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The Girls of St. Wode's

by L. T. Meade · English · Gutenberg #41326 · 486,426 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Girls of St. Wode's

Author: L. T. Meade


        
Release date: November 9, 2012 [eBook #41326]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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THE GIRLS OF ST. WODE'S

by

MRS. L. T. MEADE

Author of
"Deb and the Duchess," "A Girl in Ten Thousand,"
"Good Luck," etc.







New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers




CONTENTS

    CHAPTER I—PREPARING FOR THE YOUNG DÉBUTANTES.
    CHAPTER II—IN A THIRD-CLASS CARRIAGE.
    CHAPTER III—THE TORN DRESS.
    CHAPTER IV—IN THE GIRLS’ BEDROOMS.
    CHAPTER V—THE MODERN VIEW OF LIFE.
    CHAPTER VI—BELLE THE SAGE.
    CHAPTER VII—THE FATE OF THE GIRLS.
    CHAPTER VIII—THE GILROYS.
    CHAPTER IX—ONE TAKEN, THE OTHER LEFT.
    CHAPTER X—LLEWELLYN’S GIFT.
    CHAPTER XI—ST. WODE’S COLLEGE.
    CHAPTER XII—INKY ANNIE.
    CHAPTER XIII—A COCOA PARTY.
    CHAPTER XIV—A COCOA PARTY—CONTINUED.
    CHAPTER XV—BELLE’S ROOM AT ST. WODE’S.
    CHAPTER XVI—FRESHERS.
    CHAPTER XVII—THE “MERRY ALICE.”
    CHAPTER XVIII—THE GUILD OF ST. ELIZABETH.
    CHAPTER XIX—THE MAN BY THE RUIN.
    CHAPTER XX—NOT A BIT LIKE IT.
    CHAPTER XXI—WHAT IS UP?
    CHAPTER XXII—THE PROMISE.
    CHAPTER XXIII—THE PICNIC.
    CHAPTER XXIV—THE TWINS.
    CHAPTER XXV—THE PRAYER OF FAITH.
    CHAPTER XXVI—ANNIE’S REQUEST.
    CHAPTER XXVII—TELL ME THE TRUTH, LESLIE.
    CHAPTER XXVIII—RUPERT.
    CHAPTER XXIX—30 NEWBOLT SQUARE.
    CHAPTER XXX—ANNIE IN THE TOILS.
    CHAPTER XXXI—HANDWRITING.
    CHAPTER XXXII—WHO HAS TAKEN THE KEY?
    CHAPTER XXXIII—CONFESSION.




CHAPTER I

PREPARING FOR THE YOUNG DÉBUTANTES.


Eileen, Marjorie, and Letitia Chetwynd were expected home from school.
It was a bright day early in April, and Mrs. Chetwynd was seated in her
luxurious London drawing-room conversing with her special friend, Mrs.
Acheson.

Two years ago Mrs. Chetwynd, on the death of her husband, a
distinguished Indian officer, had returned to England. She was a
fashionable, up-to-date-looking lady now. Her widow’s dress was
carefully chosen—not too depressing, but all that was correct and
proper.

Mrs. Acheson, also the widow of an Indian officer, was not fashionable
in the ordinary acceptance of the word. She was plainly, even shabbily,
dressed. She wore long weepers to her widow’s cap, and her hair was
brushed smoothly away from her broad forehead. Her face was large and
somewhat sunburnt, her hands well shaped, but with a look about them
which showed that they were not unacquainted with manual labor.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Chetwynd, uttering a sigh as she spoke, “this is a
great day for me. The girls are educated, and are coming home.”

“For good?” said Mrs. Acheson.

“Well, yes, my dear; I suppose so. You see, they are all eighteen. It is
absurd to keep girls at school after eighteen. They were eighteen the
end of last year. In these days, when people grow old so terribly fast,
girls ought to have their so-called education finished at eighteen.”

“My dear Belle would not agree with you,” said Mrs. Acheson.

Mrs. Chetwynd threw up her hands and slightly raised her arched brows.

“Spare me, dear Emily,” she cried. “I do not want to hear any of your
dear, extraordinary, clever Belle’s theories at present. I sincerely
trust—yes, my dear, I must be frank—I sincerely trust the wave of her
influence will never come into my house.”

Mrs. Acheson sighed and sank back in her chair.

“On the whole,” she said, “I have much to be thankful for. I have enough
to live on, and the memory of my dear husband’s brilliant career will
always be a comfort to me. Belle is also in excellent health. She is, of
course, one of the great admirations of my life; but I will admit it,
dear, in a whisper, that she is also one of my trials. But, dear Helen,
I had forgotten that you had three daughters; and how can they be all
eighteen at the same time?”

“I have not three daughters, my dear; I have only two. Letitia is not my
daughter. She is my niece; she is my dear husband’s younger brother’s
child. She happens to have been born within a month of Eileen and
Marjorie, who are twins, consequently the three are practically the same
age. They will be home in about an hour and a half. They are all devoted
to each other; but I confess it will be something of a handful taking
three into society at the same time.”

“Oh, you surely don’t mean to introduce the whole three the same
season?” said Mrs. Acheson. “How can you contemplate anything so
appalling?”

“But I do contemplate it,” said Mrs. Chetwynd, “and I believe I shall
manage very well. I have been, of course, in close correspondence with
their invaluable teacher, Mrs. Marchland, and have had frequent
photographs of the children. Eileen and Marjorie are alike in appearance
and strikingly handsome; they will be foils to Letitia, who is as fair
as they are dark. Letitia is pretty and fascinating, of the petit order.
I should think the three would make something of a sensation. You see,
my dear, I have large means, for my husband came in for the property of
his elder brother, who died six months before him. I can do well by the
children, and I mean to do so.”

“You contemplate matrimony as the aim and object of your ambition?” said
Mrs. Acheson.

“Nothing of the kind,” replied Mrs. Chetwynd, slightly reddening. “If it
comes, well and good. If a really estimable, worthy man takes a fancy to
any of my girls, and his affection is returned, I shall look upon
marriage as a suitable life for my children; but I do not take them into
society for the sole purpose of getting husbands.”

Mrs. Acheson slowly shook her head.

“You will find it difficult to make people believe that,” she said.

“In all probability the three girls will marry,” continued Mrs. Chetwynd
in her calm, even voice, which seldom rose to excitement or dropped to
melancholy. “Marriage is what Providence intends for all happy women,
early marriage and happy homes of their own. But I shall not hurry the
matter nor put myself out about it. I mean the girls to have a good
time, and will leave other matters to Providence.”

“Taking steps meanwhile to accomplish your real object,” murmured Mrs.
Acheson under her breath.

“My dear Emily, do tell me about your Belle,” continued Mrs. Chetwynd.
“So you have really sent her to St. Wode’s College?”

“Yes; and she is very happy there, and hopes to do well in her tripos.”

“I must frankly say that I hate girls’ colleges,” said Mrs. Chetwynd.
“After all, these new-fangled ideas that women have taken hold of are
most disastrous. What awful creatures one meets now and then! All
womanliness extracted out of them—mere walking intellects with no hearts
of any sort.”

“You really do run to the fair with the thing,” replied Mrs. Acheson. “I
am sure my dear Belle——”

But Mrs. Chetwynd did not want to hear about dear Belle. Just at that
moment there came a welcome interruption in the shape of tea. It was
placed on a small table in front of the hostess, who poured it out,
helped her friend to rich cream, and offered her hot buttered cake. Mrs.
Acheson could only manage plain teas at home, and she enjoyed her
friend’s meals, she was fond of saying, all the more by contrast.

“I shall long to hear of your dear girls, and also to see them,” she
said, as she sipped her tea and stirred it slowly with a small Russian
spoon.

“Well, come over and take a peep at them on Saturday,” said Mrs.
Chetwynd. “Belle is away, is she not?”

“She comes home to-morrow night; she has had a very pleasant tour in
Switzerland. May I bring her with me?”

Mrs. Chetwynd longed to say “No.” She disliked Belle Acheson, she
disliked her manners and her mode of life, and she did not wish her to
exercise the smallest influence over Letitia, Eileen, and Marjorie.
After a moment’s reflection, however, she came to the conclusion that
these young ladies could not be injured by any one so plain and
unimportant. She therefore bent her head in token of willingness to
receive Belle Acheson for a few hours into her house.

“Let it be Saturday, then,” she said. “Come as early as you can in the
afternoon. If all goes well, I mean to have my three girls presented
this season. I took this house for the purpose: it is in a fashionable
locality and close to everything. Yes, after all, three young débutantes
will in one sense be an advantage. The thing will be out of the common;
nothing is admired so much as the uncommon. I expect I shall enjoy
myself; and the girls, whatever happens, shall have a good time. If you
are wise, my dear Emily, you will try to introduce Belle. If you dress
her well you might do wonders with her, and——”

“Belle in society!” said Mrs. Acheson with a laugh. “Ah, I see you do
not know her yet. Expect me on Saturday, and I will bring Belle if I
can.”

Mrs. Chetwynd heaved a sigh as her friend left the room.




CHAPTER II

IN A THIRD-CLASS CARRIAGE.


Three girls were traveling in a third-class carriage to King’s Cross.
The train was not an express; it stopped at nearly every station. The
carriage in which they sat was more or less crowded with country people
who carried baskets, babies, feeding-bottles, and all sorts of parcels.
The girls, looking bright and energetic, occupied corner seats. A woman
with a fretful baby on her knee sat near one.

“How tired you must be!” said this girl. “Do let me hold your baby for a
little.”

As she spoke all the other passengers turned and stared at her. She was
a tall, slim, very plainly-dressed girl; her dark-blue serge dress
lacked freshness, her sailor hat was decidedly the worse for wear, and
her gloves had been mended in many places. The woman whom the girl
addressed, glancing first at the shabby clothes, then at the kind,
bright, handsome young face, decided that the girl was not very much
above herself in the social scale, and agreed to let her hold her baby
for a bit.

A charming color came into the girl’s face as she received the small
atom of humanity on her knee. She held the baby tenderly; her young arms
were strong, the little one nestled down comfortably, and the mother
gave her a glance of admiration.

“Why, I do declare, my dear,” she exclaimed, “one would think you had
half-a-dozen of your own, you handle the little mite that knowingly!”

“Oh, it is because I love children,” replied the girl. “It is kind of
you to let me hold your little one. Look, Marjorie, do look; hasn’t it
pretty little fingers; and oh, do see its tiny toes!”

Another tall girl bent forward and began to examine the baby’s feet.
They were pink and very small; the girl stretched out her palm, and the
other girl placed the little foot upon it.

“You are not to take the little dear from me,” said the first girl.

“Oh, my dear Eileen, I would not deprive you of the little treasure for
the world,” was the quick reply. “I know by your face you are in the
seventh heaven.”

“I am, I am,” replied the girl addressed as Eileen. “Oh, what a darling!
It is so delicious, Marjorie, when it nestles up against you.”

The train slackened speed, drew up at a great station, and the woman,
the baby, and most of the other passengers got out. The three girls now
found themselves alone in the carriage. The girl at the distant window,
the smallest of the three, turned and eagerly faced her companions.

“Well, Eileen,” she began—she shook her finger in the face of the
bright, tall girl as she spoke—“if you begin that sort of thing just on
the very day when you have left school, if you will insist on wearing
those disgracefully shabby clothes, going third-class and taking us with
you, when your mother sends us money to travel first, and finally
adopting strange babies who happen to be traveling in the same carriage,
you will certainly break Aunt Helen’s heart.”

Eileen shrugged her shoulders.

