Chapter Twenty Six.
At the Orchard.
Ralph Percival spent a long hour alone with his father in the chill dawn of that New Year’s morn, and during its passing heard more stern home-truths than he had ever before listened to from those indulgent lips. The Squire had not insisted on any arduous work on his son’s part: in his heart he shared Ralph’s theory that a man whose life is to be spent looking after his own land has no need of much scholarly lore. He must be straight and manly, intelligent enough to understand and move with the movements of the day, but not so intelligent as to grow discontented with a circle of admirable, but somewhat humdrum, neighbours. He must be possessed of courteous and agreeable manners, able on occasion to take the chair at a meeting, possibly even on a Bench, with credit to himself and his family.
A ’Varsity education was obviously the best means of developing such qualities, but who was going to bother his head as to the question of honours or no honours? There was no reason why the boy should slave as if he had his living to make by sheer brain effort. The Squire was prepared to show the utmost leniency towards Ralph’s scholastic efforts, but that he should have persistently broken the rules, ignored warnings, incurred gambling debts, and, crowning indignity of all, that he should have been sent down, even for the last week of the term—that stabbed the honest old countryman to his heart.
He said very little on the subject of his own feelings; such men are not given to talk of themselves, but the tone of his voice was eloquent, and Ralph winced before it. It was a new experience for the spoilt son and heir to hear any accents but those of love and appreciation from a member of his own family, and the experience was unexpectedly bitter. Who could have believed that the Governor would cut up so rough—could deliver himself of such sledge-hammer judgments? The card debts would be paid, there was no question of that—every debt should be paid—and Ralph should return to college with a clean sheet so far as money was concerned, and with his handsome allowance undiminished—for the present. He himself must decide what would happen in the future. The Squire asked for no promises; he had had experience of the uselessness of promises (the listener winced again at the significance of those words); but Ralph must understand that any debts would be subtracted from his own future allowance. He must also understand that he was expected to take his pass the following May. There had been too much shirking and running loose—now he must work for a change. For his parents’ sake, his sisters’ sake, he must make amends for the pain and shame of the last weeks.
It was a painful scene for both father and son, but the charm of manner which was the great secret of Ralph’s popularity did not forsake him, even in this hour of humiliation. He made an ideal penitent—abashed, yet manly, subdued and silenced, yet when the right moment came ready with a few apt, quietly spoken words.
“Thank you, sir. You are always generous. I’ve made a beastly poor return. I hope this year may end better than it has begun.”
Poor Ralph! How little he guessed at that moment all that the year held in store! How little the father dreamed of the altered conditions with which he would face another New Year’s Day! But so long as they both lived it was good to remember that the interview had ended peacefully and with a renewed sense of harmony, with a firm hand-grip and an affectionate glance.
Ralph took his candle from a table in the hall and made his way quietly up the oak staircase, and his father stood below and watched him go, while his heart waxed tender within him.
His son—his only son! He would give his heart’s blood for the lad. Had he been just, wise, prudent, in the words which he had said? Had he been stern enough?—too stern? He was in a thousand minds about his own conduct, but in only one as regards Ralph’s. The boy had taken his dressing like a man. How handsome he had looked as he stood to listen, not flinching or hanging his head as an ordinary culprit would have done, but drawn to his full height, with straight, fearless gaze. With what a frank air he had held out his hand for that farewell grasp! Bless the boy! his heart was in the right place. He would settle down, and make a fine man yet. Patience! Patience!
And so when the family met again for a late breakfast that New Year’s morning there was no shadow visible on the horizon, and throughout the remainder of Darsie’s visit every day seemed given up to enjoyment, and brought with it some fresh festivity.
Contrary to her expectation, the subject of Ralph’s troubles was avoided rather than sought, and it was only on the eve of her departure to Newnham that mother and sisters broke the silence to urge in each case the same request—
“See as much of Ralph as you can during these next six months! Have a little talk with Ralph now and again! Show an interest in his work. Let him see that you care. We must all do our best to encourage him to work!”
By all the members of the family it was taken for granted that Darsie’s interest in Ralph’s future was equal to, if not greater than, their own; they made no secret of their belief that her influence had the more weight. If Darsie had known a passing temptation to abandon her efforts, it would have been impossible to do so in the face of such unanimous appeals.
