Darsie first frowned, and then smiled to herself in the dark as she recalled those utterances, and the actions fitly symbolised her sentiments towards the heir of the Percivals. Her head had no mercy for such an utter want of ambition and energy, but the heart plays often a bigger part than the head in an estimate of a fellow-creature, and Darsie’s heart had a way of making excuses for the handsome truant, who smiled with such beguiling eyes, had such a pretty knack of compliment, and was—generally!—ready to play knight-errant in her service. She felt herself lucky in possessing so charming a friend to act the part of gallant, and to be at her service when she chose to call. And then quite suddenly she drew a sharp breath and said aloud in a trembling voice, “Oh, Aunt Maria, dear Aunt Maria!” and her pillow was wet with tears; for Aunt Maria was dead, had died too soon to hear of her grand-niece’s experiences at Newnham, to which she had looked forward with such interest, but not before evoking a real love and gratitude in Darsie’s heart. How thankful the girl was to remember that she had been able to cheer the last year of that lonely life, to recall every loving word and action, every tiny scrap of self-denial on her own part which had repaid in some small way the great gift to herself. Thankful and grateful she would be to the end of her life, but she was not, and had not even pretended to be, sorry that Aunt Maria was dead.
“She was old, and she was lonely, and she was ill. I’m glad, not sorry,” she had declared to the scandalised Lavender. “I’m glad she’ll never come hobbling downstairs again, and sit all the long, long day in one chair, waiting for it to end. I’m glad she’s forgotten all about her back, and her feet, and her head, and her joints, and all the thousand parts that ached, and could not rest. I’m glad she doesn’t need any more spectacles, and sticks, and false teeth, nor to have people shouting into her ear to make her hear. I’m thankful! If I’d hated her I might have liked her to live on here, but I loved her, so I’m glad. She has gone somewhere else, where she is happy, and cheerful, and whole, and I hope her husband has met her, and that they are having a lovely, lovely time together...”
Darsie was glad, too, in quite an open, unconcealed fashion, when a legacy of a few thousand pounds lifted a little of the strain from her father’s busy shoulders, made it possible to send Harry and Russell to a good boarding-school, continue Clemence’s beloved music lessons, and provide many needfuls for household use. It was not only pleasant but absolutely thrilling to know that as long as she herself lived she would, in addition, possess fifty pounds a year—practically a pound a week—of her very, very own, so that even when she grew too old to teach, she could retire to a tiny cottage in the country, and live the simple life. In the meantime, however, she was young, and life stretched ahead full of delicious possibilities and excitements.
Her great ambition had been achieved. She was a student at Cambridge; the historic colleges whose names had so long been familiar on her lips lay but a few streets away, while in her own college, close at hand, along the very same corridor, lay other girls with whom she must work, with whom she must play, whose lives must of a surety touch her own.
What would happen? How would she fare? When the last night of her three-years course arrived, and she lay as now in this narrow white bed, staring across the darkened room which had been her home, what would her dreams be then? What pictures would arise in the gallery of her mind? What faces smile at her out of the mist?
“Oh, God,” sighed Darsie in a soft, involuntary appeal, “help me to be good!”