“Not at all,” she answered. “Mother may not like it at first, but she
will soon learn to know once for all that Marjorie and I mean to follow
our own bent. Marjorie and I do not intend to wear gay clothes, because
we consider finery a sheer waste of money; but as to you, Lettie, it is
the greatest pity you are not mother’s own daughter. How exquisitely
neat, how smart, you look!”

“Not smart at all, only suitably dressed,” replied Letitia, bridling a
little.

She was wearing a very correct traveling costume of dark gray; her
bright wavy hair was arranged in the latest and most fashionable manner;
little curls and bits of fluffy downy brightness would get out of their
confinement and dance round her small, soft face. She was wearing the
universal coat and skirt; but a light-blue cambric shirt and a white
sailor hat with a broad white ribbon gave distinction to her costume.
Her gloves were also white, and her little shoes had smart bows and
buckles.

“My dress is only suitable,” she repeated. “Now, your dress, Eileen, is
not suitable; nor is yours, Marjorie. To wear what is not suitable is
the height of vulgarity.”

“Oh, do listen to her,” said Marjorie, bursting into a hearty laugh.
“She is trying to scare us with those old bogy words, as if we minded.
Think what it all means, Lettie, before you condemn us so severely.
Mother’s money is safe in my purse instead of on my person, and the
difference between third and first class means a considerable addition
also to my nice, heavy little purse. Who knows in what class we are
coming up to town? Who cares to know? Mother is certain not to meet us
at King’s Cross, and old Fowler will not see what class we alight from.”

“I am glad Aunt Helen has secured Fowler as her coachman,” said Letitia.
“But, all the same,” she added hastily, “you both do look disgracefully
shabby.”

“Well, Lettie,” said Marjorie, “I don’t feel shabby, which is the main
thing. What can be the matter with this serviceable dress? It is very
strong and won’t tear, and is the sort which does not crumple much.”

“It is all over grease,” replied Letitia; “spots of grease here, there,
and everywhere. And, oh, your gloves—there is absolutely a hole in the
thumb of the one on your left hand. It is too disgraceful!”

“My gloves suit my character,” replied Marjorie.

She looked at her sister; they both sat back in their seats and indulged
in hearty girlish laughter. They were very like one another; the same
dark, handsome eyes beamed out of each face, the same good arched brows,
the same hair, thick and straight, very dark in color, but cropped to
within an inch of their respective heads. They had clear, good
complexions. Plenty of color brightened each pair of healthy
cheeks—their lips were beautifully formed and they had snow-white pearly
teeth. And yet these two girls, partly because of their dress, were not
looked at twice during that journey, whereas Letitia was the cynosure of
many admiring eyes.




CHAPTER III

THE TORN DRESS.


King’s Cross was reached without adventure, and a moment later Marjorie
was eagerly talking to old Fowler the coachman.

“How are you, Fowler? I am so glad to see you again,” she cried. She
held out her hand to the old coachman as she spoke.

“I am quite well, I thank you, miss,” he replied. He could not help
smiling into the beaming dark eyes, and could not help thinking,
notwithstanding a certain amount of chagrin, how nice it was to have
Miss Marjorie back from school.

“Eileen and I have knitted some baby socks for the last addition to your
family, Fowler,” continued Marjorie. “We’ll come round and see Mrs.
Fowler and the bairns to-morrow. How old is the last baby? and is it
dark or fair?”

“It’s six weeks old, miss, and very dark; but the wife isn’t as strong
as she ought to be.”

Fowler colored all over his face as he spoke. There was a porter
standing near, listening to this conversation.

“Perhaps, young ladies,” said the footman, coming to the rescue, “you
wouldn’t mind getting into the carriage, for the horses are that fresh
Fowler can scarcely keep ’em standing much longer.”

“But it’s quite serious about his wife not being strong,” said Eileen in
a meditative voice. “Now, if she were to take extract of malt or
Fellowes’ Syrup——”

“Oh, do get into the carriage,” cried Letitia. “Really, Eileen, you will
be one of the most remarkable women of your day if you keep up your
present fads. Can’t you see how all those porters are enjoying the
scene; and as to poor wretched Fowler, if you think he enjoys talking
about his latest baby and the medicines his wife is to take, at King’s
Cross Station, you are vastly mistaken. For goodness’ sake, get in.”

As Letitia spoke she gave her energetic cousin a push. Eileen scrambled
into the carriage almost headforemost, treading on her dress, and
tearing a piece of braid as she did so. Marjorie followed suit, and
Letitia entered last in a dainty and pretty manner. The footman shut the
door and got on the box beside the coachman. Poor Fowler’s ears were
still red from the questions which Eileen had plied him with.

“Bless her ’eart,” he exclaimed to the footman, “she don’t know that
it’s rather awkward to talk about the wife and bairns at a place like
King’s Cross; but she’s the best-natured young lady that ever walked. I
knew her when she was a little tot.”

“All the same, you looked like a fool when she questioned you,” replied
Hopkins; “and I doubt much if the missus will allow her young ladies to
go a-visiting you in Fox Buildings.”

“Well, all I can say is this,” replied the coachman, “if Miss Eileen and
Miss Marjorie are like what they used to be when they was young, I don’t
think the missus will be able to prevent them having their own way.”

He whipped up his horses as he spoke, and a few minutes later the girls
had reached home.

Mrs. Chetwynd was standing in the hall to welcome them.

“My darlings, here you are at last,” she cried. “Oh, good gracious,
Eileen, take care where you are going. See that great piece of braid
trailing in front of your dress; my dear child, you will be on your
nose.”

“Oh, never mind, mother,” said Eileen. “I’m quite accustomed to this
sort of thing.—Marjorie, have you a penknife? I’ll cut it off.”

“Cut it off!” cried Mrs. Chetwynd; “nothing of the kind! I wonder where
your maid is?” Here she turned to the footman, who was standing
motionless in the hall. “Go, Thomas, and desire Esther to come down
immediately.—She will mend your braid, my dear Eileen. Well, Lettie,
dear, and how are you?”

“Quite well, thank you, Aunt Helen,” replied Letitia in her correct,
ladylike voice. “I think Marjorie and Eileen are a little overexcited at
getting home, and if you will excuse——”

“Pray, mother, do nothing of the kind,” said Eileen. “We are not a bit
ashamed of our dresses; we do not intend to waste money upon raiment.
Having sufficient clothes to cover ourselves, that is all that is
necessary. My idea is to have one warm dress for the winter, and one
cool one for the summer, and no more. A felt hat for winter, and a
sailor one for summer, and no more. When the dresses are completely worn
out they can be given to the poor—who may or may not make something of
them—and we can buy a couple of new ones. You are going to give us an
allowance, aren’t you, mother?”

“We will talk of that presently, my dears. Remember, my dear children, I
have not seen you for a year. I had a delightful time on the Continent,
but I never forgot you, my loves. But now that you have come home for
good, there will be much to talk over and arrange. Meantime, we can
surely let the subject of dress drop.”

“But, dear mother, did you say we had come home for good?” cried
Marjorie. “You surely don’t suppose that our education is finished? We
are only just eighteen.”

“We will talk of that also by and by,” replied Mrs. Chetwynd, a frown
knitting her brows, and her heart sinking a trifle.

Marjorie and Eileen had always been wayward children, difficult to
manage; good-tempered and good-hearted, but with a certain stubborn
element about them which caused them not to disobey, but to have their
desires on almost every point gratified, simply because the trouble of
opposing them was immense.

Mrs. Chetwynd remembered these traits in her two bright girls as she
welcomed them to their home. She was delighted to see them of course;
but it was painful to observe their greasy serge dresses and their hair
cropped like boys. Then, too, their manners were eccentric; and there
was nothing so distasteful as eccentricity.

Letitia, of course, looked all that was sweet and nice; but she was not
Mrs. Chewynd’s own daughter, which made a great difference. Try as she
would, the widow could not take the absorbing interest in Letitia that
she did in Eileen and Marjorie.

“Come upstairs, my darlings,” she said. “You must see your charming
little rooms. Esther has everything in perfect order for you; fires
lighted and all. Come this way.”

Mrs. Chetwynd conveyed the girls upstairs. The three rooms were on the
same landing, and communicated one with the other. Mrs. Chetwynd had
gone to some expense in having doors broken in the walls to effect this
arrangement. When completed, the effect was charming. The rooms were
papered with a self-colored paper of pale blue. There was a deep frieze
of hand-painted flowers and birds. The paint on the doors and round the
wainscot was creamy white. The furniture was also creamy white, with
brass fittings. The carpet on each floor was a square of rich Turkey.
The windows of the three pretty rooms were a little open; and with the
cheerful fires burning in the small grates, and the sweet air coming in
from the square garden, no rooms could look more tempting.

“Delightful! Oh, Aunt Helen, how perfectly sweet of you,” said Letitia,
as she danced into her own little room. “And do you mean to say we are
to have one each. Oh, what a darling little bed—and a spring-mattress
and all. How luxurious we shall be. Oh, and do look at those great,
roomy cupboards in the wall.”

“But what do we want great, roomy cupboards for?” cried Eileen. “With
one dress for summer and one dress for winter, surely we don’t want much
room?”

“I tell you what it is, Eileen,” said Marjorie, “I mean to use mine as a
dark-room for photography—capital, excellent. Thank you, mother, dear.”

“You mean to use your dress-cupboard as a darkroom for photography?”
said Mrs. Chetwynd. “My dear child, you will have little time for
photography when you are introduced to Her Majesty, and are in the full
swing of a society career.”

“But, mother, I never mean to be in such a truly awful position,” cried
Marjorie.

Her mother knitted her brows anxiously.

“For goodness’ sake, Marjorie, don’t worry Aunt Helen the first
evening,” cried Lettie.—“Dear Aunt Helen, everything will be right—quite
right. The girls have a crank, each of them; but these delightful rooms
and you, dear Aunt Helen, ought to cure them in no time.—Now, girls, do
get off those horrid dresses and get into respectable ones.—They have
respectable dresses, I assure you, Aunt Helen. If you will leave us, we
will all come down to the drawing-room in less than a quarter of an
hour.”

“And here is Esther to wait on you,” said Mrs. Chetwynd. “You may as
well dress for dinner now that you are about it, and I will have tea
sent up to you to your rooms. We dine at half-past seven.”

She left the room as she spoke, and Esther, a nice-looking girl, came
respectfully forward. She looked with consternation at the torn braid on
Eileen’s dress.

“Oh, please, don’t bother about me,” said Eileen. “I wouldn’t have the
services of a maid to save my life. I hate to have anyone touch my hair
but myself. Besides, as you doubtless observe, my good girl, there is no
arrangement necessary. It is only an inch long, and with a couple of
brushes, one in each hand, I can push it into any position I like.
Lettie, if you wish for Esther, please have her. Your neat little head,
‘sunning over with curls,’ requires plenty of arrangement; but not mine,
thank goodness.”

“Nor mine either,” echoed Marjorie. “Oh, what a comfort it is to have
short hair. I never mean to let my locks grow.”

“Which dresses will you wish to wear this evening, young ladies?” asked
Esther, who had gaped in astonishment while the girls were speaking.

As she spoke she held out her hand for the keys of their trunks.

“Here are the keys,” said Marjorie; “but I don’t know what
evening-dresses we have. I am sure there is nothing fit to be seen. But
can’t we go downstairs as we are?”

“Perhaps you’ll mend this braid,” said Eileen, “if you prefer that to
cutting it off, which is much quicker.”

“I would suggest, miss, that you let me choose your dress. I will unpack
your things, and see what are most suitable,” said the maid in her prim
voice.

“All right; lay them on the bed. Anything for a quiet life,” sighed
Marjorie.

Esther proceeded to take the things out of Marjorie’s trunk, and Eileen
walked to the window and looked out, whistling somewhat loudly and in a
thoroughly boyish fashion as she did so.

