IN THE GIRLS’ BEDROOMS.
Marjorie and Eileen, in soiled and much bedraggled school-party frocks,
went down to dinner. Letitia, in pale-blue silk with lace ruffles,
looked neat, pretty, and suitably attired; but the other two girls
presented an appearance which caused poor Mrs. Chetwynd to shudder. With
their really handsome faces, their wide-open intelligent eyes, their
exquisitely-formed lips, and pearly rows of teeth, they were nothing but
awkward, gauche, and unpresentable. Letitia was as pretty, trim, and
agreeable to the eye as a young girl could be; but Eileen and Marjorie!
What was to be done? Mrs. Chetwynd felt her heart sinking like lead in
her breast; for there was a stubborn build about Marjorie’s chin and
about the slight, very slight frown which now and then visited Eileen’s
intelligent forehead. Mrs. Chetwynd perceived at a glance that if she
was to mold these two girls to her ways of thinking, she would have a
troublesome task before her. She was rich, and was also good-hearted,
good-natured, and pleasant. It was in no way her fault if the girls took
after their father, who had been not only a brave soldier, but also that
strange combination, a scholar, as well, and who had died before the
girls’ education was complete. He was a man of extraordinary character
and determination, and had all his life been the victim of fads. Mrs.
Chetwynd felt quite certain that their father was to blame for
Marjorie’s and Eileen’s peculiar appearance. She was thankful that she
had not asked any friends to meet the girls on their first evening home
from school. She determined to make herself as pleasant as possible, and
not to allude to the untidy wardrobes, the gauche appearance, and the
cropped heads until the following morning.
Dinner passed quickly, for all three girls were hungry; and when they
retired to the drawing-room Mrs. Chetwynd suggested a little music.
“Eileen, my darling, you sing, don’t you?” she said, turning to the
younger of the twins.
“Oh, dear me, no, mother; I have not the ghost of a voice,” replied
Eileen.
“But I thought that your teacher, Miss Fox, spoke highly of your musical
talents?”
“She said I should play well if I practiced hard; but I did not think my
very moderate gift worth cultivating,” replied Eileen, yawning slightly
as she spoke. “You see, unless one has genius, there is not the least
use in the present day in being musical. Only genius is tolerated; and
then I don’t ever mean to be ornamental. My vogue in life is the useful.
The music of the ordinary school-girl, after years of toil, is merely
regarded as an accomplishment, and generally as an unpleasant one;
therefore I have let my music drop.”
“Dear, dear! How extraordinary of Miss Fox not to let me know,” said
Mrs. Chetwynd. “Well, Marjorie, you at least play?” said her mother.
“Yes, mother,” in a somewhat solemn style. “I can give you one of Bach’s
fugues, if you like.”
“Do so, my dear. I have spent a great deal of money on your music, and
should like to hear the result.”
Marjorie rose, went to the piano, sat down, and began to thunder loudly.
She had scarcely any taste for music, and she played several wrong
notes. Mrs. Chetwynd had a carefully trained ear, and she quite
shuddered when Marjorie crashed out some of her terrible discords.
Having finished the fugue, which took a considerable time, the young
girl rose from the piano amid a profound silence. Eileen had turned away
and was engrossed in a book on cookery which she had picked up from a
side-table. She was muttering to herself half-aloud:
“Take of flour one ounce, butter, cream, three eggs, and——”
“What are you doing, Eileen?” said the mother.
Eileen made no reply.
Marjorie seated herself on a chair near her mother.
“I hope you liked that fugue?” she said. “I took tremendous pains
learning it. I got up every morning an hour earlier than the others
during the whole of last term, simply because I intended to play that
fugue of Bach’s to you.”
“It was a great pity, dear,” began Mrs. Chetwynd; then she sighed and
stopped.
“A pity, mother? What in the world do you mean?”
“Nothing, love; we will talk of all those things to-morrow.”
“What a terrible day to-morrow promises to be,” said Marjorie, glancing
towards Eileen. “I can see that mother is going to let the vials of her
wrath loose. Oh yes, you dear old mammy, you are—you cannot deny it. But
we are not such dreadful girls after all. All we want to do is this: we
want to go our own way.”
“Your own way, Eileen—your own way?”
“Yes, mammy, our own way; and you can go yours. Then we shall get on
together like a house on fire. Now, what are you winking at me for,
Letitia?”
“I was not winking at you,” said Letitia. “I was wondering if Aunt Helen
would like to hear me sing.”
“Certainly, my dear; but I never knew before that you had a voice.”
“I have only a little voice; but I have made the most of my
opportunities. I won’t sing if you would rather not.”
“On the contrary, dear; I should like to hear you.”
“A ballad, I suppose?” said Letitia.
“Yes; I am fond of ballads. What do you know?”
“All the usual ones, I think,” replied Letitia. “I will sing ‘Robin
Adair’ if that will suit you.”
“I am fond of ‘Robin Adair,’” said the widow; “but few people can render
those beautiful words to satisfaction.”
Letitia volunteered to try. She sat down to the piano; her accompaniment
was fresh and rippling, her voice clear, not particularly strong, but
wonderfully true. It had a note of sympathy in it too, which rang
through the old room.
Mrs. Chetwynd put down her knitting with a sigh of pleasure. The two
girls sat with their hands lying idly in their laps, and gazed at their
cousin.
When the old ballad came to an end, Mrs. Chetwynd felt tears not far
from her eyes.
Oh, if only Eileen and Marjorie were like Letitia!
Marjorie suddenly jumped to her feet.