Well, it was good to be back in Newnham once more, to get to work again after the lazy weeks, to wake up one’s brains with tussles over Anglo-Saxon texts, to wrestle with philology, instead of browsing over novels and magazine tales. The Divinity Schools were stuffy as ever, the men on one side shutting up the windows with their usual persistence, while the girls on theirs frowned and fumed; but the Chaucer lectures were full of interest, and coaching assumed a keener interest as spring advanced and the prospect of “Mays” drew near. Last year both Darsie and Hannah had gained second-class honours; this year they had determined to gain firsts, or perish in the attempt. With a second and a first record for Mays there was a possibility—a dazzling possibility—of firsts in the final Tripos. When one thought of that it seemed impossible to work too hard, to put too much energy into one’s studies. But the happy blending of work and play which characterises Newnham life prevented industry from being carried to an exaggerated extent. The hour’s informal dancing after dinner on Wednesday and Saturday evenings seemed to quicken circulation and brain alike, and the great Shakespeare Ball was a distinct fillip, although—or was it because?—it involved some slackness for the preparation of costumes.
The short Easter vac. served but as a breathing-space, and then another May term began with an unparalleled succession of fine and sunny days. Everything seemed early this spring; trees and shrubs rushed into leaf, a wealth of blossom gave a fairy-like beauty to the old-world gardens, and in every youth and maid the spirit of the spring awoke also, and called to them to come out to play. This was the season for picnics, for walks along the fields by the riverside, for boating, for bathing, for garden teas, for breakfast parties at the Orchard, amidst the pink and white wonder of the apple-blossom.
Darsie Garnett was fired with a desire to give an Orchard party on her own account, the guests to be Hannah, Margaret France, her special Fresher adorer (Marian White by name), Ralph Percival, Dan Vernon, two agreeable Classics from King’s; Mrs Reeves to play chaperon—just a cheery little party of nine. What could you wish for more?
Margaret, preternaturally solemn, opined that ten would be a more desirable number. “Poor Mrs Reeves! What has she done? Why not ask some one to play about with her? I can’t bear to see a Lonely at a picnic or to be interrupted myself!”
“It might be judicious to invite Minerva!” agreed Darsie, twinkling, and alluding to the Don who enjoyed the privilege of Mrs Reeves’s special friendship. “Two chaperons! What a character for propriety I shall gain, to be sure! They little know.”
“They know perfectly well, but they are human creatures after all. They’ve been young themselves, and they enjoy the Orchard! Set to work at once, my dear, and get out your invitations. This weather can’t possibly last, and it’s going to break my heart if it is wet.”
But there was no sign of rain on that exquisite morning when at the striking of six o’clock Darsie leaped out of bed, and thrust her ruffled golden head out of the opened window. A few feathery white clouds served but to intensify the blueness of the sky; the air was soft and sweet, the garden beneath was already bathed in sunlight. Darsie gave a little caper of delight. Sunshine, a picnic, a pretty frock and hat waiting to be worn, and one’s very best friends to admire the result—what healthy girl of twenty could fail to be happy under such circumstances as these?
She sang as she dressed; she made little fancy steps, and three separate pirouettes which would have delighted the heart of a terpsichorean mistress. One pirouette greeted the effect of the white dress; the second, that of the wide straw hat, with its appropriate garland of blossom; the third was partly in celebration of the combined effect, and partly out of sheer inability to keep still.
Her toilette completed, Darsie repaired to Hannah’s room and surprised that tasteless young woman engaged in putting the final touches to her own costume, in the shape of an abomination designated “a neck arrangement,” composed of the cheapest of machine lace and papery satin ribbon. Hannah jumped with dismay as a hand descended suddenly over her shoulder, and tore this treasure from her grasp.
“No!” cried Darsie firmly. “You are my childhood’s friend, and I love you dearly, but wear lace frills with a linen collar at my Orchard party you—shall not! Miserable woman! Will you never learn how to dress?”
“I paid eleven-three for it, near the end of a term. Thought I would please you this time! Hate the tickling stuff myself. Some people are never satisfied,” grumbled Hannah, rummaging in her tie-box, but it never occurred to her to dispute the decree. On questions of toilette Darsie’s word was absolute.
The two girls descended the stairs together, and found the other three members of the party awaiting them at the door, Margaret and the little Fresher abeam with smiles, and even Minerva herself looking quite young and skittish. At moments like these it dawned upon the student mind that even a don herself could occasionally enjoy a mixture of play with her work.
At the river Mrs Reeves and the four men came forward to meet the Newnham party, the canaders were ranged ready for the embarkment, and Darsie felt the honours of her position press heavily, as the other members of the party stood silently waiting for her to apportion the crews. The worst of it was that one felt obliged to take the least desirable place oneself. Considered as a don, Minerva had many points, but when bound for a river picnic one did not exactly hanker after her society. Still, there it was. Every position has its drawbacks. The row up the river on that exquisite morning was a joy independent of society, and when the Orchard itself was reached it was undeniably agreeable to sit at the head of the table, and play the gracious hostess to one’s guests.
Orchard appetites are proverbial, but this particular party claimed to have broken all previous records. Soon there was hardly a fragment of food left on a plate. The pile of banana-skins was positively startling to behold; tea and coffee pots were drained, and drained again; requests for milk and more milk threatened the supply of later guests, and the birds in the trees overhead chattered not a whit more gaily than the company around the board.
