THE O'FARRELLY FEUD

Wairarapa Times-Age, 21 May 1940, Page 10

THE O'FARRELLY FEUD

COPYRIGHT. PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

By

GEORGE A. BIRMINGHAM.

Author of “General John Regan,” “Up the Rebels,” etc., etc.

CHAPTER I. It was seven o’clock on an evening at the end oi June. London was breathless after a day of blazing sunshine. Men and women travelled home in crowded trains and buses, a little weary and inclined to listlessness. Their vitality had ebbed from them. The Whitsuntide Bank Holiday was over and done with, a mere memory of tiring pleasures. The August Bank Holiday, with its hope of pleasure which would not weary, was still a long way off. Equally remote, a mere golden dream, were those other holidays in late July or August which last for a whole fortnight. There was no anticipation vivid enough to stir jaded nerves into fresh vitality. To 'the man. clinging to his strap in a stifling Tube coach, the thought of mowing a suburban lawn —sometimes a delightful thing—was singularly disagreeable. ' To the girl, who all day long had tapped a typewriter, her accustomed attache-case had become as great a burden as the grasshopper to the aged Solomon—if, indeed, it was Solomor. who complained about that insect. An evening at the pictures held no allure for these overwrought maidens. In other weather, cooler, less exhausting days, the smiles of Greta Garbo might have been a beacon of hope. But in this breathless heat even Greta Garbo seemed no more than an irritating bore.

Yet there was one place in London —perhaps more, but certainly one — where there” was no sign of weariness, where in spite of the heat and the feeling that all the air had been used up, the tide of vitality ran high. This happy place was a college, one of rhe constituent colleges of London University, a college in which girls live while learning some of the many things which London University teaches— Elizabeth College, so called in memory of either the English Queen- or the Hungarian saint. No one knew which. Nor did anyone greatly care. At seven exactly the bell of Elizabeth College rang it clamorous summons to dinner. From their rooms, along corridors, down wide staircases came girls, laughing and ‘ chattering. There was no sigh of weariness among them, as from the many tributaries they joined the main stream which flowed across the central hall into the dining-room.

Here was no boredom, no exhaustion, no sense of long days of still more heat to be endured in London streets and offices. For tnese happy maidens the holidays were at hand. The last dull lecture had been heard a week before. The last dreary notes of the lecturer’s concentrated wisdom were committed to little books. The last morsels of indigestible knowledge were gulped down, to be regurgitated during six days of desperate effort in the examination hall. Nov/ the whole business was over. Even the results of the examinations could be fairly guessed by the maidens and their teachers, who held post-mor-tem examinations afterwards on the questions set and the answers given. Small wonder that the assembly in the dining-room was hilarious. Even the grave president, seating at the high table with her staff around her, smiled amicably. For ner too this was a day of release. And there was a steamer cruising to the Norwegian Fiords of which she thought. In the body of the hall, two steps below the eminent high table, the girls stood in groups of ten around the tables at which they had sat for the whole of the toilsome term. Seen by a shortsighted man from a distance they might have been flowers in some herbacceous border of unusual splendour and variety. This was the last night, a great night, the end of the summer term, for some the end of al] terms at the university. The gayest of dresses had been taken from wardrobes and drawers, had been purchased that very day, were being worn, admired, delighted in that night for the first time.

There were blue dresses, and pink and green and dresses of primrose yellow. There were dresses of many colours, striped, dresses with spots, dresses marked off in checks, dresses with short sleeves or no sleeves at all, dresses with buckled belts, dresses with sashes like cinctures, with ribbons here and there, with shining ornaments. Who dare —indeed who can set limits to the free fancy of gay maidens, dowered with a pound or two with all London’s great shops for their hunting ground? There was a moment’s silence. The President at the high table said grace. Benedictus Benedicat. Elizabeth’s— Queen's or Saint's —was not a classical college; but the President's brother was a Wykhamist and she liked this Latin grace. The President sat down. There was a clatter of chairs shifted as the girls took their places and an irrepressible babble of laughing tongues.

Discipline in Elizabeth College, not oppressive in othdr ways, was in one matter strict. Every girl, whatever her occupation might be, was expected to be in time for dinner. Breakfast did not matter. For lunch a girl might be present or not as she chose. But dinner was a different thing. Every girl must be there and must be in time. On that evening at least almost every girl was. Of all the tables there was only one vacant piace when grace was said.