The maid quickly put the contents of the small trunks into the
receptacles for their convenience, laid two soiled and crumpled
evening-frocks of pale cream cashmere on the beds, and then retired to
expend some of her skill, which was considerable, on Letitia’s pretty
person and charming wardrobe. Letitia was a young lady quite after
Esther’s own heart.




CHAPTER IV

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.




CHAPTER V

THE MODERN VIEW OF LIFE.


The girls came home on Wednesday, and on the following Saturday Mrs.
Acheson and Belle were coming to tea. In the meantime Mrs. Chetwynd had
gone through more than one stormy scene with Marjorie and Eileen. The
girls positively declined to be presented to her gracious Majesty.

“You may get the dresses, mother,” said Eileen, “only I sincerely hope
you won’t, for we cannot wear them. We don’t quite know yet what we mean
to do with our lives; but fashionable society girls we will not be. Now,
mammy, why should we be fashionable girls if we dislike the idea?”

Here Marjorie, notwithstanding her rude words, went on her knees, wound
her strong young arms round her mother’s waist, and looked with such
imploring eyes into her face that, notwithstanding her anger, Mrs.
Chetwynd was touched in spite of herself.

“We should hate it all, you know, dear mammy,” said Marjorie. “I speak
for Eileen as well as for myself.—You agree with me, Eileen, don’t you?”

“Of course,” replied Eileen. “Well, Marjorie, have it out with the dear
mammy, for I must go at once to see Fowler’s last baby. I am taking it a
rattle and some chocolates.”

“You will kill a young infant if you give it chocolate,” said Mrs.
Chetwynd, “and I forbid you to go to Fox Buildings. No young ladies from
my house must go near such a place.”

“Dear me, mother, why not?” said Eileen.

“Eileen, my dear, I decline to argue with you. Really, when I think of
all that you two girls are doing to oppose me, and render my life
miserable, I could almost wish that you were back at school.”

“Of course, mother,” said Eileen gravely, “if you positively forbid me
to go I will obey you.”

She sat down on the nearest chair and stared hard at her mother.

“I do forbid you, Eileen. Young ladies of eighteen are not allowed to go
about London alone.”

“But really, mother, you are mistaken,” said Marjorie; “in these days
they are. All that dreadful period of bondage in which the girl of
twenty years ago was kept has passed away; the English girl of the
present day has her freedom. I have read all about it; I know it to be a
fact. College girls, too, have told me. You cannot deny us our
birthright, mammy, can you?”

“College girls? What do you know about college girls—those awful,
underbred, unwomanly creatures!” said Mrs. Chetwynd.

“You say that, mother, because you do not know them.”

“Well, I do know one thing,” continued Mrs. Chetwynd, her eyes filling
with tears. “I cannot imagine what I have done to deserve such girls as
you two. I have taken no end of pains with you both. Of course I was
obliged to stay in India during your father’s lifetime, which prevented
my having as much influence over you as I should otherwise have
obtained: but I little thought to come back to such a reward as this. I
sent you to the best schools I could afford, and have always attended to
your wardrobe, and given you plenty of pocket-money. I have done all
that a mother could do, and now just when I was beginning to expect my
reward, there come back to me a couple of——”

“Tomboys, mother darling,” said Marjorie. She wound her arms still
tighter round her mother’s waist, and kissed her on her cheek. “Mammy,
you’ll get accustomed to us after a bit,” she cried. “We are not in the
ordinary groove; but there are hundreds of girls like us. There will be
more girls like us year after year; all the modern training tends to it,
mammy, and you cannot keep us back. We are in the van, and in the van we
will stay. Mammy, we decline to go into society, we decline to turn
night into day, we decline to spend unnecessary money upon clothes.”

“And what do you intend to do, Marjorie; if I may venture to ask?” said
Mrs. Chetwynd, folding her hands in an attitude of despair. “Having
declined so much, is there anything you agree to?”

“Oh yes, lots, mother, now you are becoming reasonable, and we can talk.
First of all, what we want to know is, what allowance you will give us
both?”

“Your father made an extraordinary will,” said Mrs. Chetwynd. “I cannot
understand what made him do it, and I think he was wrong.”

“What was it? Do let us hear,” said Eileen.

“It was this: By his will, when you leave school and reach the age of
eighteen, you are both entitled to one hundred and fifty pounds a year,
and you are not to be coerced in the way you spend the money.”

“Hip! hip! hurrah!” cried Eileen. She sprang suddenly to her feet,
danced a minute in front of her mother, and then clapped Marjorie on the
shoulder.

“Then, of course, everything is plain,” she cried. “We won’t spend any
of that money on dress. Who would waste a precious hundred and fifty
pounds in stupid things like frocks?”

“Well, children, I shall give you each a proper wardrobe to start with,”
said Mrs. Chetwynd. “You have not brought anything fit to be seen from
school. Those dresses you have on now are simply disgusting; they are
not even clean. I have ordered the carriage, my dears, and am going to
take you at once to Madame Coray’s. She will make you two or three
everyday dresses and some evening ones.”

“But at least not with our money,” cried Marjorie; “that we cannot
permit to be spent in such willful waste. Oh, mother, please, do allow
us to dress as we like; do let us order our lives in our own way—do,
mammy, do.”

“I must know first of all what is your own way.”

“We want to be useful members of society, and to spend scarcely any
money on clothes. We have told you that we do not intend to be presented
to Her Majesty.”

“Well, I hope to get you to change your minds yet; but I will not order
the presentation dresses to-day.”

“That’s a dear. I knew you would submit.—She is the best little mother
in the whole world,” said Eileen, rapturously kissing her parent, and
then clasping Marjorie’s hand.

“Then, you will give in all round, mammy dear?” said Marjorie.

“Suppose I say no?” answered Mrs. Chetwynd.

“Then I am afraid——” said Eileen. She glanced at Marjorie, and Marjorie
nodded.

Mrs. Chetwynd suddenly rose.

“Girls,” she said, “don’t say what you are just about to say. I can
guess what it is, and I am not prepared to listen. Until you are of age
it is your duty to obey me. Notwithstanding your father’s will, and the
improper allowance which I am forced to give you both, as long as you
are under my roof you must be clothed as I wish, and you must not go to
places that I disapprove of. My poor, dear, misguided children, a
woman’s true aim when she reaches maturity is to marry a good husband,
and to have a happy home of her own.”

“But I never intend to marry,” said Marjorie. “I have not the faintest
idea of putting myself under the control of any man. I mean to keep my
liberty and have a jolly good, useful time.”

“And so do I,” said Eileen. “I mean to have a very full and very busy
life, mother.”

“Ditto,” cried Marjorie.

“Letitia has not yet spoken,” said Mrs. Chetwynd.—“What are your wishes,
my love?”

“Well, of course, Aunt Helen, I should like a society-life very much.”

“But you’re just not going to have it, Lettie,” said Eileen. “You’ll
have to do exactly what we do. We have no idea of having our own mother
fagged to death; an old woman like mother taken out day and night at all
hours, just to give you a jolly time.”

“But, really, my dears, I am not an old woman,” said Mrs. Chetwynd
indignantly.

“Well, mother, you are not as young as you used to be. You are forty, if
you are a day, and no one at forty can be called a chicken. It’s much
more healthy for you to go to bed in good time. Oh, I have read a lot
about society and all its trash. It just encourages one to be terribly
immoral.”

“Immoral! my dear Eileen. It’s awful to hear you speak.”

“But it’s true, mother. For instance, people tell no end of fibs—lies I
call them. They say they are not at home when they are; they pretend to
be delighted to see a person who in reality they loathe. Oh, I am
acquainted with the ghastly round; and if you think I am going to let
myself in for it you are mistaken. But, dear old mammy, you shan’t be
worried any longer; we will go out with you now, and we’ll be as good as
gold, and you shall get us each a new dark-blue serge dress and a new
sailor hat, and a pair of thick dogskin gloves. Surely that is enough.”

“And what about evening dresses, and Sunday dresses, and visiting
dresses?” said Mrs. Chetwynd.

“As to Sunday dresses,” cried Marjorie, “I don’t see why neat serge
dresses should not do quite well for church; and as to visiting dresses,
we do not intend to visit in the ordinary sense. The friend who does not
wish to see us in our serge costumes we do not intend to cultivate.”

“There are still evening dresses, my dear.”

“But, mother, you are not going to take us out to dinners?”

“You must have one or two dinner dresses,” said Mrs. Chetwynd, “and that
is an end of the matter. Go upstairs and put on your hats. I am ashamed
to go out with you as matters now stand.”

The two girls left the room linking their arms together. Letitia
remained behind.

“May I ask, Letitia,” said Mrs. Chetwynd, “when this madness seized
Marjorie and Eileen?”

“It has been coming on gradually,” said Letitia. “It is very bad, I
know. I was afraid you would suffer a good deal when they explained
themselves.”

“But when did it begin?”

“Well, two or three girls—Americans, I think—joined the school last
term, and Marjorie and Eileen became great friends with them; and just
about then they began to change. They were always careless with regard
to their dress, and would not allow Miss Ross—our English teacher who
had us under her special care—to spend the money which you sent on dress
at all.”

“And do you mean to tell me that Miss Ross consulted them?”

“Well, Aunt Helen, they had an extraordinary way of pleading their own
cause. I cannot understand it. They have saved a good deal of money, if
that is any satisfaction.”

“None whatever, child. I have got more money than I know what to do
with, and I choose my girls to look nice. Letitia, what a pity it is you
are not my own child.”

“For some reasons I wish I were, Aunt Helen.”

“You are so very neat, dear, so very dainty—that is the only word for
it. What am I to do with those other two?”

“I am dreadfully afraid you will have to give them their own way.”

“Their own way! Nonsense, my dear! impossible. Children, only eighteen.”

“But old enough, according to your own showing, Aunt Helen, to be
presented to the Queen, to enter society, and to marry if suitable
husbands come to the fore.”

“Of course; but they would be presented to the Queen by their mother;
they would enter society under their mother’s wing; and if they married,
their husbands would look after them. Now to allow those wild imps,
those irresponsible girls, to have their own way is not to be heard of
for a single moment.”

“Well, Aunt Helen, I am sure it will come right in the end. They are
queer, obstinate, out-of-the-way girls; but they have got fine
characters, and would not willingly pain you. The only thing is that
they look at life from a totally different standpoint. I’ll have a right
good talk with them, so try not to fret. I will put it to them that it
is their bounden duty to yield to you. They often mind what I say when
they won’t mind their elders. But is not that the carriage? Had not I
better get ready?”




CHAPTER VI

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.”




CHAPTER VII

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.




CHAPTER VIII

THE GILROYS.


The Gilroys lived in a small house in West Kensington. The house was
full to overflowing. There were a great many children, ranging from
Leslie the eldest girl, aged nineteen, to little Dan, aged two. Mrs.
Gilroy was one of the busiest women in London. She had a small income,
not exceeding three hundred a year, and six children to maintain. When
her husband died, a month before little Dan’s birth, the mother made up
her mind not to skimp the children’s education, not to starve them on a
mere pittance, but to add to her income by her own exertions. She was
very clever and strong both in mind and body. All her children loved her
passionately.

Mr. Gilroy, during his lifetime, had been sub-editor on a large London
daily, and after his death Mrs. Gilroy got a post on the staff. She also
did a good deal of other journalistic work, and occasionally wrote
up-to-date articles in the magazines. Thus she added considerably to her
income, and the children never wanted for anything.

