Brenda and Florence had both finished their school life. No pains had
been spared to render them up to date in every particular. They had
gone through the usual curriculum of a girl's education. Brenda was a
little cleverer than Florence and had perhaps dived deeper into the
heart of things, but Florence was the prettier of the two.
Now the last day of school was over. The last good-byes had been said.
The last teacher had whispered words of affection in Brenda's ear, and
the last and most loved school-fellow had kissed Florence on her pretty
cheek and had hoped in that vague way which meant nothing at all that
they should meet again. School belonged to the past. They had the
world before them.
Florence was eighteen years of age, Brenda nineteen. To all intents and
purposes they were children. Nevertheless, they regarded themselves as
full-fledged women.
They were expecting an interview any day with their lawyer, Mr Timmins.
Mr Timmins had provided the funds necessary for their education. He
had arranged everything for them since the time when Florence at
thirteen and Brenda at fourteen had lost their father and mother. Since
then they depended on Mr Timmins--that is, as far as pounds, shillings
and pence was concerned. He had seen them, not very often, but at
intervals. He had always been nice and fussy and good, and had begged
them to work hard. He had said to them over and over, "Be sure you
don't miss your chance," and they invariably replied in the affirmative,
and had assured him that they had no intention of missing it.
They had grieved for their parents, but that grief was now over. They
were accustomed to the fact that they were fatherless and motherless.
They had their dreams of the future, as most girls have. But the rough
ways of the world had never hitherto assailed them.
In the holidays they always went to stay with a certain Mrs Fortescue.
She was no relation; in fact, they were quite without relations. They
were not only orphans, but they were relationless. The only children of
an only son and an only daughter, they were solitary in the world, but
that fact did not trouble them. They had never taken to their hearts
the old proverb, that "blood is thicker than water." They were happy,
healthy, everyday girls.
Florence was pretty, Brenda clever. They were really well-educated.
Florence could sing very nicely--that is, for a girl of eighteen years
of age. Her voice had possibilities which could even rise to a
marketable value, but no one thought of the Heathcotes as people who
required to make money by their accomplishments. They were supposed to
be quite well off. They dressed well, the school they went to was
expensive, and Mrs Fortescue charged quite a good sum for them in the
holidays.
Mrs Fortescue was quite ordinary, but a lady. She knew nice people,
and she introduced her young friends to them. The girls were welcomed
by Mrs Fortescue's friends as desirable and even pleasant
acquaintances. Mrs Fortescue took them out a little, and in her heart
of hearts she thought of herself as their chaperone until they married.
Of course they would marry. When their school-days were over, Mr
Timmins, who arranged all their money matters, would take a house for
them in London; and who so suitable to chaperone these nice, well
brought up girls as Mrs Fortescue? She intended to suggest this to Mr
Timmins when she saw him after their school work was over.
It had been arranged all along that they were to leave school when
Florence was eighteen and Brenda nineteen. Some people said it was
rather young, and that Florence ought to have an extra year of training
in her special department. But then, when one came to consider it, she
had no special department, she was good all round--that is, fairly good.
Brenda was different. Brenda had real talent--well, perhaps that was
the wrong word, but a real bias towards philosophy. She liked to read
books on ethical subjects. She was fond of the works of Tyndale,
Huxley, and Darwin. Sometimes she startled her acquaintances and
friends by her ideas, all borrowed, of course, from these great writers.
Nevertheless, even Brenda was not in the least remarkable, and as she
was much plainer than Florence, it was the younger sister who was looked
at, who was smiled at, who was approved of.
Well, the last day at school was over, and, as usual, the Misses
Heathcote arrived at Mrs Fortescue's house at Langdale.
Langdale was a pretty town situated not very far from Tunbridge Wells.
It was winter when the girls left school, and the snow was lying as a
pure and beautiful mantle all over the fields when they drove up to
Sunny Side, as Mrs Fortescue called her somewhat unpretentious house in
the suburbs of Langdale. She came out to meet the girls and spoke to
them with her usual affection.
"Ah, here you are!" she cried, "and welcome, welcome as flowers in May.
You must be frozen, both of you. I have desired Jane to light a fire in
your room; it is burning quite brightly. Come in, come in, my loves. I
have been suffering a good deal from neuralgia, so won't go out into the
porch. Higgins, take the young ladies' trunks round to the back
entrance, where Bridget will attend to them."
The well-known cabman of the district said he would, and the girls found
themselves shut into a warm hall, where a fire was lighted in the grate
and where the place looked as homelike as it always did when they came
back to it. They both kissed Mrs Fortescue as in duty bound. They
liked her without loving her. She had never done anything for them
except for a money consideration, and they knew this fact, although they
did not speak of it. Somehow it seemed to keep their hearts at arm's
length from her.
