A College Girl | Page 8

with joy at the thought of their holiday with the Vernons. It seems positively brutal!"
"Oh, it does. I am so sorry for her--whichever it may be--but one must sometimes be cruel to be kind. We can't afford--I am not mercenary, as you know--but with our means we can't afford to refuse any possible advantage for our girls! The sacrifice of a summer holiday ought not to weigh against that."
"No, you're right, quite right. So be it then. Write and tell her to come, only I tell you plainly my holiday's spoiled... With Darsie gone--"
"Dear! she has not chosen yet."
"Dear! you know perfectly well--"
They looked at each other, smiling, rueful, half-ashamed. It seemed like treason to the other girls, this mutual acknowledgment that Darsie was the flower of the flock, the child of the six to whom all strangers were attracted as by a magnet. Clarence and Lavender were equally as dear to the parents' hearts, but there was no denying the existence of a special and individual pride in the fascinations of Darsie.
Mr Garnett turned aside with an impatient shrug.
"There's one thing, Emily, you must tell her when it is settled! There'll be a tremendous scene. I flatly refuse--"
"Very well, dear, very well; I'll do it. But it's not decided yet, remember, and one can never be sure. I'd better break the idea to the girls before Aunt Maria comes, and let them get over the first excitement. To-night would be a good opportunity. You will be out late, so would be spared the scene!"
"Bless you, Emily! I'm a coward, I know, but I should be grateful. I can't answer for what I should do if Darsie cried, and begged my protection. Women have twice the pluck of men in these affairs!"
Nevertheless it was with a quaking heart that Mrs Garnett broached the object of Aunt Maria's proposition over the schoolroom tea that afternoon, and her nervousness was not decreased by the smilingly unperturbed manner in which it was received. Never, never for a moment did it appear possible to the three girls that such a proposition could be seriously discussed.
"So likely!" sneered Clemence with a fine disdain. "Give up all the fun and excitement of the sea with the Vernons, to browse with Aunt Maria. So likely, to be sure!"
"Poor dear old love! She is deluded. Thinks it would be a pleasure and benefit, does she. I wouldn't take a thousand pounds--"
Thus Lavender. Darsie went a step farther in tragic declamation.
"I'd drown myself first! To sit there--panting, in hot rooms, on Benger's food, and know that all the others were bathing and running wild on the shore--I'd burst! I'd run away in an hour--"
"Dears, it's a beautiful old place. There are gardens, and lawns, and horses, and dogs. Cows, too! I am sure there are cows--she used to keep a herd of Jerseys. You could see them being milked."
"Welsh cows are good enough for me. I don't need Jerseys. Or lawns! Give me the free, untrammelled countryside!
"`And to see it reflected in eyes that I love.'"
Darsie paraphrased a line of the sweet old ballad, singing it in a clear, bell-like voice to a pantomime of clasped hands and rolling eyes. "It would be bad enough in an ordinary year, but to rend us apart from the Vernons--oh, no, it's unthinkable!"
"You have the Vernons near you all the year, dear. Aunt Maria only asks for eight weeks. There are occasions in life when it does not do to think only of our own pleasure."
Silence. A note in the mother's voice had startled her hearers into the conviction that the invitation must be regarded seriously, and not tossed aside as a joke. A lacerating suspicion that the authorities were in favour of an acceptance pierced like a dart.
"Mother! What do you mean? You couldn't possibly be so cruel--"
"Mother, you don't mean--."
"Mother, what do you mean?"
"I mean that you ought to go, dears, which ever one of you is asked. Aunt Maria is an old lady, and she is lonely. Her doctor has ordered cheerful companionship. Moreover, she has been a kind friend to father in the past, and has a right to expect some consideration in return. If you went in the right spirit, you could be of real use and comfort, and would have the satisfaction of doing a kind deed."
Darsie set her lips in a straight line, and tilted her chin in the air.
"Couldn't pretend to go in the right spirit! I'd be in a tearing rage. Somebody else can have the `satisfaction,' and I'll go to the sea."
"Darsie, dear, that's naughty!"
"I feel naughty, mother. `Naughty' is a mild word. Savage! I feel savage. It's too appalling. What does father say? I'm sure he would never--"
"Father feels as I do; very disappointed for our own sakes and for yours