The house was a model of neatness and order, although there was only one
small servant; but then each child had been trained thoroughly, and each
child did his or her appointed task without a murmur. The faces of all
the young Gilroys were bright, all the pairs of eyes were frank and
happy; but the mother had to work very hard. Often and often, when all
the children were in bed, she sat up or went round from one editor’s
office to another supplying the necessary items which would appear the
next morning in the papers. She enjoyed her work and never complained;
and Llewellyn and Leslie, the eldest boy and girl, sympathized heart and
soul with her.

On the very day when Belle Acheson had visited the Chetwynds in their
fashionable house in Belgravia, Mrs. Gilroy, coming in later than usual,
found Llewellyn, a handsome lad of sixteen years of age, crouching over
the fire in the little parlor, with his head in his hands.

“What is wrong, Lew?” said the mother.

“Nothing,” he answered. “I have only been thinking.”

“But what about, my boy?”

Mrs. Gilroy seldom petted her children, she seldom used loving words to
them; but then her touch was a caress. She laid her hand now upon the
lad’s shoulder; he looked up into her kindly firm face; and the shadow
fell from his own.

“It’s just nothing,” he cried. “I ought to be ashamed of myself. Don’t
ask me at the present moment, mother. I have a fit of the blues, that’s
all.”

“Well, and I have a fit of the cheerfuls,” said Mrs. Gilroy.

“What do you mean, mother?” Llewellyn was all life and spirits in a
moment. “Has anything good happened; have you got another post? Are you
to be made sub-editor on one of the great dailies; that, you know, is
your ambition, your great passionate ambition, little mother.”

“Nothing of the kind at present, Lew, dear. I am just where I always
was. I have plenty of work, and I am paid fairly well; but I have good
news all the same. I will tell you afterwards. It has to do with Leslie.
It will be the finest thing in all the world for her, simply the making
of her.”

Llewellyn’s face once more looked downcast. He did not want his mother
to observe it, however, and he went slowly to the door.

“I had better let Kitty and Mabel know that you are in,” he said.

He went into the little hall and shouted his sisters’ names. The next
moment two trim, neatly-dressed little girls, with long hair hanging
down their shoulders, in dark-blue frocks and white pinafores, came
tripping in.

“Mother’s come,” said Llewellyn; “she wants tea. Sound the gong when it
is ready.”

He bounded up the narrow stairs three at a time to his own special den
at the top of the house. There, big, handsome, overgrown boy that he
was, he shed some tears. He was ashamed of his tears; they scalded right
down into his heart.

“I wish I didn’t feel it so much,” he said to himself. “I just had a
wild hope for a moment, when mother spoke about good news, that it had
something to do with me. But it’s only Leslie. Well, dear old girl, why
shouldn’t it be about her? What a brute I am to grudge it to her. She is
mother’s right hand, and about the very best girl in the world. There, I
shall hate myself if I give way another moment. I’ll just tell mother
right out, and put an end to the thing. She’ll be a bit surprised, but I
guess she’ll be only too glad to consent. It’s good-by to daydreams,
that’s all; but a fellow can’t think of them when his mother is in the
question.”

Meanwhile the girls downstairs were quickly preparing the tea. Kitty
went to the kitchen to fetch the tray with the cups and saucers; Mabel
laid the white cloth, which was made of the finest damask, on the center
table. Kitty then knelt down before the fire to make an apparently
unlimited supply of buttered toast; Mabel put the right amount of tea
into the old teapot. There were many relics of bygone respectability,
nay, of bygone wealth, in the Gilroys’ humble house. The silver teapot
was one—it was real silver, not electroplate. It was very thin and of an
antique shape, and the children were often heard to declare that nothing
would induce them to have their tea made in anything else. The cups and
saucers, too, were of rare old china and of a quaint pattern. They were
neither cracked nor broken, because the girls themselves washed them and
looked after them, and put them away in the little pantry.

The small maid of all work, Elfreda, was never allowed to go near the
pantry. She only did the rough work under severe superintendence from
Kitty; but the house was perfectly organized, and no one felt unduly
fatigued.

The tea, when it was ready, consisted of fresh eggs, honey in the comb,
hot cakes which Mabel had been secretly watching for the last half-hour,
a pile of buttered toast, bread both brown and white, delicious country
butter, tea, and even cream.

When everything was in order, Mabel sounded the gong, and Llewellyn came
down.

He had scarcely taken his place at the table before there was the click
of a latchkey in the hall door, and light steps, the steps of a young
girl, were heard in the passage outside.

“There’s Leslie,” said Mrs. Gilroy. She was seated at the head of her
table pouring out tea. She paused now, and a look of considerable
expectancy filled her eyes. Llewellyn watched her; the others, engaged
in their own chatter, took no special notice.

“Leslie, late as usual,” said Mabel. Just at that moment Leslie poked in
her head.

“Oh, do just keep a nice hot cup of tea for me,” she called out. “I am
starving. There has been such a cold wind blowing, and I had to walk
half the way, as every omnibus was full. I’ll just run upstairs to tidy
up. Please keep a right good tea for me; I’ll trust you, Mabel.”

“Yes, you may,” shouted out Mabel. “I am keeping back the crispest of
the hot cakes, and there is buttered toast in a covered dish by the
fire.”

Leslie’s steps were heard running quickly upstairs, and a minute or two
later she entered the room. She was a tall girl, with quantities of
golden-brown hair, large brown eyes, a complexion of cream and roses,
and straight regular features. It needed but a glance to show that she
was a beautiful girl, with beauty above the average; but it was not only
the regularity of her features and the clearness of her complexion which
made Leslie’s face so specially attractive. It was the marked and
wonderful intelligence on her open brow, the speaking, thoughtful
expression in her eyes, the firm, proud outline of her beautiful lips.

Mrs. Gilroy just glanced up when her eldest daughter came into the room.
That one glance showed that the girl was the mother’s special idol; that
she loved her with a worship which was almost idolatry, that she was a
shade more proud of her and dreamt more daydreams about her than about
any of the others.

Llewellyn, who could read his mother like a book, who loved her
passionately, saw all these thoughts now in her eyes. He suppressed a
sigh, and attacked the loaf with vigor.

“Come, Leslie,” said her mother, “here is your place by me as usual.
Now, have a good tea, my darling, for we have much to talk of
afterwards. I want all of you children to be present too; you must all
hear my good news.”

“Good news, mother. That’s cheering,” said Leslie. “I have had such a
cross day.”

“Cross—what do you mean?” said Kitty. “Do tell us, Leslie, what can have
happened. Didn’t you get on with your pupils?”

“No, they were contrary; they would play and would not learn. I didn’t
seem to have any control over them. Mother, dear, I am sick of
teaching!”

“What rot!” cried Llewellyn. “One must go on with a thing whether one is
sick or not.”

“Oh, I know, Lew, dear old boy, and I really don’t mean to grumble; only
I felt cross and I am owning to it. I don’t feel cross now,” added the
girl.

She helped herself to brown bread and butter. Kitty put a quantity of
honey on her plate. Tea came to an end presently, and then the children
in orderly file began to remove the tea-things.

In less than a quarter of an hour the little parlor—they always sat in
the parlor in the evenings—was looking as snug and comfortable as a room
could look. The lamp, beautifully trimmed and burning clearly, stood on
the center table, the red curtains were drawn round the windows; a fire,
blazing merrily, gave a final touch of cheerfulness to the pleasant
room.

“Now, then, mother, get into your own special chair and tell us the
news,” said Leslie.—“Llewellyn, you are not going away, are you?”

“No,” said Llewellyn.

“But before you begin, mother, do wait for us,” cried Mabel. “Kitty and
I must go upstairs to turn down the beds, and then I must see Elfreda in
order to get her to put the fish in soak for to-morrow’s breakfast. She
does forget things so dreadfully.”

“Yes, and I have got to wash the tea-things; it’s my turn, I’m sorry to
say,” remarked Hester, a somewhat heavy-looking girl, the least
attractive of the family.

“Well, dears, I will wait for you three for exactly twenty minutes,”
said Mrs. Gilroy. “Be as quick as possible; bustle away, get the house
into perfect order, and then you shall come down to hear my good news.”

The children ran off.

When the door closed behind them Leslie looked at her mother.

“Must you go out again to-night, mother?” she asked.

“No, my darling, not to-night. To-morrow I shall not be home until very
late. I have to attend two big functions, and must take my copy
afterwards to the _Grapho_ and the _Daily Post_.”

Llewellyn fidgeted; he stood up and then sat down again. He looked at
his mother as if about to speak, and then restrained himself.

“What’s the matter, Lew? What are you worrying about?” said his sister.

“It’s only the thought of mother doing this beastly grind night after
night,” he said. “It drives me half-wild sometimes.”

“My dear boy, I enjoy it,” said the mother; “and you shall take my place
all in good time. There is an excitement about the life which exactly
suits me. I could never be a drone even if I wished it, Lew—not even to
please you, dear old fellow.”

The mother bent forward as she spoke and gave the boy one of her rare
caresses, just a touch on his white forehead. He sat down near her.
Another boy would have held out his hand for his mother to clasp, but
Llewellyn’s long hands hung between his knees. He was bending over the
fire, looking into the blaze. The daydreams which he had so often seen
in those flames were receding farther and farther away. His face was
pale, and the expression of his gray eyes heavy.

But Mrs. Gilroy, too much interested in Leslie at present to notice her
son’s depression, continued to talk cheerfully. By and by she would see
it all and speak of it, but not just now.

Quite within the appointed time the three girls returned. They took up
their work, for never for a moment in this family was idleness allowed,
and sat down near the lamp.

“Now then, we are ready,” said Hester; “but I do wish, before mother
begins, that you would show me, Kitty, how you turn this heel. I know I
am doing it wrong.”

“I should think you are, you old goose,” said Kitty. “Well, I can’t show
you at present. Just take the needles out and unravel a few rows, then
put the needles in again, and I’ll be ready to give you a lesson before
bedtime. But, remember, I am going to charge for it. It’s a farthing a
lesson, and the money to go to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty
to Children. Is not that a good idea, mother?” continued Kitty, looking
up.

But Mrs. Gilroy was not listening. She had something important to say,
and the mere idle chatter of this happy family passed over her ears
unnoticed.

“Leslie,” she said laying her hand on her eldest girl’s arm, “my news
has to do with you; but, as we have no secrets in our family, I will
tell it before the rest of the children.”

Leslie looked eager and excited. Even Llewellyn dropped his despondent
air and stood up, big and manly, five feet ten, on the hearthrug.

His mother glanced at him, noticed, without really noticing it, the
marked look of power on his intellectual face, and then turned to her
favorite child.

“I was in my usual place at the office of the _Grapho_ to-day,” she
began. “I was busily engaged preparing copy for to-morrow’s issue when a
gentleman, an old friend of your father’s, a certain Mr. Parker, came
in.”

“Mr. Parker! A friend of father’s! I never heard of him before,” said
Leslie.

“He has been in Australia for the last twelve years, but has just
returned home. He sent in his card and begged to see me. As soon as ever
I saw him I remembered that your dear father had constantly spoken of
him. Well, he wishes to do something for—for the sake of his old
friend.”

Mrs. Gilroy’s voice faltered.

“He is quite a gentleman,” she continued, “though a little rough; but a
capital good fellow at bottom. He spoke to me most frankly, and finally
ended by making me an offer. The offer has to do with you, Leslie.”

“With me?” said Leslie.

“Yes, darling. He asked me all about our means. He was not at all
prying; he was good and kind and oh! so generous at heart. I hated to
tell him, and yet I felt obliged to. He was shocked; he thought your
father would have left us better off.”

“He had no right to ask about our father’s means,” grumbled Llewellyn.
“No one could have worked harder than our father did.”

“No one, truly,” echoed Leslie.

“And no one ever led a more upright, exemplary, splendid life,” said the
widow. Her voice trembled; she paused for a moment.