She was a pretty little woman of about forty years of age, with a keen,
very keen eye to the main chance. Her own means were small. She was
always glad to have the Heathcotes to help her to pay her Christmas
bills and to enable her to take her summer holidays free. She looked
upon them now as her property, and she always spoke of her house as
their home.
The girls went up to their room. There Bridget, the one servant, who
had served Mrs Fortescue for so long, was waiting for them. The room
looked very pretty. There were two little beds side by side, ornamented
with pink draperies at the back of the brass bedsteads, pink draperies
at the foot, pretty pink eiderdowns covering the beds themselves, a nice
green felt carpet on the floor, and green art serge window curtains,
which were drawn now to keep out the wintry blast. The fire crackled
and roared merrily. The room was sweet and fresh and clean. It had the
fragrant smell of lavender. Mrs Fortescue grew a lot of lavender in
her garden, and kept bags of it profusely sprinkled through her linen.
The girls always associated the smell of lavender with Mrs Fortescue.
Bridget welcomed them back as she had done three times a year for so
long now. They seemed never to remember anything else.
"How are you, Bridget?" said Florence, in her bright voice. "As well as
ever, I hope?"
"Oh, yes, miss; what should ail me?" said Bridget.
She showed her teeth as she laughed, and looked gleesome and good
tempered and pleasant. She felt as though she would like to kiss her
two young ladies, as she invariably called the Misses Heathcote.
"Here is your hot water, miss," she said, turning to Brenda; "and I
think the fire is all right, and dinner will be ready in ten minutes.
If you want anything else, you can ring for me."
She knew all about their trunks. There were invariably three trunks,
two of which were kept in the storeroom downstairs, one of which came
upstairs and was for immediate use. This trunk contained the girls'
pretty blouses and ribbons, their sponge-bags, their night-cases, their
brushes and combs, their slippers for use in the bedroom, and their
pretty embroidered shoes to wear at dinnertime. Bridget had already
unfastened this trunk. She glanced round the room just as she had done
three times a year for the last four or five years, and then went away,
leaving the young ladies to themselves. They were her young ladies; of
course they would always come to Sunny Side. As far as she was
concerned, this was only one more home coming, just like all the rest.
The girls hastily changed and made themselves smart, as was their wont,
for dinner. Mrs Fortescue wanted them to look smart. She hated dowdy
people. She always dressed extremely well herself, following the
fashion as far as lay within her means, powdering her face, and
arranging her dyed hair to the best possible advantage. She imagined
that she did not look more than thirty years of age, but the girls knew
quite well that her hair was dyed and her face powdered. They did not
like her any the less for that, however. If she chose to be so silly,
it was no affair of theirs. She was a good old thing. That is what
they said to each other when they spoke of her at all--quite
good-natured, and kind to them.
But Florence brushed out her radiant hair now with a kind of viciousness
which she had never exhibited before, and as she coiled it round her
stately young head, she turned and spoke to her sister.
"Do you like that new shade of Mrs Fortescue's hair or do you not,
Brenda?"
"I did not notice it," said Brenda.
"Well, I did; and I think it is hideous. What blouse will you put on,
Brenda?"
"I don't know: that pink one; won't that do?"
"No, it doesn't suit you. Wear white; I am going to."
Both sisters put on white blouses made in the extreme of the fashion.
Florence's hair was one of her great beauties. It was of a very rich
golden brown. She had quantities of it, and it had the natural
fussiness and inclination to wave which made artificial means of
producing that result unnecessary. Brenda's hair was of a pale brown,
without any wave or curl, but it was soft and thick and glossy.
Brenda's eyes were exactly the same colour as her hair, and she had
rather pale eyebrows. Her face was quite a nice little one, but not
beautiful. Florence's face was beautiful--that is, it was beautiful at
times. It could flash with animation, and her eyes could express scorn.
She had a changing colour, too, and full red lips which revealed pearly
teeth. Her looks were decidedly above the average, and there was a
mocking light in her eyes which repelled and captivated at the same
time.
Arm in arm, the two sisters went downstairs to the cosy drawing-room,
where Mrs Fortescue was waiting for them.
"Ah, that is right, my loves. It is nice to see you both. Now I think
I am entitled to a kiss, am I not?"
Florence went straight up at once and kissed the good lady on her
forehead. Brenda did likewise.
"Aren't you hungry?" said Mrs Fortescue.
"Yes," said Brenda, "I am starving."
"And so am I," said Florence.
"Dinner is quite ready. Shall we all go into the dining-room?"
