BELLE THE SAGE.
Belle Acheson was an ideal scholarly girl of the latter end of the
nineteenth century. She wore spectacles, not pince-nez. Her hair was
parted smoothly on her forehead and done up in a tiny knot or dab at the
back of her neck. Her forehead was high, her complexion sallow, her eyes
short-sighted and small. She had a long upper lip, and her mouth was
thin and wide. In figure she was extremely spare, her feet and hands
were large, and her shoulders angular. She was a plain girl, and she
gloried in the fact. Belle Acheson lived altogether for the joys of
intellect; to learn was her delight. The more abstruse, the more dry,
the science, the more eagerly did Belle absorb it, and make it part of
herself. She was a good classical scholar, and was also fond of modern
languages. She studied Shakespeare, not for his beauty of language, but
for his archaisms. She adored musty professors, and never had a good
word to say for an athletic man. Her ambition was to carry off
double-firsts, and some people thought that she had a fair chance of
obtaining this blue ribbon.
Belle was an inmate of St. Wode’s College, Wingfield. There were four
halls of residence at St. Wode’s, and Belle occupied an attic in North
Hall. She had been there now for three terms, and had already made a
profound impression on her tutors. She amassed knowledge with great
rapidity. No nut was too hard for her to crack.
Now, if there was a girl in the entire of England that Mrs. Chetwynd
loathed it was Belle Acheson. Mrs. Acheson was Mrs. Chetwynd’s old
friend. Their husbands had fought side by side in the same campaigns in
India. They had belonged to the same regiment. She felt that nothing
would induce her to desert her old friend; but alas! that old friend’s
daughter! It was fearful to think that such a girl was coming to pay a
visit to Marjorie and Eileen at this important crisis in their lives.
“Can anything be done to prevent it?” said Mrs. Chetwynd on the morning
of the fatal day. She was addressing Letitia, who was gradually getting
herself more and more into the good woman’s confidence.
“My dear Lettie,” she said, “I would honestly pay twenty pounds to any
hansom-driver to let his horse fall between here and Mrs. Acheson’s in
order to give Belle a wrench of the arm or a twist of the wrist, or
something which would give her sufficient pain to send her home again.”
“Then, as those are your very heathenish wishes, Aunt Helen, you may be
quite certain that Belle will arrive in perfect health, without any
accident, not in a hansom, but in that two-horse conveyance which is
meant for the convenience of the poorer people of London.”
Mrs. Chetwynd sighed.
“I beseech of you, dear,” she said, “not to leave the children alone
with that pernicious girl. Stay in the room yourself. When you perceive
that the conversation is getting into dangerous channels, turn it, my
dear child. Now, remember, Lettie, I trust you. Everything depends on
your discretion.”
“I will do what I can, of course, Aunt Helen; but I must frankly admit
that I shall have very little influence.”
“I only wish Providence had made you one of my daughters. If you and
Marjorie, for instance, had been my daughters, and Eileen had been you,
then things might have been quite pleasant, for you would have
influenced Marjorie and brought her back again into the right ways. As
it is, however——”
“As it is, we must make the best of things,” said Letitia.
There came a ring at the hall-door, and Mrs. Acheson and the redoubtable
Belle were ushered in. Mrs. Acheson, in her usual somewhat diffident
manner, kissed Mrs. Chetwynd, and then Belle flew up to her and gave her
a little peck on her cheek.
“How do?” she cried. “Where are the girls? I am most anxious to see them
at once. Pray, don’t ring; I’ll run up to them. I know the old
schoolroom. I have a great deal to say. You know I go up again next
week, and can think of nothing else. But I determined that whoever else
was left in the cold, I must interview Marjorie and Eileen. Mother, have
you got my small Virgil in your bag? I am writing a paper on that great
man, and I wish to read it to the girls in order to get their opinion.”
“They know nothing whatever about the classics,” interrupted Mrs.
Chetwynd. “I believe they are going out for a walk; would you like to go
with them?”
“I don’t think we shall have time for that,” replied Belle. “I’ll find
them; don’t you trouble.”
She nodded to Mrs. Chetwynd and to her mother in a friendly, offhand
style, and left the room. Mrs. Chetwynd glanced at Letitia, of whom
Belle had not taken the slightest notice, and the young girl followed
the eccentric, scholarly undergraduate of St. Wode’s upstairs.
Marjorie and Eileen had an old-fashioned schoolroom at the top of the
house, They had cleaned it out themselves, and put it into order
according to their individual tastes. It was now neat and bare.
Marjorie, still wearing her shabby serge dress, was standing near an
open window. She was holding a long, yellow canary on her finger, and
whistling to the bird, who pecked at her in happy confidence.