“Shop” was sternly forbidden as a subject of conversation, and the remotest reference thereto was instantly booed into silence, for behind all the lightsomeness of demeanour a weight of anxiety lay on each heart. The critical time was approaching when the result of the year’s work would be put to the test. The two classics, as sons of a poor clergyman, were acutely conscious of all that was involved by a first or second class. Ralph Percival was realising painfully the difficulty of making up for years of slacking, or even of keeping up a spurt beyond a few days at a time; the little Fresher trembled at the thought of her first Mays; even Margaret France herself showed signs of nerves before the ordeal of the Tripos, and on one tragic occasion had even been discovered weeping hysterically upon her bed.
“C–c–couldn’t remember a context,” was her hiccoughing explanation of the breakdown, and henceforth Darsie had taken her in hand, fagged for her, petted her, scolded her, put her to bed, and ruthlessly carried off notebooks to her own study, to frustrate disastrous attempts at midnight toil.
As for Dan, he was a giant among pigmies. Examinations had no terrors for him; his place was assured. When strangers visited Cambridge, their sons and brothers pointed out his big, lumbering form in the streets, and bade them remember Vernon—Vernon would arrive! Darsie was conscious that his presence lent distinction to her party, for Dan but seldom appeared in the social world.
And he was behaving so well, too! taking part in the conversation, even telling stories and capping anecdotes of his own accord, and behaving quite amiably to Ralph. Darsie beamed approval on him from the end of the table, and deliberately singled him out as her companion for the after-breakfast stroll.
“Come down to the river, Dan! There’s a tree with the most convenient forked branch where one can sit hidden by the leaves and watch the canaders come up. Last year I heard some quite thrilling fragments of conversation.”
“I’ll be wary of that tree,” said Dan solemnly, but he helped Darsie to her eyrie, and swung himself up beside her with an alacrity which showed that the suggestion fell in well with his own wishes, and there they sat like birds in a nest, smiling at each other with bright, friendly glances.
“Isn’t this fine? No one saw us come, did they? They’ll think we’re lost. I’m tired of being polite. Thank you for coming to my party, Dan, and for being so jolly.”
“Thank you for asking me and for looking so—ripping!” Dan cast an appreciative glance at the white dress and blossom-wreathed hat. “Glad to see you’re not knocking yourself up with too much work.”
Darsie bent her head with a dubious air.
She wished to look well, but, on the other hand, a little sympathy would not have been unwelcome. “I’m excited this morning, and that gives me a colour,” she explained. “If you could see me at the end of the day—I’m so weak in my mediaeval French Grammar. It haunts me at night—”
“Stop!” cried Dan warningly. “Don’t let it haunt you here, at any rate—it would be a crime among this blossom. Tell me a story as you used to do in the old schoolroom days. I haven’t heard you tell a story since that Christmas night when we all sat round the fire and burnt fir-cones, and the light shone on your face. You wore a white dress then. You looked all white.”
“And you sat in the corner and glowered—I could see nothing, but I felt eyes. That will be one of the times we shall remember, Dan, when we look back on our young days—all together, and so happy and free. I had a melancholy turn during that cone-burning, one of the shadows that fall upon one causelessly in the midst of the sunshine, but that was only a bit of the happiness, after all. It’s rather wonderful to be twenty, Dan, and never to have known a real big sorrow! Most of the girls here have come through something, some of them a great deal. I feel such a babe beside them. It isn’t good for one, I suppose, to have things too smooth.”
“I hope they’ll continue smooth for a long time to come. You’re too young for troubles, Darsie,” said Dan hastily. He sat silent for a few moments, his chin poking forward, his thin, expressive lips twitching as if struggling with difficult speech. A canader came gliding slowly by, the man and girl occupants chatting gaily together, unconscious of the watchers in the tree on the bank. Their words fell absently on Darsie’s ear, she was waiting for what Dan had to say.
“When they do come, you know you can depend on me. I’m not much of a hand at social life, so it’s best to keep out of the way and let other fellows chip in who can make a better show, but if there’s anything useful to be done, you might give me a turn. We’re very old friends.”
Darsie gave him an affectionate glance. “Indeed I will. I should feel you a tower of strength. Thank you, dear Oak-tree.”
“Thank you, Apple-blossom!” returned Dan quite gallantly, if you please, and with a laugh which followed the passing seriousness vanished.
For the next half-hour they laughed and sparred, capped stories, and made merry, more like a couple of happy children than hard-worked students on the verge of examinations; and then, alas! it was time to return to work, and, sliding down from their perch, Dan and Darsie walked forward to assemble the scattered members of the party.