A College Girl by Mrs George de Horne Vaizey (reading in the dark .TXT) 📖

The Towers was a large, very ugly, stucco house, surrounded by a beautiful rolling park. Inside, the rooms were huge and square, and one and all characterised by a depressing pitch of orderliness, which made it almost impossible to believe that they could be used as ordinary human habitations!

Darsie was escorted to a bedroom with ponderous mahogany furniture, so complete a contrast from her own shabby, cheery little den that the sight of it added the final touch to her depression. She refreshed herself by a long splash in hot water, brushed out her tangled mane, put on her Sunday dress, and descended in state to partake of dinner, which was served an hour earlier than usual in consideration of the travellers’ hunger and fatigue.

Despite her weariness and nervous exhaustion, Lady Hayes had made what appeared to Darsie’s unsophisticated eyes a magnificent toilette for the meal, and she eyed the Sunday frock with a criticism which was anything but approving. “But it’s the best I’ve got, except the party one, and I can’t wear that for one old lady,” said Darsie to herself as she followed meekly behind the moire antique train, and seated herself at the end of the dining-table. Two men-servants stood at attention—two! one for each diner, solemn, immovable-looking creatures who seemed to move on wheels and who kept their eyes glued upon every mouthful you ate, ready to pounce upon your plate and nip it swiftly and noiselessly away. They were stricken with dumbness also, if you were to trust the evidence of your senses, but had certainly ears, and could drink in every word you said.

For the rest, it might be soothing to one’s pride to live in a big country house, but it was certainly abnormally dull. The day’s programme never varied by a hair’s breadth, and Aunt Maria, though kind, possessed the failing of all others most trying to the youthful mind. She fussed! She fussed about clothes, she fussed about food, she fussed about draughts, she fussed about manners, deportment, speech, the way you sat down, the way you got up, the way you laughed, yawned, sneezed, crossed the room, and did your hair. From morning to night, “My dear, don’t!” or “My dear, do!” rang in Darsie’s ears, till she was almost beside herself with irritation.

Honestly and laboriously she tried to practise her father’s advice: to put the thought of the seaside party aside, make the most of the good points of her own position, and “fight the good fight,” but the effort seemed to exhaust her physically, as well as mentally, until by the end of the day she looked white and drooping, pathetically unlike her natural glowing self. Aunt Maria noticed the change, and fussed about that, too, but with an underlying tenderness that was upsetting to the girl’s strained nerves.

“You look very tired to-night, my dear! Are you not well? Is there anything the matter?”

“Quite well, thank you. Only—lonely!” replied Darsie, with a plaintive accent on that last word which brought Lady Hayes’s glance upon her in quick inquiry—

“Lonely! But, my dear, you haven’t been a minute alone all day long.”

“No,” agreed Darsie meekly, and said no more, but the little monosyllable was more eloquent than any disclaimer. Lady Hayes flushed, and knitted her brows in thought.

“I must ask some young people to meet you. I have some nice young friends living about a mile away. They are visiting at present, but will soon be home. I will write. Naturally you miss the young society.”

She was so kind, so considerate, that it seemed mean to feel bored and impatient; but, oh dear, how long the days did seem, how dull and monotonous the morning drive, the afternoon needlework, the evening game of patience or bézique.

The climax came one rainy afternoon when the ordinary two-hours drive could not take place, and the hostess and her young guest had spent most of the day together in the library. Now it is trying for an old lady as well as for a young one to be deprived of the usual exercise, and if Darsie’s impatience and rebelliousness of spirit were more acute than usual, Lady Hayes was also more nervous and exacting. In this instance the weight of the old lady’s displeasure seemed to fall upon Darsie’s unfortunate coiffure. Whatever turn the conversation might take, it returned with relentless certainty to “Your hair, my dear! When I was young, young girls wore their hair neatly braided. I intensely dislike all this purring and elaboration. You would look a different girl if you brushed it smoothly.”

“I should,” agreed Darsie coolly. “I should look a sight. My pompadour is the best pompadour in my class. The girls all say so. They ask me how I do it. I’ve taught lots of them to do their own.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. Time enough when you come out to wear ‘pompadours,’ as you call them. And your bow! Ridiculous size! If it were neat and small—”

“They wear them twice as big in America. And in France. Sash ribbons! I would, too, if I could afford. It’s the fashion, Aunt Maria. Every one wears them big.”

“Surely that is all the more reason why a sensible girl should set a good example by being neat and moderate herself! I don’t approve of hair being allowed to grow long at your age, but if it is long, it ought certainly to be kept in bounds. Yours is hanging all over your shoulders at this moment. Most untidy! I am speaking for your own good.”

There was a moment’s chilly silence, then Darsie asked in a tone of extraordinary politeness—

“Just exactly how would you do my hair, Aunt Maria, if you were in my place to-day?”