Eileen was putting some pins into a great rent in her petticoat. The
door was burst open, and Belle rushed in.
“How do, dears, both?” she said in a friendly voice. “Pray don’t rush at
me and devour me with kisses; we never go on in that way at North Hall.
My dear Marjorie, how you have grown! Oh! I am pleased to see you in
that plain serge dress; and Eileen—petticoat out of order? Never
mind—here, this pin will set it finally right.”
“Do stop for a moment, Belle. Of course I am delighted to see you,” said
Marjorie, “but I must put Daffodil back into his cage.”
She crossed the room, still holding the bird on her finger, opened the
door of his cage, and let him fly in. She then shut the cage-door and
came back to where her friend was standing.
“I didn’t know you wore spectacles, Belle,” she said.
“Yes, dear, my sight is bad. I have been to Wiesbaden to the celebrated
oculist, and he has ordered these special glasses. I have astigmatism in
one eye, and have therefore to wear special spectacles. By the way,
Marjorie, you look as if you ought to be short-sighted.”
“Ought to be short-sighted?” said Marjorie. “I am not; I have excellent
sight.”
“You ought to be,” repeated Belle; “it gives one a distinguished look.
In all probability you will be very short-sighted when you come to
college. Most scholarly girls—I see by the shape of your brow that you
are meant to be scholarly—are obliged to wear spectacles.”
“When I come to college!” replied Marjorie, “and I am supposed to be a
scholarly girl. Delightful! And yet I am not sure that I wish to be
scholarly; but what a dear delicious creature you are, Belle! Sit down;
do sit down.”
“Thanks,” said Belle. She squatted down on a wooden bench in an ungainly
fashion, crossing one leg over the other.
Letitia now advanced; she had been standing near the door.
“Who is that young person?” said Belle, raising her very short-sighted
eyes, and staring hard at Lettie.
“You know quite well who I am,” replied Letitia. “I am the cousin who
has always lived with the twins. We are all three eighteen, and we are
coming out in about a week or a fortnight.”
“We are not coming out,” said Eileen.
“Coming out!” cried Marjorie. “Now, Lettie, for goodness’ sake, don’t be
silly. You know that unpleasant matter has been arranged. Perhaps you
would like to go down to the drawing-room to mother and Mrs. Acheson.
Eileen and I have a great deal to say to Belle.”
“No, I mean to stay and listen,” replied Lettie. “I may have a good deal
to say to Belle on my own account.”
“Stay, if you wish to,” said Belle; “but I don’t suppose for a moment
our conversation will interest you. You are fashionable; and that is
quite enough.—Marjorie, what is it you have to say?”
“I want to ask you all about your life, dear,” said Marjorie. “Eileen
and I have left school. We have come home, and mother wishes us to go
into society—poor, dear little mother, the best of souls; but we are not
going to allow her to order our lives.”
“Certainly not,” said Eileen, “we are going to take our lives into our
own hands, and we wish to consult you about the matter, Belle. You
are—where did you say?”
“At St. Wode’s College, Wingfield, the place in all England where women
who wish to distinguish themselves ought to receive training.”
“Then, would you recommend us to come to St. Wode’s College?” asked
Eileen.
“That I cannot say; but I will tell you about it if you like. By the
way, I wish that young person—I beg her pardon——”
“Letitia is my name,” said Lettie.
“I wish Letitia would sit so that I need not see that fashionable
arrangement of her hair—it irritates me terribly. Why should people
waste time in fluffing and crimping their hair. It not only ruins the
hair and ages the appearance, but, what is of much more consequence, it
causes the unhappy victim to commit a sin—yes, a sin. It wastes time,
and oh, time is so precious! I feel this more and more the longer I
live. Each precious, valuable moment has to be accounted for. The brain
is master of the body. To enlarge the brain, to cultivate the——”
“Hear! hear! This is as good as a lecture,” said Eileen. “Go on, please,
Belle; you are just the same dear, odd, delightful girl you always
were.”
“Whether I am delightful or not, it is very rude of you to interrupt
me,” said Belle, frowning. She had no sense of humor, and could see no
fun in Eileen’s remark.
“I will tell you both about the college if you really wish to learn,”
she continued; “but I must not stay here long to-day, for I have too
much to do. Mother mentioned that you had come back from school, and
that your mother intended to take you at once into that whirlpool of
frivolity which is given the name of Society; and when I heard that, I
thought it was my duty to tell you both plainly what I thought on the
subject.”
“But that is unnecessary, because you see we agree with you,” said
Marjorie.
“Well, well, so far so good; but you want my advice now as to what you
will do. You distinctly intend to oppose your mother and that young girl
with the fashionable head?”