Kitty and Mabel laid down their needlework.

“But, all the same,” continued the mother, “you must not blame Mr.
Parker. He and your father had not met for many years, and in Australia
they lead a different life. When a man is lucky there he is very lucky;
and Mr. Parker has been one of the lucky ones. He took shares in some
gold-mines, and explained to me that he is now a man of great wealth.”

“He must have interrupted your work a good bit,” began Llewellyn, then
he checked himself. His mother glanced at him, took no notice of his
speech, and continued with her story.

“The result of our interview is this,” she said, looking round at her
children and laying her hand on Leslie’s arm. “Leslie is to have a
chance, a right good chance in life.”

“Mother, what do you mean?” said Leslie. She opened her pretty eyes
wide, and the color rushed into her face.

“Mr. Parker is a man of peculiar views,” said the mother. “He does not
want to help boys, he says; they must stand or fall on their own merits.
But for girls he has a peculiar feeling, an unbounded pity. The fact is,
poor fellow, he had a wife of his own, and a daughter, and if the
daughter were alive she would be your age, Leslie. I have not the
slightest doubt that accounts for his prejudice in favor of girls. Now,
my darling, he has offered to pay all your expenses either at Newnham or
at that other great college, St. Wode’s, Wingfield. He wants you to give
up your present employment immediately, and to go to either of these
places at the beginning of term. You are to have every advantage that is
possible. When you have completed your university education he will take
further steps to insure your commanding an excellent living. The money
is to be paid direct to me as required, and he has now given me a check
for fifty pounds to buy the necessary outfit which you will require for
your new life. I have taken the check and have accepted the offer. That
is my news. It is a great chance for you, Leslie; it is a great chance.
You go away from us, I know, my darling, and I shall miss you terribly;
but it is a great chance.”

“And you have really accepted it, mother?”

“I have. I could not allow you to throw it away. Mr. Parker is such an
old friend of your father’s that I am willing to put myself under this
supreme obligation. He has even hinted that by and by he will do great
things for Kitty and for Mabel.”

“And what about poor Hester?” said that individual, dropping her
stocking and looking with piteous eyes at her mother.

“You are to be my home-bird, darling.” Then Hester rose and knelt by her
mother, and put her strong young arms round her waist and kissed her.

“Yes; I for one would never leave you, mammy; and I don’t care a pin
about being learned. I want just to be useful, although I am afraid I am
a bit of a failure all round. There always is a failure in every family,
isn’t there, mother; so it’s just as well that I should be the one.”

“We mean to have no failures in this family,” said Mrs. Gilroy. “Now,
then, you young ones, it is time for bed; off you go at once. I have
much to say to Leslie and to Llewellyn by themselves.”




CHAPTER IX

ONE TAKEN, THE OTHER LEFT.


When the younger girls had rather unwillingly left the room, Leslie took
a seat near her mother. Llewellyn, going to a bookcase at the further
end of the room, began to fumble with some books.

“Come here, Lew,” called out his sister; “we want you to talk to us and
give us your advice; you are always so wise. Come, what are you doing at
the other end of the room? Are you not delighted? Are not you as glad as
I am?”

Llewellyn responded to Leslie’s invitation unwillingly. His mother
looked up at him.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing, mother. I am, on the whole, heartily pleased.”

His reply came slowly, and as though he had weighed each word.

“But I don’t at all know that I ought to accept, even though mother is
so good as to give me leave,” said Leslie.

“That’s all rot, you know, Leslie,” said her brother roughly. “Mother
has accepted; the thing is done. It is a chance which may never come in
your way again.”

“But I don’t want it,” she cried, touched to her very heart’s core by
something in his voice. “If it were only your chance, how happy I should
be! Oh, Lew, with your tastes, with your wishes, what could you not
achieve? You know it has been the passion of your heart since you were a
little boy to go to one of the universities, and now—— Mother, dear, it
is surely not too late; you could speak to Mr. Parker. You could explain
to him that Llewellyn is the one in the family with genius; that
Llewellyn will do him credit if he sends him to Oxford or Cambridge. Oh,
leave me out! I can do without the university training. But, Lew—it
would be the making of Lew! I suppose I am fairly well educated. I have
passed right through the high school from the beginning, and no girl who
does that can be said to be ignorant. This chance ought to be
Llewellyn’s. Mother, it would be possible, surely, for you to put it to
Mr. Parker in the right light?”

“No, Leslie; he wishes you to go,” said the mother quietly. “I have no
choice in the matter. I have accepted for you. Look upon it, my darling,
as a settled thing, and do not disturb, with the thought of any
indecision, the great joy which ought to be yours.”

“There is a ring at the hall door,” cried Leslie. “I wonder who it can
be?”

Mrs. Gilroy started.

“I quite forgot,” she said, coloring slightly. “Mr. Parker asked if he
might come round and be introduced to you all. Doubtless that is his
ring. Llewellyn, dear, will you go and open the hall door?”

Llewellyn strode across the room.

“I feel quite overcome,” said Leslie to her mother. “I never heard of
Mr. Parker until half an hour ago, and now he is an immense factor in my
life.”

Her words were interrupted, the door of the little parlor was thrown
open, and Mr. Parker, accompanied by Llewellyn, entered.

“Here I am, here I am, as I promised!” called out the former, rubbing
his hands as he spoke, and pushing up his red hair from his almost as
red forehead. “Here I am, and right glad to see you again, Mrs. Gilroy.
And so these are some of the youngsters? What’s your name, young sir?”

“Llewellyn,” replied the boy.

“And how old may you be?”

“Sixteen,” replied Llewellyn.

“’Pon my word, you’re a well-grown chap. We don’t have ’em better in the
Bush, notwithstanding all the fine development that hard work gives. But
you have fine shoulders—eh, and good stout legs. Fine young chap, Mrs.
Gilroy; I congratulate you, ma’am, in possessing him. And so this is the
young lady. How do you do, my dear? I am proud to make your
acquaintance.”

Mr. Parker’s voice had been rough enough while he was addressing
Llewellyn; but when he glanced at Leslie, who, tall, straight, and
beautiful, stood before him, a spasm crossed his face and his voice
faltered. It sank to a husky whisper; there was emotion in his tone.

“How do you do, my dear?” he said again; and he held out a great rough
hand for the girl to shake.

She let her little hand lie in his for half a moment, and then withdrew
it. She then went and stood by the fireplace.

“Sit down, please, Mr. Parker,” said Mrs. Gilroy, “Leslie, I think our
friend would like a glass of wine; will you get it?”

“No wine for me, thank you, ma’am; no wine for me. I have dined, and
admirably. Steak and stout, and boiled apple pudding; that’s fare after
my own heart. Simple, ma’am, you can see—simple as my own tastes. Well,
I am glad to see you, Mrs. Gilroy, at home; and a nice, snug little
parlor you have. No show or pretension, or anything of that kind; just
the sort of room I’d expect Gilroy’s widow to have; and,” added the man,
glancing at the boy and girl, “just the sort of children too.”

The two children, thus alluded to, could not help sighing. Llewellyn
wished himself fifty miles away. Leslie felt uncomfortable, and did not
dare to meet her mother’s eyes.

Meanwhile Mr. Parker glanced around him. The ceiling of the little room
was low, and the furniture, although exquisitely clean and orderly, was
shabby. He sank back in the armchair which Mrs. Gilroy had invited him
to take possession of, and proceeded to speak slowly and thoughtfully.

“This all reminds me of poor Gilroy,” he said; “and yet I expected him,
with his talents, to live in a palace by this time. Instead of that, he
has his six foot of earth—his six foot of earth, ma’am—just what we all
will come to some day; and you are left a widow, and with the care of
that big boy on your shoulders.”

“I won’t be on mother’s shoulders any longer,” grumbled Llewellyn.

“Ha! ha! young sir, don’t you be impatient; let me say my say out. This
young lady now, she’s my charge for the future. Yes, ma’am, she’s my
charge. My dear Miss Leslie, you’ll be a sort of adopted daughter to me.
Now, sit down near me, and tell me what your inclinations are. I think
your mother would send you to one of those new-fangled women’s colleges
if you liked it; but if your inclinations are not set that way, why, I
will set you up in business. I’ll give you capital, and you may do
well—any line you like; you have only to name it. But your mother
suggests that I should make an educated woman of you.”

“To a certain extent Leslie is that already,” interrupted the mother.
She saw that the girl found it difficult to reply, that her lips were
trembling, and her eyes shining through tears.

“My dear child has the best education I could give her,” continued Mrs.
Gilroy. “Please, Llewellyn, take a chair.”

The boy flung himself down on the nearest seat.

“Mr. Parker, I have just been telling my children of your great
kindness,” continued Mrs. Gilroy. “Leslie is, of course, delighted.
There is nothing in the world she would like better than to go through
one of the universities. She wishes, by and by, to earn her bread as a
teacher; and, if she does that, it is essential that she should have the
best education that can be procured.”

“Well, ma’am, if that’s your whim, it’s mine also,” said Mr. Parker. “I
am only gratified to be able to please you in any way. This is a debt I
owe, ma’am; so there’s no obligation on your part, nor on yours either,
Miss Leslie.”

“A debt you owe?” said Mrs. Gilroy, in some astonishment.

“Well, you see, it was this way,” said Parker. “Gilroy and I were lads
together in the same school. I don’t mean to say that we were exactly in
the same set, for Gilroy belonged to gentlefolks, whereas I—well, my
father kept a grocer’s shop. I always had a wonderful admiration for
Gilroy; for, though he was an aristocrat, as they call them, he had no
high and mighty haw-haw ideas, and he was good to me, and wouldn’t let
the other fellows trample on me—not he, not he. And one day I got out of
my depth before I could swim quite well, and he pulled me to shore. He
made nothing of it; but, as a matter of fact, he saved my life. So,
after that, there was nothing I wouldn’t do for him; and when we both
left school, and Gilroy was going to one of your fine universities and I
was off to the colonies, we had a supper together, and at the end of the
supper we made a bargain one with the other. Gilroy said to me, ‘Parker,
nobody knows what the chances of life are. It is possible that you may
come back some day a rich man; if so, don’t forget that we were chums,
that we were lads together, and if you can do a kindness to me or mine,
do it. I am an unmarried man, and so are you. We are both young fellows
on the threshold of life; but if ever I should have a wife and children,
and I myself should be beneath the sod, you will look after them for me,
Parker. It shall be a bargain between us, and I will do the same for
your wife and children should the position be reversed.’

“Those were his words, ma’am,” said Mr. Parker, standing up as he spoke,
“and I never forgot them—never. They followed me all through the years;
and when I heard of his death I felt there was nothing in the world for
it but to wind up my affairs, and to hurry back as fast as possible.
There were Gilroy’s bonds that he had laid upon me, and I had to see to
it that I obeyed the last words he ever said to me. Night after night
I’d see him standing by my bedside; the light in his eyes seemed to
shine into mine, and I felt again the way he gripped my hand. Well,
ma’am, it has pleased the Almighty to take my wife and child away from
me, and I am here at your service, and with the orders of your dead
husband to do what I can for you and yours. My dear,” added Parker,
suddenly turning and looking at Leslie, “you have a look of your father,
the best fellow that ever breathed. You must let me, to a certain
extent, be a father to you. My own wife is dead, and my—my girl, too.
Aye, the girl was bonny. I’ll show you her picture some day, Miss
Leslie.”

Leslie did not reply; but the tears which had been coming to her eyes
now rolled down her cheeks. Mr. Parker noticed her emotion and was not
ill pleased with it.

