaking, the curtain descended upon a row of corpses, in the midst of which the Greek Chorus intoned exemplary precepts and advice.
Hannah, as Greek chorus, was by common consent pronounced the star of the company, her interpolated reflections being so droll and to the point that even the lingering victims found themselves overcome with laughter.
As for the audience, her joy, though great, was not unmixed with pain. As the melodrama approached its critical point the actors could see her at her window, holding up her mumps with either hand, and the piteous plea—“Don’t make me laugh! Don’t make me laugh!” floated down on the wintry air.
Next day Lavender was worse, and melodramas were banned as a means of recreation; but she sent a touching message of thanks to the troupe, in which she declared that “the joy outweighed the pain,” so that, all things considered, “The Blue Cabbage” was voted a great success.
No sooner did the news of Lavender’s illness, and Darsie’s consequent absence from home, reach the Percival household than three separate letters were dispatched, insisting that at least a part of the remaining holidays should be spent at the Manor.
Pray why, the girls demanded, should Hannah Vernon be allowed to engross Darsie, when she enjoyed her society practically the whole year round? It was unjust, mean, contemptible. They were so dull and sad this Christmas-time. Wouldn’t Darsie come?
Pray why, inquired Ralph ingenuously, did Darsie not come when she had the chance? She knew that he would be glad to see her. It was quite horribly dull. The parents were absurdly humped—
Mrs Percival’s words were few but disturbing: “I want to consult with you about Ralph. You have more influence over him than any one else. Do come, dear child, if you possibly can.”
In face of the last letter it was impossible to say no. Darsie was not sure that she wanted to say no; on the other hand, she was aggravatingly uncertain if she wanted to say yes. At college and at home alike the atmosphere was at once austere and bracing; it would be agreeable to live for a time in the lap of luxury—to be regarded as a miracle of cleverness and beauty; which treatment was invariably bestowed upon her during her visits to The Manor. She would enjoy staying with the Percivals, but she would be sad to miss the cosy hours when Dan and his friend, Percy Lister, joined the little party in the old study, and they all talked together round the fire. What talks they had; what themes they discussed! What animated discussions sprang from a casual word, and were pursued with a go and a spirit which seem to exist only on such informal occasions. Sometimes they laughed and quipped, and beheld everything from the comic point of view; anon, a sudden spirit of earnestness would pass from one to the other, and as the fading light hid their faces from view, tongues were set free, so that they talked of the things which mattered, the towering realities which lay at the heart of life! During these discussions Dan invariably seated himself in the darkest corner, and Darsie, looking across, had again and again the impression of deep eyes staring—staring! Vie Vernon considered the Percivals “grasping creatures,” and didn’t care who knew it; Hannah was placidly unconcerned; Dan made no remark; Percy Lister was leaving himself, and considered that things “fitted in well.” Altogether, in comparison with the enthusiasm of the invitation, the opposition was blightingly resigned. Darsie tossed her head, packed her boxes, and prepared to depart a whole three days sooner than she had originally intended.
On the afternoon before her departure a party was made up for the rink, but at the last moment Darsie excused herself, and declared a wish to stay at home. There were several pieces of sewing and mending which were necessary, there was a letter to be written to Margaret France, and a farewell ode to cheer poor Lavender. A gas fire in her bedroom allowed her to perform these tasks in solitude, but as soon as they were satisfactorily accomplished she made her way downstairs to the study, prepared to enjoy an hour over an interesting book.
The gas was unlit, the usual large fire blazed in the grate; an arm-chair was drawn up to the side, and within it sat Dan, head leaning on hand, in an attitude which spoke of weariness and dejection.
He raised his eyes and looked at her, and Darsie shut the door and came forward eagerly.
“Dan! Back again so soon? Is anything wrong?”
“No!”
“But you look strange. You—you didn’t hurt yourself at the rink?”
“No.”
“Quite, quite sure?”
“Quite.”
Darsie subsided on to her favourite seat—the hearthrug—with a little sigh of relief.
“That’s all right. You’re very monosyllabic, Dan. Shall I disturb you if I sit here for a time?”
“No.”
“A hundred thanks! You are too gracious. I can be quiet if you like. I like staring into the fire and dreaming myself.”
Dan did not answer. Darsie peered at him, moving her little head from side to side so as to get the clearest view. He looked very large—a great shapeless mass of dark in the old red chair.
She liked the bigness of him, felt the old satisfaction at sight of the strong, rugged face, the old craving for confidence and approval. Strange how different one felt in company with different people. Tête-à-tête with Ralph Percival, Darsie felt a giant of strength and resource—assured, self-confident, a bulwark against which others might lean. With Dan, well, with Dan she was just a slip of a girl, conscious of nothing so much as her own weaknesses, mental and physical; her difficult gropings, compared with his clear vision; her tiny hands and wrists, compared with his big sinewy paw; her slim form, compared to the bulk of the square-cut shoulders. Never—Darsie realised it with a smile—never did she feel so humble and diffident as when in Dan’s society; yet, strangely enough, the sensation was far from disagreeable.
“Dan!”
“Darsie!”
“Is anything the matter? Between you and me! You don’t happen to be snarkey, do you, about anything I’ve done?”
“Why should you think I am ‘snarkey’?”
“Because—you are! You’re not a bit sociable and friendly—even your sort of sociability. I’m a guest in your mother’s house if I’m nothing else and it’s your duty to be civil.”
“Haven’t I always been civil to you, Darsie?”
Darsie drew a quick breath of impatience and, seizing upon the poker, beat at the unoffending coal as the best method of letting off steam.
“You are so painfully literal. I can feel what other people are thinking, however much they try to disguise it.”
“How do I feel, for example?”
Darsie turned her head and stared curiously into Dan’s face. The hand on which it leaned shielded it somewhat from view, but, even so, there was something in the intent gaze which filled her with a strange new discomfort. She turned back to her poking once more.
“I think—there’s something that I don’t understand—I think—there’s something you disapprove! I’m a very good girl, and I work very hard, and I’m fond of my friends, and I expect them to be fond of me in return. I don’t like you to disapprove, Dan!”
“I can’t help it, Darsie. I’ve hated that friendship from the beginning, and I hate it more with every month that passes.”
“Oh! that old story.” Darsie’s voice took a tone of impatience; for it was annoying to find that Dan was harking back on the well-known subject of dispute. “Well, I’m sorry to distress you, but I am conceited enough to believe that I have taken no harm from my friendship with Ralph Percival, and that he has reaped some little good from mine. While that state of thing continues, I shall certainly refuse to give him up—even to please you!”
There was silence for several moments, then Dan said slowly—
“If I agreed with your conclusions, I should not try to persuade you, Darsie; but I do not, and my opportunities of judging are better than yours.”
“You are unfair, Dan. It is a
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