THE FATE OF THE GIRLS.
Belle Acheson was a young woman who never let the grass grow under her
feet. Having rushed downstairs at a headlong speed, she now presented
herself in the drawing-room.
“I have just examined the frontal developments of Marjorie’s and
Eileen’s heads,” she said, speaking in a loud, rapid voice, and glancing
in the direction where Mrs. Chetwynd and Mrs. Acheson were seated
together on a sofa. “I have examined the frontal developments of the two
girls, and I am glad to tell you that they both show marked
intellectuality. I have recommended them to join me at St. Wode’s
College, Wingfield, immediately. Will you, therefore, Mrs. Chetwynd,
kindly take the necessary steps to see that this is carried out? You
must write to our principal, Miss Lauderdale, asking her to give you all
particulars as to the necessary steps to be taken for admission. If the
girls have not already passed some public examination, they must pass
Responsions. The subjects are Latin, Greek, mathematics. But if they
have already passed the London Matriculation, or the Cambridge Higher
Local, or the——”
“My dear, my dear!” cried Mrs. Acheson, “you are positively bewildering
my dear friend. What are you driving at?”
“I am driving at nothing,” said Belle, in a voice of dignity. “I am
stating facts. The girls wish to enter St. Wode’s. To do so they must
have passed, or will have to pass, certain examinations; but the main
thing 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 a
chair, please? Can I give you a cup of tea?”
“Tea?” cried Belle. “I never take tea, thank you; but I should like a
glass of water, please, for my throat is quite dry with all the talking
I have been obliged to go through. Don’t you know, Mrs. Chetwynd, that
tea is decidedly bad for the brain, and also for the coats of the
stomach. Oh, it has a shocking effect. Our best tutors at St. Wode’s
never countenance tea. Coffee, strong black coffee, one is obliged to
take now and then, particularly when one has to sit up at night before
an exam. for honors. Coffee and a wet towel; but tea—no, thank you. Will
you permit me to ring for a glass of water? I was giving the girls a
lecture upstairs; they have a great deal to learn.”
Belle did not wait for Mrs. Chetwynd’s most unwilling permission. She
sounded the electric bell by the fireplace, and presently the footman
appeared. 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; she
wants me to look over some of her matriculation papers, and I must on no
account 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 will
take 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 is
good for you? Now, Mrs. Chetwynd, don’t forget to write. The address is
Miss 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 her
friend, and was hurled out of the room by the emphatic Belle. A moment
or two later the hall-door was shut behind the pair.
“Thank goodness, they are gone at last!” cried Mrs. Chetwynd. “My dear
Lettie, is that you? Come here, child, come here. Now, tell me, what did
that awful girl say to the children?”
“Here are the children coming down to answer for themselves,” said
Marjorie, springing lightly into the room accompanied by Eileen.
“Oh, darling little mammy, what is the matter?” cried Marjorie. She ran
up to her mother and kissed her. “Why, you look quite worried, you dear
old thing. Let me smooth out those furrows on your dear brow! Ah! you
look more like yourself now. Come, sit here, and I will sit near you. I
will 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 that
appalling girl, for there is no other word for her——”
“Of course the world did turn topsy-turvy twenty years ago,” said
Eileen. “For women everything is completely changed. We who were so low
are 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 vacations
with you.”
“My dear, dear Eileen, you don’t know what you are talking about. That
terrible girl has inoculated you with her democratic views. She is a
fearful creature, a sort of monster; and the queer, extraordinary things
she said, and the way she hurled her poor mother out of the room, I have
really no words to describe. I do pity Mrs. Acheson; but if you think
for a single moment, Eileen, that I am going to submit to you and
Marjorie having the upper hand and managing your own lives, you are
mistaken.”
Eileen uttered a deep sigh.
“It will be troublesome,” she said slowly, “and we would much rather not
be troublesome; it would worry you, and we would much rather not worry
you. Mammy, why don’t you give in at once? It would be so much more
graceful 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 you
nothing to say? You have lived with us since you were a baby; in every
respect you have been treated as a daughter of the house. Can’t you
speak, can’t you show these insubordinate, wicked girls how dreadfully
they are acting?”
“It is useless,” said Lettie, shrugging her shoulders; “they are
determined to have their own way. I am afraid you must bear it, Aunt
Helen.”
Mrs. Chetwynd burst into tears. Marjorie and Eileen looked at her with
eyes full of pity.
“I wish it was not necessary,” said Eileen. “I do wish we could comfort
you, dear old mammy. I do wish we could say that we would be presented
to Her Majesty, and go into society six evenings out of the seven; but
you 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. I
also think what Belle said is excellent; and after two or three years of
that 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 me
the 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 at
the 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 mother
and began to speak. Eileen took her mother’s other hand. The girls could
talk well; they had plenty of intellect, and they could expound their
views in a simple and yet telling manner. Now, Mrs. Chetwynd could never
answer any argument which required a logical deduction. She was
therefore completely worsted by her clever and modern daughters. Each of
her little excuses, each of her small efforts to get the girls to remain
at home with her, to go into society, to lead the ordinary life of the
ordinary young woman, were quietly and politely demolished by both
Eileen and Marjorie. Finally, Mrs. Chetwynd found herself saying she
would 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 your
chair, dear mammy. Lettie, run upstairs for mother’s eau de Cologne; we
will put some on her forehead. Poor dear darling, she’s the sweetest
mother in all the world; isn’t she, Marjorie?”
“A perfect angel,” said Marjorie.
She stooped and kissed her mother. Eileen also kissed her. There they
stood in their shabby dresses, a little piece of Eileen’s petticoat
peeping below her skirt, their short hair pushed up from their
foreheads, their handsome faces alight with fire and excitement.
Mrs. Chetwynd glanced at them, and despair entered her soul. She had not
the 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 and
Eileen into the world. My only comfort is that their poor dear
father—such a kind, scholarly, soldierly man—is not here to witness
their 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 no
use whatever in opposing them. Doubtless life will teach them its own
lesson, and they will be delightful when they return from St. Wode’s.”
“How long must they stay there?” asked Mrs. Chetwynd. She took up her
handkerchief as she spoke, to wipe away the tears from her eyes.
“I believe the usual course is three years,” said Lettie. “You cannot
get your certificate, which is equivalent to a degree, under that time.”
“Your certificate, which is equivalent to a degree, Lettie! Oh, my
child, not a man living will speak to the girls. They will never be
married, Lettie; they will be old maids to the end of the chapter. It is
fearful 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 men
disapprove 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,” she
said.
“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. We
are so terribly earnest now, we have no time to think of mere
ornamentation.”
“Thank goodness, Lettie, you at least will always dress neatly.”
“I should think so,” replied Lettie. “I honestly confess that I am quite
fond 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 go
too.”
“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 two
poor dear girls through this eccentric phase of their existence. Think
of 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 me
to—oh, of course I pooh-poohed the idea; but I really think I shall do
it now. I shall go about from one fashionable place to another and amuse
myself, and try to forget that I have children. Oh, it is a cruel, a
crushing 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 and
Eileen into grooves which were never meant for them. You will write to
Miss Lauderdale, will you not, to-night?”
“My dear child, have the goodness to write to her yourself, and I will
sign the letter. I have not the faintest idea what I am to say to that
woman.”
“I will write, then, at once,” said Lettie.
She skipped across the drawing-room to her aunt’s davenport, took out a
sheet of paper, rapidly wrote a few words, and then brought her letter
to Mrs. Chetwynd to sign. In less than an hour that letter was dropped
into the nearest pillar-box.
Thus was the fate of the three girls quickly decided.