MARGARET AND ELEANOR CHANGE PLACES
"Miss McDonald sailed for Australia last week!" ejaculated Margaret in
the utmost astonishment. "But what is to become of you, then? Are you
quite alone?"
"Quite," responded Eleanor, for whom her solitary state evidently
possessed no terrors, for she smiled at Margaret's horrified tone. "Dear
old Miss McDonald! If I would have consented, she would have taken me
with her, I think, and chanced her brother's dismay when we got there.
She was dreadfully distressed at the idea of leaving me behind; but what
could she have done for me if she had remained? As I told her, she had
done more for me than any one could possibly have expected of her, in
keeping me, and giving me what education I possess, during the last six
years. And it is not as if I had lost my situation through her going away
either, for I have been left as a legacy to Miss Marvel. Miss Marvel
bought the goodwill of the school," she added, seeing that Margaret had
not quite understood her last remark, "and she has promised to keep me on
as junior governess, as long as I do my work well, of course, and wish
to stay."
"And do you wish to stay there?" Margaret asked.
"Did you ever hear that beggars can't be choosers?" Eleanor said, with
rather a wry little smile. "I should not wish to stay in any school as a
teacher if I could avoid such a fate, but I can't; and I am at least
sensible enough to be thankful that my bread-and-butter, and a roof over
my head, and a bed, and a few other little trifles of that sort are
provided for me. And before she went, Miss McDonald did me another kind
turn. Up to the present I have always spent my holidays in Hampstead, but
this year she wrote to a cousin of hers who lives in Seabourne and asked
her if she would have me down on a visit, and the cousin wrote back such
a nice letter, saying she had just been on the point of advertising for
some one who would come to her for the whole of the summer holidays, and
make herself useful and help look after the children, and have a good
time with the elder ones. The letter was a little vague, and so Miss
McDonald thought as she read it out to me, for it did not give me much
idea of what I was to do. But probably she wants some one to arrange the
flowers, and write notes, and so on, and take the children down on the
beach and that sort of thing."
"Oh, but how lovely for you!" Margaret said, with a touch of envy in her
voice. "I wonder how many children there will be, and if there will be
any nice girls of your own age among them. And what delightful picnics,
and tennis parties, and excursions you will enjoy!"
"Yes, I suppose so," said Eleanor, without the slightest enthusiasm in
her voice. "But Mrs. Danvers, for that is the name of the lady, said I
must be prepared to find my days fairly well occupied, and must not mind
having scarcely any time to myself."
"Why, it is just the kind of life that I should have enjoyed so much,"
Margaret said, with a tremendous sigh. "People to talk to and to play
with all day long. It does seem odd that you are not anticipating it with
any pleasure, Eleanor."
"It is not only funny, it is, I know, very ungrateful," Eleanor said,
with sudden energy. "But, oh!" she added, "I don't want to play or to
talk. I want to work, work, work, and become great and famous. But at
least I can get up early. The morning hours, the ones before breakfast,
will at least be my own, and I can study for three or four hours every
morning before I go down to breakfast."
"Yes, and you could practice your singing then," said Margaret.
"What! and wake the whole family up. I expect that would be as much as my
place was worth," laughed Eleanor. She paused and sighed, while a shadow
chased the brightness from her face. "I try and cheat myself into the
belief that I am going to enjoy myself at Seabourne," she broke out as
she resumed her restless march up and down the room; "and that I shall
love being near the sea and near real country again. And so I shall enjoy
that part. But all the time deep down inside me I am just miserable at
the thought that I am wasting time that can never, never come back to me.
It does seem hard to think that there are hundreds and hundreds of girls
all over England who are getting splendid musical educations that will
never be the least little bit of use to them, while my voice is being
thrown away for want of training. I tell you, Margaret, I feel sometimes
as if it simply did not bear thinking about. A splendid, interesting
career, bringing fame and fortune with it, lies waiting for me on the
other side, as it were, of a deep gulf. The gulf can only be crossed by
the bridge of training, and I haven't the money to pay the toll."
She flung herself with an air of gloomy impatience on the nearest chair,
and, putting her elbows on the table, propped her chin on her palms and
stared with a frown at the empty fireplace opposite to her.