“I really cannot see why I and my head should be dragged into this
controversy,” said Letitia. “I am not speaking; I am simply sitting and
listening. May I not listen to the words of wisdom which drop from your
lips?”
“You talk, Lettie, as if poor Belle was Minerva,” said Eileen. “You know
whatever we do you’ll have to do; because, though you are fashionable
and horribly neat and particular about your outward appearance, you love
us so well that you could not live without us.”
“There is some truth in that,” said Letitia, with a sigh.
“Well, now, stop wrangling, you three,” said Belle, “and let me speak.
You can go on with your quarrel when I am away; but during the few
moments that I can spare from my own heavy tasks, for I have a vast deal
to acquire before I return to college, I surely may be allowed to say
what I have come to say?”
“So good of you to come, dear Belle,” said Eileen, patting Belle’s long,
large, angular hand.
Belle snatched her hand away.
“I hate being petted and fondled,” she said; “we never do that at North
Hall, it is so schoolgirlish—at least not those girls who are worth
anything. In every house of residence, in every college, there are
drones, poor useless creatures, who follow the busy bees; but at St.
Wode’s such dangerous adjuncts to the public peace are generally rooted
out. Miss Lauderdale, our adored principal, sees to that. Now, girls, if
you wish to hear what the busy bees do, I will tell you.”
“I wish you would begin,” said Lettie; “you do nothing but walk round
the subject and never attack it.”
“I don’t suppose it will interest you,” said Belle; “but here goes.—By
the way, have either of you two”—as she spoke she turned to Eileen and
Marjorie—“have either of you two ever been to St. Wode’s College,
Wingfield?”
“Never,” said Eileen; “but Fay Everett, a girl at our school, has a
sister there, and she sometimes describes the place to us. She said the
students’ rooms were so sweetly pretty, and that each girl could
exercise her own individual taste.”
“Good gracious! am I sitting here to talk of the girls who are supposed
to have taste?” cried Belle. “Taste, what is taste? It is nothing but a
device of the Evil One for wasting time. I am here to talk to you about
the students, the real students. I, for instance, have a room. Would you
like to know how my room is furnished?”
Letitia gave a perceptible shudder, and walking to the window
deliberately shut it.
“What are you doing that for?” said Eileen. “It is going to be a very
hot day.”
“I felt a sudden chill,” said Lettie.
“Well, do let the window remain shut; what does it matter?” cried Belle.
“I have placed myself high above the mere influence of the weather. Is
it hot? is it cold? I can never tell; I simply don’t know. My mind is
absorbed in abstruse speculations and such trivial matters as bodily
discomforts cannot touch it. Oh, girls, it is grand to allow your mind
to soar! Have you, for instance, ever dipped deep into the intricacies
of Virgil?”
“Never,” said Eileen.
She looked at Marjorie.
“I don’t think, after all,” she continued, “we wish to be so very
learned. Our idea was to be just useful, plain sort of women. Of course
we should never think of marrying; but we should like to be women who
help their fellow-creatures, who are ready to take their place in a
sudden emergency. We want to know a little about nursing, something too
about medicine. We should not object to going through a regular course
of household training; but as to learning, we don’t want to be
bookworms.”
“In that case, why, in the name of Heaven, have I been asked over here?”
cried Belle. “Is my precious time to be wasted?” Here she jumped up
suddenly and confronted the two girls. In her agitation and anger her
spectacles dropped from her nose; they fell with a crash on the floor,
and one glass was broken.
“Now, what am I to do?” said Belle. “Oh, the irreparable injury you two
girls have done me! One of my glasses is broken, and I, who have
astigmatism in one eye, cannot get it mended in a hurry. It is cracked
right across. Most fortunately I took the precaution to provide myself
with another pair, or I should be lost, simply lost. Oh dear! what a
wasted afternoon!”
“But can’t you tell us what you were going to say, even without seeing
us very plainly?” said Eileen. “Do, Belle, sit down and be comfortable;
tell us everything. We are not at all settled in our own minds as to
what we will do yet. You have a room, and it is not ornamental. Well, we
don’t care about ornamental rooms. This room is bare, is it not?”