Lady Hayes straightened herself briskly. “I should brush it,” she said emphatically. “It is naturally curly, no doubt, but I cannot believe that a good brushing would not reduce it to order! I should damp it and brush it well, and then tie it back so that it would not hang loose over your shoulders like a mane. It would be pleasant to see what a difference it would make. A neat head is one of the things which every young gentlewoman should strive to possess.”

Darsie folded her needlework, put it neatly away in her bag, and, rising from her seat, marched slowly from the room. It was nearing the hour for tea, when she usually went upstairs to wash and tidy-up generally, so that there was nothing unusual in her departure; it was only when she was safe inside her room that the extraordinary nature of to-day’s preparations was revealed.

She took off the lace collar and pretty bead necklace which gave an air of lightness to her plain dark dress, wrapped a dressing-jacket round her shoulders, and dipped her head deep into a basin of water. Then with a comb the wet hair was parted accurately in the centre, and brushed to the ears till it had the air of being painted rather than real, so smooth and plastered was the effect. The ends, plaited with merciless tightness, were looped together with a fragment of a broken shoelace, so tightly that from the front no sign of their presence could be suspected. When all was finished and the dressing-jacket thrown aside the effect was positively startling to behold. It did not seem possible to believe that this prim, demure damsel could be the same brilliant-looking creature who had entered the room but ten minutes before, and Darsie herself was half-shocked, half-triumphant at the completeness of the transformation.

“’Spose I had a fever and lost my hair! How simply awful!” she said to herself in terror. “If they could see me at home, they’d never call me pretty again. I think even Aunt Maria will jump!”

She skipped with delight at the possibility, and the gesture seemed so singularly out of keeping with her appearance that she laughed again, restored to good temper by the delightful experience of taking part in a prank once more.

Ten minutes later, accurately at the moment when the tea equipage would be in course of arrangement in the drawing-room, Darsie composed her face into a “prunes and prism” decorum, and slipped noiselessly into the room.

To a certain extent all was as she had expected. Mason stood majestically over the tea-table; James, his satellite, approached with a tray of cakes and sandwiches; Aunt Maria sat waiting in her high-backed chair—so far all was just as she had planned; what she was all unprepared for, however, was the presence of three youthful visitors, two girls and a youth, who sat facing the door, staring at her in stunned dismay.

The Percivals! By all that was ill-timed and embarrassing, the Percivals themselves, returned from their visit, choosing a wet afternoon to drive over and pay their respects to Lady Hayes’s young guest! Sheer horror of the situation took away Darsie’s breath; she stood stock still in the middle of the floor, felt her lips gape apart, the crimson rush to her face, saw in a mental flash a vision of the country bumpkin she must appear—just for a moment, then Aunt Maria’s voice said, in even, equable tones—

“Ah, here she is! Darsie, these are my young friends of whom I have spoken. I am pleased that you should become acquainted. My niece, Darsie Garnett. Noreen, Ida, and Ralph Percival... Now we will have tea!”

The voice, the manner, were absolutely normal. Was it possible that she had not seen? Darsie shot a quick glance at the old lady’s face, met an unconcerned smile, and for the first time in the history of their acquaintance felt a thrill of admiration. Splendid to have such self-control, to show no sign of surprise or irritation! She shook hands awkwardly with the three visitors, and sat down on the nearest chair.

“So awfully pleased to meet you!” cried Noreen gushingly. She was a smart-looking girl of sixteen, with brown eyes and a deeply dimpled chin. Darsie knew exactly what she was thinking—understood that the gushing manner had been adopted to disguise dismayed disappointment in the aspect of a possible companion. Ralph was quite old—eighteen at least, with well-cut features, thin lips, and small grey eyes, a dandy wearing a fancy waistcoat and resplendent white spats. His whole aspect breathed a loud, “I told you so! You would drag me with you. Told you how it would be. Lady Hayes’s grand-niece! What could you expect?” Ida was bubbling over with curiosity. What a fine story she would have to tell to the family party on her return!

Conversation would have dragged pitifully if it had not been for Aunt Maria’s efforts, for the visitors seemed smitten with dumbness, and beneath the fire of their glances Darsie’s embarrassment increased rather than diminished. She had no spirit left; a succession of monosyllables and an occasional “Oh, really!” made up the sum of her contributions to the conversation. It must have been a strong sense of duty which nerved Noreen Percival to offer the invitation which presumably was the object of her visit.

“We want to know if you will come to lunch with us on Thursday, and stay for the afternoon? If it’s fine, we can have some tennis. We will drive you back after tea.”

Darsie hesitated, but apparently the decision was not to be left to her. Aunt Maria accepted with a gracious acknowledgment of Mrs Percival’s kindness, and in answer to a scowl from Ralph his sisters rose and made a hasty adieu.

“We came in the governess cart. The pony gets restless—mustn’t keep him waiting. Thank you so much! Goodbye!”

They were gone; the outer door was shut behind them. Darsie, standing by the tea-table, caught a glimpse of her own reflection in a mirror at the opposite end of the room, a stiff, Dutch-doll of a figure, with plastered hair, crimson cheeks, and plain frock. She glanced at Aunt Maria reseating herself in her