CHAPTER VII
THE FATE OF THE GIRLS.
Belle Acheson was a young woman who never let the grass grow under herfeet. Having rushed downstairs at a headlong speed, she now presentedherself in the drawing-room.
"I have just examined the frontal developments of Marjorie's andEileen's heads," she said, speaking in a loud, rapid voice, and glancingin the direction where Mrs. Chetwynd and Mrs. Acheson were seatedtogether on a sofa. "I have examined the frontal developments of the twogirls, and I am glad to tell you that they both show markedintellectuality. I have recommended them to join me at St. Wode'sCollege, Wingfield, immediately. Will you, therefore, Mrs. Chetwynd,kindly take the necessary steps to see that this is carried out? Youmust write to our principal, Miss Lauderdale, asking her to give you allparticulars as to the necessary steps to be taken for admission. If thegirls have not already passed some public examination, they must passResponsions. The subjects are Latin, Greek, mathematics. But if theyhave already passed the London Matriculation, or the Cambridge HigherLocal, or the----"
"My dear, my dear!" cried Mrs. Acheson, "you are positively bewilderingmy dear friend. What are you driving at?"
"I am driving at nothing," said Belle, in a voice of dignity. "I amstating facts. The girls wish to enter St. Wode's. To do so they musthave passed, or will have to pass, certain examinations; but the mainthing is to write to Miss Lauderdale. Her address is Miss Lauderdale,Principal of St. Wode's College, Wingfield. Did you speak, Mrs.Chetwynd?"
"I did not," replied Mrs. Chetwynd, in an angry voice. "Will you take achair, please? Can I give you a cup of tea?"
"Tea?" cried Belle. "I never take tea, thank you; but I should like aglass of water, please, for my throat is quite dry with all the talkingI have been obliged to go through. Don't you know, Mrs. Chetwynd, thattea is decidedly bad for the brain, and also for the coats of thestomach. Oh, it has a shocking effect. Our best tutors at St. Wode'snever countenance tea. Coffee, strong black coffee, one is obliged totake now and then, particularly when one has to sit up at night beforean exam. for honors. Coffee and a wet towel; but tea--no, thank you. Willyou permit me to ring for a glass of water? I was giving the girls alecture upstairs; they have a great deal to learn."
Belle did not wait for Mrs. Chetwynd's most unwilling permission. Shesounded the electric bell by the fireplace, and presently the footmanappeared. Water was supplied, and the young lady took a copious draught.
"That is refreshing," she cried as she placed her glass on the tray."Now, then, mother, we must be off. Come, we have no more time to waste.I have promised Anne Morrison to call on her before dinner to-day; shewants me to look over some of her matriculation papers, and I must on noaccount fail her."
"But, my dear Belle, Anne Morrison lives at the south side of London,and I am so tired," said poor Mrs. Acheson.
"Dear me, mother; have not you strength enough for that much! We willtake a bus at the corner and get to Norland Square in no time. Come,don't you think you have had quite as much frivolous conversation as isgood for you? Now, Mrs. Chetwynd, don't forget to write. The address isMiss Lauderdale, Principal of St. Wode's College, Wingfield. Come along,mother. By-by, Mrs. Chetwynd."
Poor Mrs. Acheson cast anxious eyes of misery and commiseration at herfriend, and was hurled out of the room by the emphatic Belle. A momentor two later the hall-door was shut behind the pair.
"Thank goodness, they are gone at last!" cried Mrs. Chetwynd. "My dearLettie, is that you? Come here, child, come here. Now, tell me, what didthat awful girl say to the children?"
"Here are the children coming down to answer for themselves," saidMarjorie, springing lightly into the room accompanied by Eileen.
"Oh, darling little mammy, what is the matter?" cried Marjorie. She ranup to her mother and kissed her. "Why, you look quite worried, you dearold thing. Let me smooth out those furrows on your dear brow! Ah! youlook more like yourself now. Come, sit here, and I will sit near you. Iwill pet you, and you will soon forget all your worries. Is it not good,mammy dear, to have a grown-up daughter on whom to lean?"
"But if the grown-up daughter won't be leant on," cried poor Mrs.Chetwynd. "Oh, my child, everything seems to be topsy-turvy; and thatappalling girl, for there is no other word for her----"
"Of course the world did turn topsy-turvy twenty years ago," saidEileen. "For women everything is completely changed. We who were so loware now in the ascendant. It is men who are nowhere. You, dear mammy,must be guided by us for the remainder of your days. You will live here,of course, or anywhere else you fancy, and we will spend our vacationswith you."
"My dear, dear Eileen, you don't know what you are talking about. Thatterrible girl has inoculated you with her democratic views. She is afearful creature, a sort of monster; and the queer, extraordinary thingsshe said, and the way she hurled her poor mother out of the room, I havereally no words to describe. I do pity Mrs. Acheson; but if you thinkfor a single moment, Eileen, that I am going to submit to you andMarjorie having the upper hand and managing your own lives, you aremistaken."
Eileen uttered a deep sigh.
"It will be troublesome," she said slowly, "and we would much rather notbe troublesome; it would worry you, and we would much rather not worryyou. Mammy, why don't you give in at once? It would be so much moregraceful of you, mammy; it would really."
"Yes, mother; I wish you would," said Marjorie.
"But what am I to give in about?" said Mrs. Chetwynd.--"Letitia, have younothing to say? You have lived with us since you were a baby; in everyrespect you have been treated as a daughter of the house. Can't youspeak, can't you show these insubordinate, wicked girls how dreadfullythey are acting?"
"It is useless," said Lettie, shrugging her shoulders; "they aredetermined to have their own way. I am afraid you must bear it, AuntHelen."