For a moment or two Margaret did not speak, but stole anxious glances at
the sad face of her new acquaintance, whose rapid changes of mood she
found it exceedingly difficult to keep pace with. For Eleanor certainly
passed with startling quickness from grave to gay, and now, after having
dwelt only a few seconds back with obvious delight on the thought of her
sojourn by the sea, she was plunged in the blackest depths of despair
again. But the truth was that the thought of the glorious gift she so
confidently believed was hers, and of which she could make no use, was
never absent from Eleanor's mind, and though her natural gaiety and pluck
combined enabled her to laugh and talk as though she had not a care in
the world, a chance word could always bring the sadness and longing that
underlay her laughter to the surface.
"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" sighed Margaret at last, when the silence had
lasted so long that she began to fear that Eleanor had forgotten her
presence altogether, and would not rouse herself from her reverie until
it was time for their train to go. "Oh, dear! what a pity it is that we
cannot change our identities! To stay in a big house with people is just
what I should like to do, and I believe you would really like staying at
Windy Gap and having Italian and singing lessons all day long with an
Italian lady."
"Really like," said Eleanor; "that is a mild way of putting it. Why,
there is nothing that I should like better, provided, of course, that the
Italian lady is a good teacher."
"Oh, yes, I believe she is a good enough teacher. If I recollect aright
what my grandfather said to me on the subject, she used to be an opera
singer herself once some years ago, but her health broke down and she
had to leave the stage. Her name is Madame Martelli."
Scarcely had the last word left her lips than Eleanor, straightening
herself with a sudden jerk, gazed with eyes that fairly blazed with
excitement at Margaret.
"Martelli!" she exclaimed incredulously. "Not Margherita Martelli!"
"Yes, I am quite sure that was the name, because I thought at the time
how very much prettier the Italian way of saying Margaret was than the
English. Do you not think so also?"
But Eleanor brushed the inquiry aside as though she had not heard it.
"And to think," she muttered, more to herself than to Margaret, "that she
is going to have lessons from Martelli."
"But why not?" said Margaret in a puzzled tone. "Is she not nice? Is she
not a good teacher?"
"Nice! A good teacher! Have you never heard of Margherita Martelli?"
Eleanor ejaculated in a tone of such unbounded amazement that Margaret
began to blush for her own ignorance, and it was in a shame-faced voice
that she owned that until the other day when her grandfather had told her
that she was to have lessons from a Madame Martelli she had never heard
the name.
"Oh, well," said Eleanor, calming down and laughing at her own
impetuosity, "now I come to think of it, I was just as ignorant a few
months ago, but I was reading the autobiography of a great concert
director the other day and in it he speaks of Margherita Martelli and the
brief but wonderful career she had. She only sang for two or three years,
and had scored triumph after triumph when a sudden illness deprived her
of her voice, and she vanished from the stage as suddenly as she had come
on to it. I had no idea that she lived in England now or that she gave
lessons. Oh, you lucky, lucky girl!" she added, a note of deep,
uncontrolled envy in her voice. "Just imagine. You are going to have
lessons from Martelli. And you are not out of your mind with joy. What
a wicked, wicked waste it is!"
"Is it not?" Margaret agreed, not a whit offended at the frankness of
this remark. "I do not wish to learn singing. I know my voice possesses
no merit whatever, and, moreover, I am not always sure whether I am
singing in tune or not."
"Well, it is something to know you don't know," said Eleanor. "Not every
one who sings out of tune could or would own as much. Oh, what a
horrible, topsy-turvy world it is, to be sure! Here are you going to
have the thing that I covet more than anything else in the whole wide
world--singing lessons from a first-rate teacher, which you don't
appreciate in the least--and here am I, compelled to waste the whole
summer holidays doing nothing. And if you would like to be me, as you say
you would, how much more wouldn't I give to be you, if only for a month!"
"Yes," said Margaret, with a long-drawn sigh; "it does seem a matter for
considerable regret that we cannot change places, and you be me and I be
you. If only a fairy would pass this way and transform us with a waive of
her magic wand into each other how much happier we both should be, and
how delighted Madame Martelli would be to get you for a pupil instead of
me!"
"Don't," said Eleanor, with a little muffled groan. She could not play
with the idea as Margaret was doing, her feelings were far too deeply
engaged for that.