“Are you crying, mother?” she said, going up to her mother. “Oh, it’s
just like that wicked Lettie. To hear her sing you would suppose that
she was the most sentimental creature in the world: but don’t you
believe a word of it, mammy. She has not one scrap of sentiment in her
composition; she is the most worldly-wise little soul that I have ever
come across.—Now, Lettie, don’t be a humbug; sing something in which
your real feelings appear—a modern love-song, for instance, or something
about fine dress, or nothing to wear, or anything else in your real
style. It’s positively wrong of you to deceive mother in the way you are
doing.”
Letitia looked gently reproachful. She said she did not know any song
about nothing to wear, nor any song either about dress; but she would
sing “Shadowland” if Mrs. Chetwynd wished it.
This song again brought the widow to the verge of tears. Lettie then
rose and shut the piano.
“You at least, my dear, have derived benefit from your education,” she
said. “How I wish your dear father and my dear husband were alive to
hear you.”
“Father could always see through humbugs,” said Eileen to Marjorie.
“Yes,” replied Marjorie; “but don’t you see whatever mother is she is
not a humbug?”
“Only we don’t want Lettie to twist her round her little finger, do we?”
said Eileen.
“No; not that it greatly matters. Poor mother. I expect Lettie will do
very much what we do; but I’m not sure. We must only wait and see.”
The girls retired to bed; but Mrs. Chetwynd sat up late, wishing much
that she had Mrs. Acheson to consult with.
What was to be done if Marjorie and Eileen went on in this peculiar
manner which they had done that evening? Really, when everything was
considered, they were very little better than Belle, and Belle happened
to be Mrs. Chetwynd’s bête noire.
“If only pretty, graceful, accomplished Letitia were my own daughter!
She is a dear child, and yet I cannot quite cordially take to her,”
thought the widow. “I don’t know what is the matter with her. I have no
fault whatever to find. I suppose it is because she is not my own. Now
Marjorie and Eileen rub me the wrong way every time they open their
lips, and yet I love them with all my heart and soul. How handsome they
are too! Anything could be done with them if only they would submit to
the ordinary regulations of polite society. What terrible times these
modern days are! Mothers have little or no influence over their own
children. The children take the upper hand and—keep it. But I just vow
that Marjorie and Eileen shall submit to me in my own house. Poor
darlings, they are as loving as possible; but they have been under some
dreadful pernicious influence. I could never guess that a school so
highly recommended as Miss Marchland’s was would send back girls in the
condition Marjorie and Eileen are in. No manners, disgraceful in
appearance, and no accomplishments. What agony I went through while
Marjorie was playing that fugue! She must never attempt to play in
public. Eileen, who really had a taste for music, will not cultivate it,
because, forsooth, she is not a genius. The two girls mean to be merely
useful—merely useful, with eyes like those, and lips and teeth. My dear,
dear, ridiculous children, society will soon knock all that nonsense out
of your heads. Yes, I must present them both as soon as possible. I
shall order their court dresses to-morrow. But that terrible cropped
hair—straight too, not a scrap of curl in it. Oh dear, what is to be
done; and they are both on such a large scale? They would make handsome
boys. What a pity they are not boys. Dear me, I am an unhappy woman. If
Letitia were my daughter, it would be plain sailing, but as it is I am
at my wits’ end.”
By and by Mrs. Chetwynd went upstairs. She hesitated on the second
landing, where her own room was. On the next floor were the girls’
rooms, luxuriously and beautifully furnished. It occurred to her to go
up and look at her darlings asleep. She did so, opening the door of
Marjorie’s room first. Marjorie was in bed, curled up as her fashion
was, with the bedclothes tucked tightly round her. Her cheeks were
slightly flushed, and the long black lashes looked particularly handsome
as they lay against her rosy cheeks. But what a condition the room was
in! What was the good of a maid when girls went to bed in such a state
of untidiness? Clothes tossed helter-skelter everywhere; one little shoe
near the fireplace, one near the wardrobe; petticoats flopped on the
nearest chair; the shabby serge dress, which Mrs. Chetwynd considered
only to be fit for the next bag sent from the Kilburn Society, hanging
on the brass knob of the bed.
Marjorie sighed in her sleep, and Mrs. Chetwynd bent over her.
“Dear, lovely child, I surely shall be able to mold her to my wishes,”
she thought; never considering that Marjorie’s chin, with its cleft in
the middle, was full of obstinacy, and that her lips were as firm as
they were beautiful.
Mrs. Chetwynd went on to the next room. Eileen was also sound asleep,
and her room was also untidy. The girl looked lovely, with her classical
features and the long straight lashes lying upon the soft rounded
cheeks. Yes, they were both singularly handsome girls, and very like one
another. Of course they would do splendidly yet. Perhaps the world would
appreciate them all the more for their little eccentricities. They must
appear as débutantes at the very first drawing-room. Yes, to-morrow at
an early hour, Madame Coray should put their presentation dresses in
hand.
Mrs. Chetwynd hesitated a moment before she went into Letitia’s room. It
would not be very interesting to look at Letitia asleep; but still, what
she did for her own girls she invariably did for her husband’s niece.
Letitia’s room was in exquisite and perfect order, everything put neatly
away, and Letitia herself lying in her little white bed with her arms
folded across her chest and her hair swept back from her pretty brow.
Mrs. Chetwynd could not help feeling drawn to her. She bent and kissed
her on her forehead. She had not dared to do this to her own girls,
fearing to awaken them.
She then went back to her room, to sleep as best she could.