They went, the two fresh girls and the woman with the dyed hair, who
imagined herself just as young as they--or rather tried to imagine
herself their equal with regard to age. Mrs Fortescue looked at them
with approval. She fancied she saw great success both for herself and
Florence in Florence's face. Of course Florence would make a brilliant
match. Some one would fall in love with her--if possible, some one with
a title. Brenda must be content with a humbler fate, but she, too,
would secure a mate. When Florence was not by, she was an exceedingly
nice-looking girl, so placid and gentle and clever-looking. Mrs
Fortescue was very proud of Brenda's cleverness. She liked to draw her
out to talk on philosophical subjects. It was quite wonderful to hear
her; and then that little tone--not of unbelief, oh no; but doubt, yes,
doubt--was quite exciting and charming.
Brenda could talk better than Florence. The clergyman of the parish,
Mr Russell, was unmarried. He would be an excellent husband for
Brenda, just the very man, who would begin by converting her to truly
orthodox views, and then would assure her how deeply he loved her. She
would settle down at Langdale as the rector's wife. It would be an
excellent position and very nice for Mrs Fortescue, who, of course,
would be always dear Brenda's right hand, her mainstay in any
perplexity. She knew that the rector's wife would hold an excellent
position in a small town like Langdale. She would be the first lady in
the place. To her would be given the task of leading what society there
was to lead. She would have to discern the sheep from the goats. Those
who were not admitted within the charmed circle would not be worth
knowing.
Mrs Fortescue thought of all these things as she looked at Brenda
across the dinner-table.
Presently, Florence laughed.
"What is the matter, dear?" said Mrs Fortescue.
"It seems quite incomprehensible," said Florence.
"What, my love? What do you mean?"
"Why, that our school-days are over. Things seem so exactly like they
have always seemed. This is two days before Christmas. To-morrow we
will go as usual to help with the church decorations. The next day will
be Christmas Day. Then I suppose there'll be some sort of festivities
going, and--and--But what I want to know is this?"
"Yes?" said Mrs Fortescue.
Bridget had left the room. An excellent dessert was on the board. The
fire glowed red; the light was good.
"Yes?" she repeated.
"I want to know what is the end of it all. We are not going back to
school at the end of January. We have done with school."
"Yes, darling," said Mrs Fortescue.
She rose as she spoke. She went swiftly up to the girl and put her arm
round her neck.
"You have done with school in one sense, but all your beautiful future
lies before you. You forget that Mr Timmins is coming to-morrow."
"I had forgotten," said Florence. "Had you, Brenda?"
"No," said Brenda, "how could I forget? I had a letter from him at
Chester House this morning."
"What time did he say he would come, dear?" asked Mrs Fortescue.
"He said he would be here in the morning and he wanted us both to be
in."
"He wants to talk to you about your future, darlings," said Mrs
Fortescue; "very natural, very right. You had no idea, had you, Brenda,
of going to Newnham or Girton I do trust and hope you had no thoughts in
that direction. Men don't like women who have led collegiate lives: I
know that for a fact; my own dear Frank often said so. He said he could
not bear really learned women."
"I should have thought," said Brenda, "that men preferred women who
could think. But I am afraid," she added, "that I don't very much care
what men think on the subject. All the same, I am not going to either
Newnham or Girton, so you can make your mind easy on that score, Mrs
Fortescue."
"That is right, darling, that is right. I haven't an idea what Mr
Timmins particularly wants to say to you, but I trust whatever he does
say will be confided to me."
"Why, of course," said Florence.
"And in your future, darlings, I hope that I, your old friend, will bear
a part."
The girls were silent, looking at her intently. She had expected an
eager rush of words from those young lips, and their silence made her
uneasy.
"I have done all I can for you, haven't I, my sweet ones?"
"Oh yes! You have been very kind, Mrs Fortescue," said Brenda.
"But that is not all," said Mrs Fortescue, her voice dropping. "I--and
you must know it--I love you both."
Florence's fine dark eyes were opened to their fullest extent. Brenda
looked very gently at the little woman with the dyed hair. Neither said
a word. Mrs Fortescue sprang to her feet.
"We will go into the drawing-room now," she said. "You will tell me
when you are sleepy and want to go to bed; would you like a game of
cut-throat bridge first?"
The girls said they would like a game of bridge, and cards were
produced. They played for about an hour, Mrs Fortescue invariably
holding the best hand and the girls laughing good-humouredly at her
luck. They played for love, not money. Mrs Fortescue thought the game
uninteresting.
It was between ten and eleven when the sisters went up to their room.
They said good-night to Mrs Fortescue on the landing.
They reached the comfortable bedroom where they had slept during the
holidays for so many long years, and looked around them.