Margaret sighed again. It distressed her to see any one so unhappy as
Eleanor looked at that moment, and she began to realise that her longing
for a freer, different life to the one she had hitherto led was but a
puny thing when compared to the fierce desire that consumed Eleanor to be
given an opportunity to cultivate her voice. If only she could help her
in some way. But what could she do? She might ask Mrs. Murray to allow
Eleanor to share her lessons, but she was afraid that the request would
not be granted. She knew that her grandfather would not allow her to
associate with any girl of her own age, certainly not with one whose
acquaintance she had made in so casual a manner. And besides, even if her
grandfather had done such an unlikely thing as to give his consent to the
arrangement, how could Eleanor find the time to come out to Windy Gap for
her lessons?
So back again came Margaret to the regret that had been running in her
head so long, the regret that she and Eleanor, who were so obviously
fitted to lead each other's lives rather than their own, could not change
places. Oddly enough, too, if they did change places, no one would be any
the wiser. Mrs. Murray had never seen her, and Mrs. Danvers had never
seen Eleanor. So if Eleanor went to Windy Gap, and she, Margaret, to
Seabourne, their respective hostesses would never suspect the exchange
that their guests had effected between themselves.
"Eleanor!" she exclaimed, leaning across the table and speaking in a
voice that shook with excitement, "let us do it. Change places, I mean.
If you'll be me, I shall be only too pleased to be you. No, don't
interrupt," as Eleanor seemed about to speak, "I have thought it all out,
and it will be quite easy. Mrs. Murray has never seen me, and Mrs.
Danvers has never seen you, so how are they to know that we have changed
places?"
"You can't be serious, Margaret, surely," Eleanor said. "It's the most
hare-brained suggestion I ever heard."
"Why?" said Margaret.
"Why? Because it is. We should be found out in a day, or a week."
"But who is to find us out?" persisted Margaret. "Mrs. Murray has never
seen me, and Mrs. Danvers has never seen you. Why, if they were here now
they could not tell which was which. Oh, Eleanor, do go to Windy Gap
instead of me, and let me go to your house. Think of the Italian lessons,
and the singing lessons. Why, Eleanor, it is the opportunity of your
lifetime, it is really. This is probably the turning-point of your whole
life? I am surprised that you cannot realise that."
"I do realise it," Eleanor said almost fiercely. "Do you suppose for an
instant that I can't see what an opportunity is being offered to me? But
what I also see is how very wrong it would be."
"Yes, I suppose it would be rather wrong," Margaret said calmly; "but,
after all, we would not be doing any one any harm, and I am so tired of
being treated just like a little girl and as though I had no opinions or
will of my own."
"Well, I think when your grandfather hears of this escapade he won't be
under that delusion concerning you any longer," Eleanor said rather
drily.
"Then you will do it?" Margaret cried eagerly. It was her turn now to
jump up and pace the room restlessly. "Oh, say quickly you will do it,
for I find this suspense very trying. Please, please, Eleanor, do not say
No. Just think how dull and dreary my life has always been, and do not
deprive me of the chance of having just a little enjoyment like other
girls of my age."
The implication that sheer selfishness only made her hold out against
this scheme struck Eleanor as being distinctly funny.
"But I don't suppose for a minute there is going to be much enjoyment
for me at Seabourne," Eleanor protested. "Mrs. Danvers said I must be
prepared to work pretty hard."
"Well, I shall like that as long as it is not lessons," Margaret said
quickly. "Why, even to see other people and to watch them, and to listen
to them talking will be enjoyment for me. And think of Madame Martelli
and the singing lessons."
"I am thinking of them," Eleanor returned desperately, "and I am trying
hard not to." Then all of a sudden her resolution gave way. It had been
too unequal a fight to last very long, for there were too many forces
arrayed against her conscience to give it a fair chance of gaining the
day. Margaret's persuasions counted for little really, but the thought
of the lessons was, of course, all-powerful with her, and there was, too,
a spice of adventure about the scheme that appealed strongly to her
high-spirited, mischief-loving nature. "But it's on you that the trouble
will fall in the end, Margaret," she warned her. "When we are found out I
shall be turned out of the house as an imposter, of course, but that will
be all that can happen to me. It's you who will have to bear the brunt of
both Mrs. Murray's anger and of your grandfather's."
But be the consequences what they might, Margaret refused to look so far
ahead or to consider for a moment the time when the trick they were about
to play must inevitably be discovered.
That belonged entirely to the future; it was the present that occupied
her mind now, and the keen zest and animation with which she entered into
every detail of the scheme, foreseeing and guarding against every
obstacle that might wreck it, came as a positive revelation to Eleanor.
