Chapter Ten.
A Treaty.
If there were innumerable good points in an acquaintance with the Percival family, there was certainly the inevitable drawback, for on the days when she was alone with her great-aunt, Darsie was rendered lonelier and more restless than before by the knowledge that a couple of miles away were three agreeable young companions who would be only too pleased to include her in their pastimes. The different points of view held by youth and age were, as usual, painfully in evidence. Darsie considered that it would be desirable to meet the Percivals “every single day”; Aunt Maria was glad that you had enjoyed yourself; was pleased that you should meet young friends, and suggested a return invitation, “some day next week!” pending which far-off period you were expected to be content with the usual routine of morning drive, afternoon needlework, and evening patience. Really—really—really, to have lived to that age, and to have no better understanding! Letters from the seaside did not tend to soothe the exile’s discontent. It seemed callous of the girls to expatiate on the joys of bathing, fishing, and generally running wild, to one who was practising a lady-like decorum in the society of an old lady over seventy years of age, and although Dan kept his promise to the extent of a letter of two whole sheets, he gave no hint of deploring Darsie’s own absence. It was in truth a dull, guide-booky epistle, all about stupid “places of interest” in the neighbourhood, in which Darsie was frankly uninterested. All the Roman remains in the world could not have counted at that moment against one little word of friendly regret, but that word was not forthcoming, and the effect of the missive was depressing, rather than the reverse. Mother’s letters contained little news, but were unusually loving—wistfully, almost, as it were, apologetically loving! The exile realised that in moments of happy excitement, when brothers and sisters were forgetful of her existence, a shadow would fall across mother’s face, and she would murmur softly, “Poor little Darsie!” Darsie’s own eyes filled at the pathos of the thought. She was filled with commiseration for her own hard plight... Father’s letters were bracing. No pity here; only encouragement and exhortation. “Remember, my dear, a sacrifice grudgingly offered is no sacrifice at all. What is worth doing, is worth doing well. I hope to hear that you are not only an agreeable, but also a cheerful and cheering companion to your old aunt!”
Darsie’s shoulders hitched impatiently. “Oh! Oh! Sounds like a copy-book. I could make headlines, too! Easy to talk when you’re not tried. Can’t put an old head on young shoulders. Callous youth, and crabbed age...”
Not that Aunt Maria was really crabbed. Irritable perhaps, peculiar certainly, finicky and old-fashioned to a degree, yet with a certain bedrock kindliness of nature which forbade the use of so hard a term as crabbed. Since the date of the hair episode Darsie’s admiration for Lady Hayes’s dignified self-control had been steadily on the increase. She even admitted to her secret self that in time to come—far, far-off time to come,—she would like to become like Aunt Maria in this respect and cast aside her own impetuous, storm-tossed ways. At seventy one ought to be calm and slow to wrath, but at fifteen! Who could expect a poor little flapper of fifteen to be anything but fire and flame!
Wet days were the great trial—those drizzling, chilly days which have a disagreeable habit of intruding into our English summers. Darsie, shivering in a washing dress, “occupying herself quietly with her needlework” in the big grim morning-room, was in her most prickly and rebellious of moods.
“Hateful to have such weather in summer! My fingers are so cold I can hardly work.”
“It is certainly very chill.”
“Aunt Maria, couldn’t we have a fire? It would be something cheerful to look at!”