“You go to college if you wish it, young lady,” he said, “and I hold the
purse-strings. When you want money you just write to me, and don’t
bother that good mother of yours overmuch. So that affair is settled.
Now, to turn to the others. This boy, for instance; he is Gilroy’s boy
and worthy of his father. What do you mean to do, sir? Do you want a
university life, too?”

“Oh, if you would only give it to him!” said Leslie. “Mother says you
are rich, and if it is really as you say, and father laid his bond upon
you, it does not seem too hard. Oh, if you would only do it!”

Her whole face lit up, her eyes shone, and she laid her hand on Mr.
Parker’s arm.

“I’d do anything in the world for you, my dear; so if it is your wish,
you have only to say the word. The boy looks intelligent, too. In
Australia we would give a boy like that a bit of the bush to clear out,
and a house to build, and we would teach him the rough essentials of
life, and leave out the polishings; but Australia is Australia, and
England is England; and as it seems to be all the development of the
brain here——”

“And the body, too,” said Mrs. Gilroy. “You cannot say that we do not
develop the bodies of our lads as long as we have football and cricket.”

“We have those, too, in Australia, and we manage to beat you once in a
while,” said Parker, with a slight twinkle in his eyes. “But what does
the lad want himself—that is the question?”

“Llewellyn wants to go either to Oxford or Cambridge,” said Leslie. “It
has been the dream of his life.”

“Yes, it has been the dream of his life,” replied the mother.

She glanced at Llewellyn, whose face was now white as death.

“It is the dream of my life no longer,” he said. His voice was husky,
not to say rough.

“Then, what is it you want, my boy?”

Parker went up and clapped his hand heavily on the boy’s shoulder.

“Nothing from you, sir,” was Llewellyn’s answer. “Oh, I am obliged, of
course, or I try to be obliged; but I don’t want anything. What is more,
sir, I wouldn’t take anything.”

“Llewellyn!” said his mother.

“I don’t wish to take anything from Mr. Parker, mother. I was about to
tell you when we were alone; but I will tell you now, instead. I
accepted a situation to-day at Lee & Forrest’s.”

“Lee & Forrest’s!” said the mother. “You accepted a situation at that
big draper’s round the corner? Llewellyn, you must be mad!”

“I am not. I have been thinking about it for some time; this is not as
sudden as it looks to you. You know young Forrest has been my friend at
school, and there is a vacancy in the shop. They want a boy to train for
the business, and Mr. Forrest is so pleased with me for applying that he
is going to start me at once. I saw him to-day, and I accepted it,
mother, subject to your leave, which, of course, you will give. Mr.
Forrest said it would do him a lot of good to have a lad like me about
the place; and young Forrest himself goes to one of the universities. It
is a good thing for me, mother, and I have made up my mind.”

There was a dead silence in the room. Mrs. Gilroy’s face looked white;
all the pleasure had left it. She glanced at Parker, whose deep-set eyes
twinkled half with fun and half with sympathy. He patted Llewellyn again
on the shoulder.

“The truth now,” he said; “you are too proud to take help from me?”

“I am,” said Llewellyn.

“That’s a right spirit; but I am going to tempt you. I will give you two
hundred a year if you wish to go to Oxford.”

“No, thank you,” answered the boy. He shook the kindly hand off and
stepped back a foot.

“But why, my lad?”

“Oh, Llewellyn, why?” said the mother.

“Oh, Llewellyn, are you mad?” cried Leslie.

“I will tell you why, if you all want to know,” said Llewellyn. “I don’t
choose to be beholden to anybody, not even to Mr. Parker, who was my
father’s friend. I may some day go to the university; but I don’t think
there is much chance of it. Sir, I will tell you another reason: I want
to help my mother; she needs help at once. She could take it from me
when she could not take it from a stranger. If I went to Oxford I could
not earn any money for three or four years; now I start at once with a
pound a week. I can live at home, too, and half the money will go
straight towards the house. In a year’s time my screw is to be raised.
It is all settled, sir. I am obliged to you all the same, but I can’t
take your help.”

As Llewellyn finished he turned to leave the room.

“One moment, please,” interrupted Parker. “I respect you, boy. Shake
hands. If I had had a son of my own I could only wish that he had been
of similar metal. You’ll do, young sir—you’ll do.”




CHAPTER X

LLEWELLYN’S GIFT.


Late that evening there came a knock at Llewellyn’s door. He called out,
“Come in!” and his sister Leslie entered. She shut the door softly
behind her.

“Mother is asleep,” she said; “and I think she has been crying—she sighs
so heavily in her sleep; it is not like her. I would not wake her for
the world; but I knew you would be up, Lew, and I felt that I must have
a talk with you.”

“All right—that is, if you really wish it,” said Llewellyn, slightly
stretching himself, and a frown coming between his brows. He had been
bending over a volume of Plato’s “Republic,” and some sheets of
manuscript, scribbled over as if in frantic haste, were scattered about
the table. When Leslie approached he pushed the manuscript
helter-skelter into a waste-paper basket and shut up the book.

“Why did you do that?” said Leslie; “why do you hide your real thoughts
from me, Lew? Don’t you want me to know? We have always been more than
ordinary brother and sister to each other. What is the matter with you?”

Still Llewellyn did not reply. He stood up and looked at his sister with
as expressionless a face as he could possibly manage to assume.

“It is no use,” said Leslie. She went up to him now, raised herself on
tiptoe, and kissed him on his cheek. “You have done it, and it is noble
of you, it is splendid of you; but why—why?”

“How can you ask me why?” he answered. “Can’t you guess?”

“I guess partly,” replied the girl; “you want to help mother. But surely
you could help her much more effectually in the long run by doing what
Mr. Parker wishes. It is such a chance, and it was put in your way, Lew;
you didn’t go out of your way to seek it. Perhaps God meant you to
accept it.”

“No, don’t,” cried Llewellyn—“don’t say that.” A spasm of pain flitted
across the boy’s face, then vanished.

“I want to help mother, and I will,” he said stoutly. “I don’t intend
her to do all the toiling and money-making any longer. I am almost a
man, Leslie; I shall be seventeen my next birthday. Oh, in one sense it
is young! but it is not young with me, for I think I am older than my
years. I won’t see her grinding without putting my own shoulder to the
wheel. It’s just intolerable!”

“I wish you would listen to me, Llewellyn,” said Leslie; “it is not too
late yet. The chance has been offered to you and the chance has been
offered to me. It seems to me, on thinking things over, that only one of
us can take it, for mother can’t do without both of us.”

“That’s just what I said,” interrupted Llewellyn; “you are to go and I
am to stay. It is all arranged. Don’t, like a dear girl, worry over the
thing any longer. It’s done, and that’s an end of it.”

“But you must let me speak,” said Leslie. “I can never go to St. Wode’s
unless I make a clean breast of all that is in my mind. If one of us is
to grind for the present, ought not I to be the one? I am older than
you, I have had a more thorough education, I can easily get a position
as junior teacher in Miss Harkaway’s school. There is a vacancy, and she
has half promised it to me. That will bring me in thirty pounds a year
and my food, and, after a bit, I might do even better. Thus I should be
altogether off mother’s hands, and could even help her a trifle. Then,
Lew, you will be really helping her at Oxford. As you are acquiring
learning, and as those magnificent brains of yours are being cultivated
to their full worth, you will be preparing for a learned profession, or
a professorship, or something of that kind. Surely, surely, that would
be a more substantial help to the sweetest mother in the world than your
earning a pound a week now at Lee & Forrest’s.”

“There is something in what you say, Leslie; but there is not enough in
it,” said Llewellyn quietly. “Believe me, I have thought of all this
from every point of view. In the first place, professorships do not mean
wealth, and, for mother’s sake, I mean to be a wealthy man some day. You
must go into trade to be wealthy now. Oh, it is not that I care for
money, not a bit! But I want to save the mother, to keep her from
toiling when she is old, to help the younger children. I can’t stand
Parker doing all the help, Leslie; the mere thought drives me half wild.
Then I shall not always work at a pound a week. In a couple of years I
may be earning a salary of two hundred a year, for I don’t mind telling
you that young Forrest has taken no end of a fancy to me, and he and I
had a long talk to-day. He took me up to see his father, and his father
would do anything for a boy Jim liked. Jim goes to Oxford in the autumn.
He hates the shop, and he won’t go into business, for he can’t stand it,
and so his father has to start him in a profession. But he hinted very
broadly—and so did the old man, too, for that matter—that if I could
take his place it would put matters a bit right and smooth down the
pride of old Forrest; so I shall have my chance, Leslie—a small
partnership by and by; and I mean to take it, little girl, so you can go
to Wingfield with a heart and a half, and win the academic honors of the
family. It is a splendid chance for you, Leslie, and I’m not the fellow
to stand in your way.”

“But I just wish you would!” she cried.

Llewellyn put one of his arms round her and drew her close to him.

“One can take an interest in anything one sets one’s mind to,” he
continued. “I shall begin double entry and bookkeeping and all that sort
of thing to-morrow, and the classics may go to Hong Kong for the
present. Poor old Plato! I loved him, and I had dreams about him; but he
and I must be strangers for the present. You think me silly now, dear,
but you won’t when I have succeeded. By the time I have a great big shop
of my own you will think me the wise one of the family. Leslie, my dear,
what is wrong?”

For Leslie had squeezed his arm so tightly that the lad winced.

“I can’t bear to think of you with a shop,” she cried, “with that brain
and those eyes. And oh, Lew! don’t you remember how you translated
Thucydides for us? And—oh, Lew, it can’t be borne.”

“It must be borne,” he replied stoutly. “I can have lessons in the
classics if I have time enough presently. Oh, a university man is not
the only man in the world, Leslie. But now we will talk no more of this.
Once for all, my mind is made up.”

“What would our father have said,” she cried; “our father, who was a
great scholar?”

“If he were to come back, and if he could speak to me, I am quite
certain he would say that I was more worthy to be his son if I helped
the mother quickly than if I did anything else,” replied the boy.

“Perhaps you are right,” said Leslie, in a thoughtful voice.

Llewellyn rubbed his hand over his eyes.

“I don’t pretend, all the same, that it’s not been no end of a tussle,”
he said; “but now my mind is made up.”

“Quite?”

“Yes, quite.”

“Have you given an answer yet to Mr. Forrest?”

“Practically I have; but the mother must come round with me to see him
to-morrow. The dear little mother won’t much like it; but she must do
it. You don’t know how he respects her, Leslie.”

“I should think so,” said Leslie; “that goes without saying. She is
quite the dearest, bravest little mother in the wide world.”

“Well, dry your tears, old girl; I’ll look after her while you are away.
Be cheerful, Leslie, and get all the good you can out of this
magnificent thing, for I don’t pretend that it’s not a great bit of
fortune for you. It is quite possible and right for you to take help
from Mr. Parker; but I could not do it. It’s not in me to take favors
from anyone. Such a thing would lower me in my own eyes. Oh, it does not
lower you, Leslie; but it would me, for I am differently made. We must
each walk according to our own lights. And now go to bed, old girl, for
I am half dead with sleep.”

“Kiss me, first,” she said. “Llewellyn, I think you are the bravest boy
in all the world.”

“You would not say so if you had seen me two hours back. I was so
miserable I felt fit to kill myself; but there,” he added, clenching one
of his strong hands, “I did not mean to let it out to you, and I am
quite right now and I don’t feel a bit miserable.”

Leslie left the room, and Llewellyn was alone.

“But, all the same, it’s a hard tug,” he muttered as he glanced round
him. He dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands. He
thought of the dreams which must never be realized, of the
school-fellows who would more or less despise him, of the different
position he must occupy in future.

“Good-by literature,” he said to himself; “good-by the laurels which
would have been so sweet to gather. Good-by dreams.”