Mrs. Chetwynd burst into tears. Marjorie and Eileen looked at her witheyes full of pity.
"I wish it was not necessary," said Eileen. "I do wish we could comfortyou, dear old mammy. I do wish we could say that we would be presentedto Her Majesty, and go into society six evenings out of the seven; butyou see we just can't, and it would be the maddest weakness to yield."
"Go into society I will not," said Marjorie. "I have made up my mind. Ialso think what Belle said is excellent; and after two or three years ofthat splendid training, I am----"
"Yes, yes, yes. I too have made up my mind," interrupted Eileen."Mother, dear, you will write to-night?"
"To Miss Lauderdale?" said poor Mrs. Chetwynd; "that awful girl gave methe name. What in the wide world am I to write to her about?"
"To get all the necessary particulars, as we want to go to St. Wode's atthe beginning of term."
"Oh, my child, I cannot permit it," said Mrs. Chetwynd.
"But, mother dear, do listen," said Marjorie. She sat down by her motherand began to speak. Eileen took her mother's other hand. The girls couldtalk well; they had plenty of intellect, and they could expound theirviews in a simple and yet telling manner. Now, Mrs. Chetwynd could neveranswer any argument which required a logical deduction. She wastherefore completely worsted by her clever and modern daughters. Each ofher little excuses, each of her small efforts to get the girls to remainat home with her, to go into society, to lead the ordinary life of theordinary young woman, were quietly and politely demolished by bothEileen and Marjorie. Finally, Mrs. Chetwynd found herself saying shewould think about the matter. All three girls knew well that when Mrs.Chetwynd went as far as that the thing was accomplished.
"Don't worry the mammy any more now," said Eileen. "Lie back in yourchair, dear mammy. Lettie, run upstairs for mother's eau de Cologne; wewill put some on her forehead. Poor dear darling, she's the sweetestmother in all the world; isn't she, Marjorie?"
"A perfect angel," said Marjorie.
She stooped and kissed her mother. Eileen also kissed her. There theystood in their shabby dresses, a little piece of Eileen's petticoatpeeping below her skirt, their short hair pushed up from theirf
oreheads, their handsome faces alight with fire and excitement.
Mrs. Chetwynd glanced at them, and despair entered her soul. She had notthe slightest chance against them; and she knew it.
The girls left the room, and only Letitia remained behind.
"Well, Lettie, you at least will remain with me," said Mrs. Chetwynd."It is terrible to feel that I have brought girls like Marjorie andEileen into the world. My only comfort is that their poor dearfather--such a kind, scholarly, soldierly man--is not here to witnesstheir base ingratitude."
"But really, Aunt Helen, I don't think they are base nor ungrateful.They are just modern, you see--terribly modern, the reverse of archaic.They must keep with the times; that they have determined on. There is nouse whatever in opposing them. Doubtless life will teach them its ownlesson, and they will be delightful when they return from St. Wode's."
"How long must they stay there?" asked Mrs. Chetwynd. She took up herhandkerchief as she spoke, to wipe away the tears from her eyes.
"I believe the usual course is three years," said Lettie. "You cannotget your certificate, which is equivalent to a degree, under that time."
"Your certificate, which is equivalent to a degree, Lettie! Oh, mychild, not a man living will speak to the girls. They will never bemarried, Lettie; they will be old maids to the end of the chapter. It isfearful to think of it!"
"Well, they don't actually _take_ a degree, because it is not allowed,"said Lettie; "but they work for it, and they get the honor."
"Worse and worse," cried Mrs. Chetwynd. "You see how sternly the mendisapprove of this fearful step on the part of modern women."
Letitia suppressed a short sigh.
"The girls are modern, and nothing will make them anything else," shesaid.
"And yet, my dear, they are the reverse of fashionable."
"Oh, Aunt Helen, I think fashionable women are going out."
"Going out, my dear! What can you mean?"
"I really do think so; there will be fewer and fewer as time goes on. Weare so terribly earnest now, we have no time to think of mereornamentation."
"Thank goodness, Lettie, you at least will always dress neatly."
"I should think so," replied Lettie. "I honestly confess that I am quitefond of clothes, and I like to look smart."
"Well, dear, it is a comfort that I shall have you to stay with me."
"But, Aunt Helen, I am ever so sorry. I think you ought to let me gotoo."
"You, Lettie? You go to St. Wode's College? What do you mean?"
"I think I ought to go, if for no other reason than to watch those twopoor dear girls through this eccentric phase of their existence. Thinkof them, Aunt Helen, alone with Belle Acheson!"
"There is something in what you say," said Mrs. Chetwynd; "and as Mrs.Acheson intends to go on the Continent in the winter, and she wishes meto--oh, of course I pooh-poohed the idea; but I really think I shall doit now. I shall go about from one fashionable place to another and amusemyself, and try to forget that I have children. Oh, it is a cruel, acrushing disappointment."
"You will live through it," said Lettie. She bent and kissed Mrs.Chetwynd on her cheek.
"After all," she continued, "there is no good in forcing Marjorie andEileen into grooves which were never meant for them. You will write toMiss Lauderdale, will you not, to-night?"
"My dear child, have the goodness to write to her yourself, and I willsign the letter. I have not the faintest idea what I am to say to thatwoman."
"I will write, then, at once," said Lettie.
She skipped across the drawing-room to her aunt's davenport, took out asheet of paper, rapidly wrote a few words, and then brought her letterto Mrs. Chetwynd to sign. In less than an hour that letter was droppedinto the nearest pillar-box.
Thus was the fate of the three girls quickly decided.