“Bare! Do you call this a bare room?” cried Belle. “There are six
chairs, for instance. Do you ever expect to entertain six people in the
room where you work? In addition to the six ordinary chairs there is an
armchair. Who wants to loll in an armchair? There is also a bench on
which I am now sitting. Tell me, is a bench necessary as well as six
ordinary chairs and an armchair? Are four tables required? Is that
carpet essential? Does it stimulate the brain to keep the feet upon a
carpet? Are those thick curtains necessary—they are only traps to
collect dirt. Blinds to the windows I grant are required, or people
might stare in. Oh yes, I will allow blinds; they are necessary. Now I
will tell you about my room. I have asked to be put in one of the
attics. The house is very full, and the vice-principal of North Hall,
Miss Penrose, was quite willing to oblige me. The attic was not
furnished when I got it, and I begged and implored of her to allow me to
furnish it in my own way. I have therefore a camp-bed in one corner, a
particularly narrow one. There is a small, hard mattress on it; The
counterpane is colored; it is dark-blue, and does not require to be
washed often—that is one item off the mind. The mind, my dear girls—that
is, the minds of those who are students at St. Wode’s College—have such
deep problems to solve that they cannot be fretted by external worries.
The minds of the real students must be left free to solve problems—the
intricacies of Virgil, the great masterpieces of Homer, Dante in his
magnificent original——”
Belle had now forgotten her auditors. She ceased staring at them, her
glasses were useless, her eyes were dim; but nevertheless she herself
was seeing visions.
Marjorie patted her on the arm.
“Go on, Belle, go on,” she said; “we will find out about Virgil and
Homer and Dante presently. Now, what else have you in the room? You
cannot live in a room that contains nothing but a camp-bed and a blind,
and at present that is all you have admitted.”
“I have a desk, specially made for myself, in the window,” continued
Belle; “there is a stool, a high stool, on which I sit. The stool has no
back; I should scorn to lean back. I have a shelf on the wall which
contains my books—my few books, twenty in all—standard works, mostly in
the classics. Amongst them are to be found Polybius, Appian’s Civil War
(Book 1.), Cicero’s Letters, Plato’s Republic, Bacon’s Novum Organum,
Aristotle’s Politics, Locke On the Human Understanding, and——”
“Good gracious!”
Lettie was the one who made this exclamation.
“Quiet, quiet, Lettie; do let her finish,” said Eileen. She kicked out
her foot and gave Lettie a poke.
Letitia drew in her own neatly shod little foot and sat with her hands
folded in her lap and her eyes dancing with suppressed mirth.
“I have a chair besides the one I occupy,” continued Belle. “That chair
is for a friend if a friend happens to come in. There is a small deal
table upon which I never allow a cloth to be put, as it is apt to come
off and spill the ink—such waste of time sopping up ink. Often, in my
moments of frenzy, have I jumped up suddenly and pulled the cloth with
me. You don’t know what I feel at times with the greatness of the
thoughts which surge through my brain. Having spilt the ink three or
four times, I have discarded the cloth. A washhand-stand is of course
essential, and there is a chest of drawers where I keep my things.”
“By the way, how many dresses have you, Belle?” said Eileen suddenly.
“Two—have you two?”
“I cannot tell you,” replied Belle, turning her eyes towards Eileen, and
looking at her as if she did not see her. “I have not the faintest idea
what dresses I have. Mother supplies them. I put a dress on in the
morning—I take it off at night. Occasionally, in the excitement of my
thoughts, I have been known to come down to breakfast in an evening
dress. I will admit that this has attracted attention and annoyed me; so
as a rule I am careful to see that it is a morning dress which I am
about to wear.”
“But do you think evening dresses necessary at all?” said Eileen in an
anxious voice. “We think it would be so much more useful to save our
money. Marjorie and I mean to do great good in the world.”
“Then if you will take my advice,” said Belle, jumping to her feet, “you
will come as soon as possible to St. Wode’s. When you are there I will
talk to you again. I cannot waste any more time to-day. You will have to
pass in Responsions; but doubtless that could be easily managed. Yes,
when you are there I shall do my utmost to guide you. Marjorie, just let
me place my finger on your brow; I shall be able to tell you in a moment
whether you will be able to manage Virgil.”
Marjorie submitted to this test with exemplary patience. Lettie laughed
aloud.
“You’ll do,” cried Belle. “I’ll just enter your name in my book.
‘Marjorie Chetwynd comes to St. Wode’s College as soon as possible.’ The
spring term begins in a fortnight, Marjorie, so you have little time to
lose.—Now, Eileen, let me look at you. Yes, you also would do well; but
I think perhaps your forte will be modern languages and English
literature. All lighter accomplishments you will of course eschew.”
“Oh, please don’t leave the room,” said Lettie, bounding forward, “until
you have placed your fingers on my brow to see what I am worth. Really,
this is most interesting. You are a kind of magician, Belle.”
“You will be one of the frivols; one of the drones of our hive,” replied
Belle sternly. “Don’t, I beg of you, come to St. Wode’s.”
“I can only tell you this,” answered Lettie, running after Belle as she
was flying downstairs, “if Eileen and Marjorie go I mean to accompany
them.”