But, by and by, as Llewellyn thought, he raised his face, and, gazing
straight before him, he saw another vision, and that vision comforted
and strengthened him a good bit. It was that of a home, with a woman in
it who wore the sweetest face in the world, and who was not tired with
overwork, who, in fact, need not work at all. He saw himself as the one
who was keeping that home. With his toil, with the energy of his strong
young arms, with the youth and talents which God had given him, he was
supporting his mother and his younger brothers and sisters; and they all
looked up to him and loved him, and his heart was happy. The thought of
the picture made his heart happy even now.

He smiled, dropped on his knees, muttered a hasty prayer, and, tumbling
into bed, was soon fast asleep.

Leslie in her own room also slept, and bright dreams came to her. The
thought of the future was delightful, and she looked upon it as
Llewellyn’s gift.

“For if Llewellyn had been selfish and had accepted Mr. Parker’s offer,
I could not have gone,” thought the girl. “I could not have left mother
if Llewellyn were not with her; but, as it is, and as he is sacrificing
himself, oh! I will work just double time in order to make it up to him.
For some day he must have time to pursue his beloved classics, and his
literature, and all those things which he cares for. No girl who has a
noble brother like Llewellyn ought to shrink at anything. I believe I am
the happiest, and I know I am the proudest, girl in the world.”




CHAPTER XI

ST. WODE’S COLLEGE.


There were several women’s colleges at Wingfield, but the largest and
the best known, and the most important, was St. Wode’s. It stood in its
own spacious grounds, and consisted of four large buildings, which were
called respectively the North, the South, the East, and the West Halls.
There was also an extensive library standing a little back from the
halls of residence, a great gymnasium, and another building devoted
entirely to class and lecture rooms. Endless money had been spent upon
St. Wode’s College, which now ranked as one of the largest and most
important colleges for women in the whole of England. It numbered from
three to four hundred students: but the place was so popular, the system
on which everything was worked was so admirable, that girls who wished
to go to St. Wode’s, had as a rule to put down their names a couple of
years in advance.

It so happened, however, that there was a vacancy for two sisters at
West Hall, and owing to the breaking-down of a highly nervous student
who had worked too hard for classical honors, there was also a vacancy
in the North Hall.

North Hall was the house of residence where Belle Acheson carried on her
vagaries, and pleased herself with the idea that she was one of the
cleverest and most distinguished girls in college. She owned to a qualm
of disgust, however, when she learned that Letitia was to be under the
same roof as herself, having a thorough scorn for that young lady; but,
as she was allowed no choice in the matter, she felt that there was
nothing for it but to submit to the inevitable.

Mr. Parker had himself visited St. Wode’s College, had seen the
principal, Miss Lauderdale, and had pleaded the cause of Leslie Gilroy
with such passion and effect that special arrangements had been made in
her favor, and she was admitted to the same hall as Marjorie and Eileen.
For the first term she must share a large room with another girl; but
that was a trifling matter to Leslie, who, now that things were
thoroughly arranged, wished to start on her new career without a
moment’s delay. As she had already passed the London Matriculation,
there was no difficulty about her admission as soon as room could be
found for her. This being arranged, she was able to go to St. Wode’s at
the beginning of Trinity term. It so happened, therefore, that Letitia,
Eileen, Marjorie, and Leslie Gilroy all found themselves on a certain
afternoon in the same cab, driving to St. Wode’s from the railway
station, a mile and a half distant. The girls’ luggage was to follow
them; and as there happened to be a place in the cab for a fourth, and
Leslie was standing, looking just a little forlorn, on the platform,
Marjorie went up to her and suggested that they should all go together.

“For I know you are a St. Wode’s girl,” she said.

“How could you possibly guess that?” replied Leslie, looking with
admiration at Marjorie whose plain dress could never take away from the
charm of her handsome face.

“There was really no mystery about it.” said Marjorie, after a pause. “I
am not a magician; but I happened to see the name of St. Wode’s on that
basket-trunk a minute or two ago. Will you come with us?”

“I shall be only too delighted,” was the reply. “I was feeling quite
lost and strange. It would be nice to go to college in company. Is this
your first term?” she added, as she seated herself in the cab.

“Yes, yes; we are all freshers,” replied Lettie. “We shall all have a
most unenviable position, that I can foretell. There is a certain Miss
Acheson, who resides in North Hall, who has told us of some of the
discomforts, and, for my part, if I had not promised——”

“Oh, hush, please, Lettie; don’t say any more,” said Eileen. “You need
not begin by frightening Miss Gilroy. You look, Miss Gilroy, as if you
intended to have a good time.”

Leslie did not reply, except with her eyes, which were smiling. She was
looking her best, dressed neatly and suitably, with her white sailor hat
making an effective contrast to the meshes of her bright golden hair.

“Well, I do wonder how everything will turn out,” said Eileen. “By the
way, Miss Gilroy, you did not tell us which Hall you were going to?”

“I believe I am to share a room with another student at North Hall,” she
answered. Then she continued, the smiles which she could not suppress
now visiting her eyes, “Is not the whole scheme delightful? I do wonder
what the other students will be like.”

“And what the tutors will be like,” continued Marjorie eagerly. “There
are two resident tutors in each house, and also a vice-principal. Miss
Lauderdale is, of course, the principal over the entire college. I
expect I shall be somewhat afraid of her.”

“I don’t intend to be afraid of anyone,” said Eileen. “When one makes up
one’s mind to lead a really useful life, surely small matters, such as
little nervousnesses, ought not to count.”

Leslie gazed hard at Eileen, as if she would read her through.

Marjorie bent suddenly forward and laid her hand on Leslie’s knee.

“Will you tell me something?” she asked earnestly. “Are you coming to
St. Wode’s to be a useful member of society, or a learned, or an
ornamental one?”

“I have not thought of it in that light,” said Leslie. “I want to go in
for learning, of course. As to being ornamental, I have no time to think
about that; and useful—well, I hope that learned and useful will, in my
case, go together. I have a great deal to do during the three years
which are before me—a delightful three years I have no doubt they will
prove. What special subjects do you mean to take up, Miss——”

“Chetwynd is my name,” said Eileen; “but I hope you won’t call me it. I
am sure we shall be friends, more particularly as we are to start our
new life in the same hall. Oh, I shall have much to tell you by and by.
Lettie, why is that frown between your brows?”

“I did not know that I was frowning,” answered Letitia, “I was only
thinking of the ornamental part of life, and how I could carry it out
most effectively.”

Letitia was dressed with special care, not unsuitably, for she had too
good taste for that; but so daintily, so exquisitely, with such a
careful eye to the smallest details that Marjorie and Eileen looked
rough and gauche beside her. Their serge skirts had been made by a
work-girl, as nothing would induce them to waste money on a dressmaker.
The work-girl had been discovered by Eileen in Fox Buildings. She had a
lame knee and a sick brother, and Eileen seized upon her at once as a
suitable person for the job, as she expressed it. Finally, she was given
most of the girls’ outfits to undertake.

She worked neatly, but had not the slightest idea of fitting. With
numberless blouses, however, and a couple of serge skirts, and sailor
hats, though cheap, at least looking clean, the girls passed muster, and
were totally indifferent to their own appearance.

“When once we have plunged into our new work we shall be as happy as the
day is long,” said Eileen. “I wonder if Belle arrived yesterday or
to-day?”

“I sincerely trust she won’t come till to-morrow,” said Letitia, with a
shudder. “I do not know for what sin I am doomed to reside under the
same roof with that terrible girl.”

“A terrible girl? Who can she be?” asked Leslie.

“You will know for yourself before you have been many days at St.
Wode’s,” was Lettie’s enigmatical reply. “Oh, and here we are, turning
in at the gates! My heart does go pit-a-pat.”

Leslie’s face also became suffused with pink as the cabman drew up at
the large wooden gates, which were presently opened by a neatly dressed
young woman who lived at the lodge just within.

The grounds were three-quarters of a mile in length, and the four halls,
built round a quadrangle, stood in the middle. There was a wide and
smoothly kept grass lawn in front of the halls, and a gravel sweep going
right round them. The cab presently delivered up its four occupants, and
Eileen, Marjorie, and Leslie found themselves in a small waiting room
inside West Hall, where they were to remain until the housekeeper could
arrive to take them to their several rooms. They had not to wait long. A
cheery young woman of about seven-and-twenty presently made her
appearance, asked them their names, told them that their trunks would be
brought to their rooms as soon as ever they arrived, and then requested
them to follow her.

She tripped up some wide stone stairs, destitute of carpets, and then
down a corridor, slippery with parquetry work. The next moment she had
flung open a door, and revealed a good-sized room, which was occupied by
another girl at the farther end, who wore a shock of red hair rather
untidily put up in a loose knot at the back of her head.

“Miss Colchester, I see you have arrived,” said Miss Payne the
housekeeper. “This is your room-fellow; may I introduce you to Miss
Leslie Gilroy?”

“Pray come in, Miss Gilroy; you are heartily welcome,” said Miss
Colchester, jumping up, coming forward, and gazing hard at Leslie. She
then extended an awkward hand.

“I am glad to see you,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind the room being
in disorder. I have only just begun to unpack, and everything is
helter-skelter. I was never tidy—no, never! I begin to think I like
things helter-skelter.”

“Oh, I don’t mind, of course!” answered Leslie; but her heart sank. In
her mother’s small house the motto impressed upon each child was the
old-fashioned one: “A place for everything, and everything in its
place.”

“I suppose I shall have one side of the room to myself?” she continued.

Marjorie and Eileen had been left on the landing. They overheard
Leslie’s last somewhat despairing words, glanced at one another, and
smiled. They were then conducted to their rooms at the farther end of
the corridor.

“This is your room, Miss Eileen,” said Miss Payne. “Miss Marjorie has an
exact counterpart at the other side of the corridor. Behind this screen
you will keep your washhand-stand. This sofa forms your bed at night.
This chest of drawers is for your linen and the bodice of your dresses.
Behind this curtain you will hang your skirts. Here is your
writing-table. It remains with yourself to make your room pretty and
neat, or the reverse. You may buy any ornaments in the way of pictures,
or anything else you fancy. When you touch this handle you turn on the
electric light. Would you care for a fire? Here are coal and wood for
the purpose, and I will send in a servant to light it at once, if you
wish.”

“No, thank you; it is quite a warm evening,” replied Eileen. “Is
Marjorie’s room just the same?”

“Precisely; but I think you have the prettier view.”

“Oh, how lovely!” exclaimed Eileen. “Do look, Marjorie; there is that
great park in the distance, and the river down there. Oh, please——” She
turned to speak to Miss Payne, but Miss Payne had already vanished.

“Well, we are landed at last!” she said, clasping her sister’s hand.
“Does it not seem almost too delightful?”

“Splendid!” cried Marjorie. “Do you know, Eileen, I have taken a fancy
to that pretty Miss Gilroy?”

“So have I,” answered Marjorie. “But I expect she will have a bad time,
poor dear, with Miss Colchester. Anyone can see Miss Gilroy is of the
orderly sort. Now, I don’t care a bit about having things in perfect
order.”

“But, Marjorie,” said Eileen, “I have been reading up about that lately,
and I think you and I ought to cultivate order very assiduously if we
mean to be really useful women. Oh, by the way! our hair is beginning to
grow; we must find a barber to-morrow in order to reduce our crops to
the right length.”

“An inch and a half being the length permitted,” said Marjorie, with a
smile. “I am curious to see poor old Belle. Lettie will have awful tales
to tell of her. Well, this life is interesting, is it not, Eileen?”




CHAPTER XII

INKY ANNIE.


Meanwhile, Miss Colchester and Leslie Gilroy, standing in the middle of
their room, gazed one at the other. Miss Colchester put up her hand to
ruffle her red locks. Presently she uttered a short, sharp sigh.

