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

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 tête-à-tête 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 dénouement, 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