She could not have believed that Margaret had it in her to plot and plan
in such a shrewd, capable manner, and she could only nod her head in
acquiescence to most of the suggestions that were made. She was simply
swept off her feet by Margaret's impetuosity. And so, carried along
by the flood of her eager eloquence and nearly off her head with joy at
the intoxicating thought that she was attaining her heart's desire, and
that splendid singing lessons were now within measurable distance of her,
it was small wonder that her conscience gave up the unequal fight and
retired from the field in despair.
"We must change tickets," Margaret announced presently, with the
business-like air of one who is determined to overlook no detail, however
apparently unimportant, "for you will have to get out at Chailfield,
Eleanor, which is three or four stations before we come to Seabourne."
"Very well, yes, I suppose so," Eleanor said somewhat absently. She was
deep in consideration as to which opera she should study first with
Madame Martelli. The latter would probably wish to take one in which she
had scored a success herself, and Eleanor was racking her brain to
remember the particular one in which she had read that the gifted singer
of past days had made her most signal triumph.
"And oh, Eleanor! what about our clothes? I have never, never thought of
them."
There was such a depth of tragic despair in Margaret's voice that it
could not but arrest Eleanor's wandering attention.
"Clothes," she said vaguely; "what clothes?"
"Why, our clothes," Margaret said impatiently. "We ought to change them,
you know, and you put on mine, and I put on yours."
Eleanor looked at her for a moment with the deep, earnest gaze one
unconsciously accords to people whose last remark one ought to have heard
but has not. But then, as the meaning of Margaret's speech slowly
penetrated to her brain, she smiled, and the smile broadened to a laugh.
"If changing clothes is part of the programme," she said, still laughing,
"I'm off. Why, Margaret, how do you suppose I'm going to get into your
clothes, and what do you suppose you would look like in mine? Why, I am
an inch taller than you are, and broader in proportion. No, we must take
our own things and cut the marking out of our linen. None of my
underlinen happens to be marked, so that simplifies matters for me."
"But mine all is," Margaret said ruefully; "Mrs. Parkes did it all last
week, and would it not look strange if I cut my name out of all my
things?"
"Yes, perhaps it would rather," Eleanor said thoughtfully. "I tell you
how you must manage. To begin with, don't let a maid do your unpacking
for you, and keep everything locked up until you have had time to go out
and buy a bottle of marking ink and some block tape. Then mark the tape
with your name and sew it over the name on your linen."
"And then," Eleanor pursued, "we must always remember to keep most of our
private possessions under lock and key, so that no one reads our real
names on any of our books."
"Why, that is just what I have been telling you," said Margaret, "and as
a beginning I wrote Margaret Anstruther over the Eleanor Carson on the
fly-leaves of your grammar and your dictionary."
"Why, of course, so you did," said Eleanor. "Excuse my apparent
inattention. At that moment I was choosing the opera in which I was to
make my _début_, and was trying to decide whether the said _début_ shall
take place in London or Paris, or in New York. They do give one such
splendid receptions in New York. One thing you may rely on, Margaret,
I shall send you tickets. Stall, second row, or would you like a box?"
"Speaking of boxes," said Margaret seriously, "are your name or your
initials painted on yours; neither are on mine."
"Nor on mine. My trunk, too, is innocent of any old labels that might
betray us."
At that moment a porter opened the door and looked in.
"The 2.17 has just been signalled," he said; "are either of you ladies
going by it?"
"We both are," said Eleanor, jumping up briskly and going towards the
door. "Porter, our trunks are wrongly labelled. Would you kindly see to
it for us. The one that should be labelled to Seabourne is labelled to
Chailfield, and _vice versâ_. I will come and show you. Come along,
Margaret, the porter will take your bag."
"I had omitted to take the matter of labels into my consideration,"
Margaret said, in an undertone, as they followed the man up the platform.
"Well, you needn't reproach yourself over much for that," Eleanor said.
"Considering that this is your first attempt at a conspiracy, you make an
A1 plotter."
Margaret's answering smile was rather a perfunctory one. She found
Eleanor's way of treating the matter as a most excellent jest rather
a trying one, and yet she could not but acknowledge that Eleanor's
foresight, when she chose to exercise it, was at least equal to her own.
For when Eleanor had made sure that the new railway labels were properly
affixed she changed their private labels, thus making the transfer of
their names complete.