When the morning arrived on which the results of the Tripos were to be posted on the door of the Senate House, Darsie and Hannah had taken a last sad farewell of their beloved Newnham, and were ensconced with Mr and Mrs Vernon in their comfortable rooms. The lists were expected to appear early in the morning, and the confident parents had arranged a picnic “celebration” party for the afternoon.
Darsie never forgot that morning—the walk to the Senate House with Dan and Hannah on either side, the sight of the waiting crowd, the strained efforts at conversation, the dragging hours.
At long last a list appeared—the men’s list only: for the women’s a further wait would be necessary. But one glance at the paper showed Dan’s name proudly ensconced where every one had expected it would be, and in a minute he was surrounded by an eager throng—congratulating, cheering, shaking him by the hand. He looked quiet as ever, but his eyes shone, and when Darsie held out her hand he gripped it with a violence which almost brought the tears to her eyes.
The crowd cleared away slowly, the women students retiring to refresh themselves with luncheon before beginning a second wait. The Vernons repaired to their rooms and feasted on the contents of the hamper prepared for the picnic, the father and mother abeam with pride and satisfaction, Dan obviously filled with content, and dear old Hannah full of quips. Darsie felt ashamed of herself because she alone failed to throw off anxiety; but her knees would tremble, her throat would parch, and her eyes would turn back restlessly to study the clock.
“Better to die by sudden shock,
Than perish piecemeal on the rock!”
The old couplet which as a child she had been used to quote darted back into her mind with a torturing pang. How much longer of this agony could she stand? Anything, anything would be better than this dragging on in suspense, hour after hour. But when once again the little party approached the Senate House, she experienced a swift change of front. No, no, this was not suspense; it was hope! Hope was blessed and kindly. Only certainty was to be dreaded, the grim, unalterable fact.
The little crowd of girls pressed forward to read the lists. Darsie peered with the rest, but saw nothing but a mist and blur. Then a voice spoke loudly by her side; Hannah’s voice:
“First Class! Hurrah!”
Whom did she mean? Darsie’s heart soared upward with a dizzy hope, her eyes cleared and flashed over the list of names. Hannah Vernon—Mary Bates—Eva Murray—many names, but not her own.
The mist and the blur hid the list once more, she felt an arm grip her elbow, and Dan’s voice cried cheerily—