“Daphne, of course," said Sylvia Graham, who sat next to the empty chair.

“Of course. Of course." A little babble of voices proclaimed Daphne's unpunctuality. • ; “Daphne’s always late." added Sylvia. “This is about the 20th time this

term. There’ll be a row.” But that was not the general opinion. “Too late to make a row now,” said Millicent. “The term’s over. And Daphne’s not coming back. She told me so.”

“Poor Daphne,” said a girl known as Mousie. She sighed as she spoke for she had a tender heart and a deep affection for the unpunctual Daphne. She was a gentle-looking girl, whom no one could have called pretty, a girl with small eyes and hair which had not quite decided whether to be brown or yellow, a girl with quiet ways, and little inclination .to self-assertion. Her dress was the plainest, the least flower like of any. Her teachers called her “good,” with a slight sniff, though in more justice they gave her credit for diligence. Her companions astute in their reading of character, called her Mousie. .

“Poor Daphne,” she said again, “I expect she's in her room crying.” The girls at the table looked at each fiher and the smiles passed from their iips. It was not indeed likely—no one except Mousie thought it possible—that Daphne Dare would cry in her room or anywhere else. No one had ever known her other than gaily defiant whatever misfortune fell on her. It was impossible to’ think of her giving way to tears. v

Yet it was generally felt that she had good reason for despondency, even for despair. It was known, known beyond all possibility of doubt, that Daphne had failed in her recent examination.

There were those who were confident that they had passed, those who had high hopes and in optimistic moments believed the best. But for Daphne there was no hope at all. Her failure was as certain as anything could be. The most compassionate examiner ’ could not possibly have given her enough marks to ensure a pass.

There was a great deal of sympathy for the unfortunate girl. Daphne had deserved well of the college. As captain of the hockey club she had led her team to many a splendid victory. As a tennis player she had well-earned her place as one of the college’s re<presentatives. She was personally popular, as those always are who defy authority with gaiety and hear the consequences without complaining. Even the President, a lady who was compelled by her position to appear stern, sometimes smiled in private over Daphne’s naughtiness. Amid the general sympathy none was deeper or more sincere that that of Mousie. Herself a timid and entirely law-abiding creature she adored the gallant recklessness of Daphne. She had passed her examination. She was the sort of girl wno passed every examination which came her way and this time she had succeeded beyond her highest hopes and the expectation of her friends by passing with honours in three subjects. She would very willingly have sacrificed these coveted distinctions if the marks by which she gained them, marks of superfluity, could have been transferred to Daphne's meagre score. But the University of London has not yet recognised the system used in proportional representation elections as applicable to examinations. Perhaps some day it will and then the Daphnes of that time will receive the degrees which the Mousies have earned for them.

There were, of course, others besides Daphne Dare, who had failed in their examination. But there was far less sympathy for them. Indeed none of them deserved as much. For the others failure meant a set-back, a long delay in obtaining the coveted degree, a going back next term to do all over again the work of the wasted' year. That was a dreary enough prospect, but Daphne Dare's future was drearier still.

She had made no secret of her affairs. Left an orphan with very little money she was just able to pay for her education and to get the degree which would open some career to her. But there was no more than just enough money. An extra year at college was impossible. Others who failed in their examination might come back again. Daphne Dare would not. Her failure meant the extinguishing of all her hopes of a degree, and a more or less adequately paid career afterwards. Daphne's future, her very food and maintenance, depended upon an aunt, her only living relative. This aunt, by no means a poor woman, could easily have afforded to pay for the completing of Daphne's educating, however that might take. But she was unfortunately an old lady who despised university degrees, for men and utterly disapproved of them for women. She would certainly not pay for what she called “this college nonsense." and Daphne—there seemed no other prospect—would have to go to live with the old lady, live the abhorred and despised life of a dependent niece.

Such a prospect would have reducedany girl who had breathed the air of Elizabeth College to despondency and tears.

Yet, except Mousie, there was not a single girl at the table who believed for an instant that Daphne was sitting alone in her room with blubbered cheeks and dishevelled hair, the victim of uncontrollable grief. (To be Continued).