Chapter Twenty Four.
Dan and Darsie.
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 pity to allow yourself to be so prejudiced that you can’t give a fair judgment. I should have imagined that even you would be forced to admit that Ralph had done better this term.”
Dan did not speak. He turned his head and looked Darsie full in the eyes, and there was in his look a puzzled, questioning air, which she found it difficult to understand. When he spoke again, it was not to reply in any direct way to her accusation, but to ask a question on his own account.
“Darsie, do you mind telling me—is your position entirely disinterested? Do you look upon the fellow merely as a man to be helped, or do you care for him for his own personal sake?”
Darsie deliberated. The firelight played on her downcast face, on the long white throat rising from the low collar of her white blouse, on the little hands clenched round the steel poker. Before her mind’s eye arose the memory of handsome, melancholy eyes; imagination conjured back the sound of impassioned appeals. Her expression softened, her voice took a deeper note.
“He needs me, Dan!”
That was her answer. Dan nodded in silence, accepting it as sufficient. He rose from his chair, and paced up and down the room, hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, head held back with the characteristic forward tilt of the chin. Darsie, watching him, thought involuntarily of a caged animal striving restlessly against the bars. Her heart gave a little throb of relief when he spoke again in his own natural voice.
“All right, Darsie. Good luck to your efforts! I appreciate your intentions, and am only sorry that I can’t agree. According to my belief no one can help a man who refuses to help himself. We’ve got to fight our own battles, and to bear our own burdens! If some one steps forward and offers to undertake for us, we may imagine for a time that we are set free, but it’s a mistake! Sooner or later the time comes when we’re bound to fight it out alone, and it doesn’t get easier for being deferred. Everything that is worth learning in life we have to worry out for ourselves!”
Darsie drew a long, trembling sigh. How puzzling life was, when the two people on whose judgment you most relied delivered themselves of directly opposing verdicts! Mrs Reeves believed that her help was all-important to Ralph’s progress; Dan insisted that her efforts were in vain.
Was he right? Was he wrong? Could she honestly assure herself that Ralph was stronger, more self-reliant, more able to stand alone without the stimulus of constant support and encouragement? Instinctively Darsie’s hand went up to touch the little golden brooch which fastened the lace collar of her blouse. If the anchor were withdrawn, would Ralph drift once more towards the rocks? The answer was difficult. She pondered it aloud, speaking in low, anxious tones, with lengthened pauses between the words.
“We’re both right, Dan. We’ve both got hold of bits of the truth! In the end we must win through for ourselves, but surely, in preparation for the battle, we can give each other some help. Some natures seem made to stand, and others to lean. A prop is not of much account, but it may serve to keep a plant straight while it is gathering strength. The big oaks need no props; they are so strong that they can’t understand; they have no pity for weakness.”
Dan stopped short in his pacings.
“That meant for me, Darsie?”
“Humph! Just as you please! Oaks are nice things—big, and strong, and restful, but just a little bit inclined to grow—gnarled!”
Dan vouchsafed no reply, and Darsie sat, hands clasped round knees, staring into the fire for five long, silent minutes. She was hoping that Dan would never grow “gnarled” towards herself, longing for him to speak and promise that he would not, but he still remained silent, and presently the door burst open, the rinking party appeared on the threshold, and the opportunity for quiet conclave was over.