“I see by the build of your head and your figure that you are painfully
tidy,” she said. “I had hoped that it might have been the will of
Providence to allow a congenial spirit to share this room with me; but,
evidently, that is not to be my lot. How much space do you require?”

“Half the room, I suppose,” said Leslie.

“Half! My dear, good creature, impossible! Don’t you see that my things
are everywhere? You will notice, too, that I am absorbed in study. I am
working hard for mathematical honors, and I have only this term in which
to prepare.”

“Surely a long time?” said Leslie.

“No time at all, I assure you. Come here; I will show you the list of
books I have to get through. Oh, I declare, here comes your trunk—two
trunks. What do you want two trunks for? How perfectly fearful! Put them
down, please, porter—there, near the door. Now then, we had better
settle this matter at once. You must promise that you will on no account
encroach on my half of the room. I take this side with the bay window;
you have the back, with the little side window. I require light for my
work. I give you permission to keep your part, just there in the corner,
as tidy as you please. Do you understand?”

“I shall certainly keep my part of the room tidy,” said Leslie with some
spirit. “And may I ask what this screen is for?”

“Oh! you can use it or not as you please. It is supposed to hide the
washhand-stand: most unnecessary in my opinion. Some of the students
here even go the length of turning the chest of drawers, so that the
drawers may face the wall; then they put an ornamental sort of
piano-sheet over the back of the drawers, and make it look like a piece
of ornamental furniture, ornamental instead of useful. Ridiculous! Does
not one want to bang open a drawer, stuff in one’s things, shut it again
as quickly as possible, and then not give another thought to the matter?
Surely there are untidy girls in the college: why was it my lot to have
you sent to share my room—you who are the very pink of neatness?”

“I see you are very sorry to have me, and, of course, I am sorry, too,
that you should be put out,” said Leslie, who thought it best to take
the bull by the horns. “But suppose, Miss Colchester—suppose I, who may
not have quite so much work to do at present as you have——”

“Of course you won’t, you silly girl; I am working for honors, I told
you.”

“Well, well; do let me finish. Suppose I undertake the tidying of the
whole room?”

“But, my dear, good creature, I like it untidy. I hate to have
everything in its place. When things are in their right places they can
never be found; that’s my opinion. Do you see my study table? I know
exactly where I have put my things; but, if anybody attempts to tidy
them, woe betide my comfort in the future! Well, I see you are
good-natured, and I don’t want to be disagreeable. You have a nice face,
too, and I dare say we shall pull together all right. If you wish to
tidy just round my table, you may. For instance, if you see my stockings
on the floor, you can roll them up and pop them into my drawer, any
drawer, it doesn’t matter which; and, if I do forget to put my boots
outside at night, you may gather them up with your own and fling them on
the landing. Oh, dear, dear, it is such a worry even to speak about it!
But what I was about to say,” continued Miss Colchester, “is this: You
may tidy for me if you please; but there is one point on which I am
resolved. This table is never to be touched. The housemaid knows it, and
now I warn you. Think what it means to me—I may make a note, through my
brain may be evolved an idea, which a careless housemaid may throw into
the waste-paper basket. Just think what it would mean! How do you
suppose I am to work in a place like this if I think of small, petty
things which occupy home-girls? You are a home-girl: have you a tidy
mother? Of course you have.”

“Yes,” said Leslie, “and a very hard-working and clever mother, too. She
spends a great deal of her time out, but she has trained my sisters and
myself——”

“I do believe you are going to quote that awful proverb about a place
for everything,” said Miss Colchester. “Don’t, I beg of you.”

“I was thinking of it. I did not mean to quote it,” said Leslie.

“Well, I must not waste any more time talking. I suppose you must have
your way. I am afraid your bedstead is a little uncomfortable. The
spring is broken; but you don’t mind, do you?”

“I do mind,” answered Leslie. “I shall ask to have the spring mended
to-morrow. There is no good in having an uncomfortable bed; but for
to-night it does not matter.”

“Oh, I see you are going to be good-natured! That is your screen—you can
take the best of the two, because I never open mine. You can paste any
pictures you like on it if you are given that way; but I hope to
goodness you are not. The screen is to put round your washhand-stand.
That is your table, and that is your chest of drawers. Now, for
goodness’ sake, like a dear, good creature, put your things in order,
and don’t speak to me again. I must go on with my calculus of finite
differences.”

“What do you mean?” asked Leslie.

“Do you wish for an explanation? If so, pray sit down opposite to me and
don’t expect to stir for a week; it will take me at least as long to
explain the matter. Oh, don’t say any more just now, and do move as
softly as you can! Do just consider that my winning honors in
mathematics is a little more important than that your drawers should be
in immaculate order. Do you comprehend?”

“Perfectly.”

“Well, don’t say another word.”

The red-haired maiden returned to her desk, stuffed both her hands
through her fiery locks, which stuck out now like great wings on each
side of her head, and began murmuring slowly to herself.

Leslie stood still for a moment with a sense of dismay stealing over
her.

“What is to be done?” she thought. “Miss Colchester is a very peculiar
girl. What does a calculus of finite differences mean? I almost wish
dear old Lew had been mathematical, then perhaps I should have known.
Well, never mind; I won’t disturb that poor, dear scholarly girl; but
unpack my things I simply must.”

Thanks to her mother’s excellent training, Leslie was a proficient in
the art of stowing away things in small spaces; and before the gong for
dinner sounded she had put all her belongings away, had arranged the
screen round her washhand-stand, and had even brought out much-loved
photographs of her mother and her brother Llewellyn to ornament the top
of her chest of drawers. These gave a home look to the room, and she
glanced at them with satisfaction. Her bedstead, turned into a sofa by
day by means of a crimson rug, was now tidy and in order, and Leslie sat
down on the edge of it waiting for Annie Colchester to stir.

The second gong pealed through the house, and Annie suddenly started to
her feet.

“Good gracious! Oh, I forgot all about you. What is your name?”

“Leslie Gilroy.”

“Leslie Gilroy, please tell me if that is the first or second gong?”

“The second,” replied Leslie.

“And who are you?” continued Annie Colchester, gazing in a sort of
vacant way at her roomfellow.

“The girl who has come to share your room.”

“And you have put all your things away and made no noise? Excellent! Did
you say that that was the second gong, Miss——”

“Leslie Gilroy is my name.”

“Is that the second gong?”

“The second gong sounded two or three minutes ago.”

“Then we must fly. Oh, never mind our hands. Ink? Yes, I have ink on my
hands and on my face and on my hair; but never mind, never mind; they
know me now. I am called ‘Inky Annie.’ I rather glory in the name.”

“But I should have thought that a mathematical scholar would have been
the essence of order,” said Leslie. “Surely mathematics ought to conduce
to order of mind and body.”

“You know nothing whatever about it,” said Annie, casting a withering
glance at Leslie. “I wonder if you are clever or what you have come here
for. Girls who are merely orderly have no niche at St. Wode’s. But you
will learn doubtless; and if you are good-natured I will stick up for
you of course. Come along now; you are a fresher, you know, this term,
and will be treated accordingly.”

“But how are freshers treated, and why must I be given that unpleasant
name?” asked Leslie.

“Custom, my dear—custom. We always call the new girls freshers; you’ll
get used to it. No one is unkind to a fresher unless she makes herself
disagreeable, which I rather guess you won’t.” Here Annie smiled
brightly into Leslie’s face.

“Well, I hope we shall be good friends, and that I won’t inconvenience
you,” said the other girl.

“You won’t if you are silent and keep to your side of the room. Now
then, let’s join hands and fly downstairs.”

“Oh, yes, we are fearfully late, and the others have gone into the
dining hall.”

“Well, come this way,” said Annie. “I’ll squeeze you into a seat by me,
if you like, for this evening, Leslie Gilroy.”




CHAPTER XIII

A COCOA PARTY.


Nearly one hundred girls were in the great dining hall. They were all
seated at the different tables when Annie Colchester and Leslie Gilroy
appeared. Annie went straight up to her own table, bowed somewhat
awkwardly to Miss Frere the tutor, who was at the head, and then, seeing
that the teacher’s eyes were fixed on Leslie, said in an abrupt voice:

“This is my roomfellow, Miss Leslie Gilroy, Miss Frere.”

“How do you do, Miss Gilroy?” said Miss Frere in a pleasant voice. “I
think you will find a seat next to Miss Colchester. Move down a little,
please, Jane,” she continued, turning to another girl with a rosy face
and dark eyes. “Yes, there is plenty of room now. I will have a talk
with you after dinner, if you like, Miss Gilroy.”

“Thank you, I shall be very glad,” replied Leslie. Her bright eyes and
lovely face, her whole manner and pleasant expression, made many of the
girls turn and glance at her; but nobody stared in at all an unpleasant
manner.

The girl called Jane began to talk to Leslie, and told her some of the
rules of the place. Leslie was glad to learn what she could; but her
eyes anxiously glanced from table to table in the hope of once more
seeing her two companions of the cab. Presently she observed Marjorie
and Eileen seated at a table at the other end of the room. They were
together, looking already quite at home and perfectly contented. They
talked to one another; when they caught Leslie’s eyes they nodded to her
in a pleasant, hail-fellow-well-met manner.

“Who are those two girls?” said Jane Heriot suddenly. “They are freshers
like yourself, are they not?”

“I do not know much about them,” replied Leslie. “Yes; they have just
come to St. Wode’s—their names are Marjorie and Eileen Chetwynd. They
were kind enough to share a cab with me coming from the station, and
seem to be very nice girls indeed.”

“I like their faces,” said Miss Heriot; “but what a funny way they do
their hair. I don’t care for that short hair; do you?”

“Not personally,” replied Leslie; “but they seem nice girls and have
handsome faces.”

“Yes, I am sure they are charming, and also out of the common. I only
trust they won’t join the oddities. We have a few oddities here, of
course. I am so glad you are not going to be one.”

As Jane spoke she glanced toward Annie Colchester, who looked back at
her and nodded.

“I overheard you, Jane,” she said; “and you are perfectly welcome to
speak of me as the oddity of all oddities. Miss Leslie Gilroy has found
out that fact for herself already; have you not, Miss Gilroy?”

“I have found you quite willing to put up with the discomfort of having
me in your room,” answered Leslie, coloring as she spoke.

“You are sure to have a room to yourself after this term,” said Jane
Heriot. “This is always our most crowded term; but if Annie takes
honors, which she is very likely to do, she will be leaving St. Wode’s,
and then the governors will give you another room.”

The dinner proceeded. Leslie asked a few more questions of Jane, who
always replied in a pleasant, intelligent manner; and, when the meal had
come to an end, she asked Leslie if she would like to come with her to
her own room.

“This is our debate evening,” she said. “I will bring you down to the
hall presently, and introduce you to several of the girls; but now do
come down to my room and have a chat. We don’t debate before half-past
eight. I am sure we shall be friends.”

“But Miss Frere said something about wishing to see me after dinner,”
said Leslie. “She is one of the tutors, is she not?”

“Oh, yes, such a darling; the dearest, sweetest woman on earth. But
surely you don’t want to talk over books to-night?”

“Yes, I do. I should like to settle down to my work as quickly as
possible.”

“Well, of course you can speak to Miss Frere; but I don’t think she can
give you much of her time, for she is to open the debate. She is our
classical tutor. Are you classical, Miss Gilroy?”

“No: I came here to study literature,” replied Leslie.

“In that case you won’t have anything to do with Miss Frere. Miss Maple
is the tutor who will look after you and arrange your lectures. I will
just speak to Miss Frere. Oh, come with me if you like; we can both
speak to her.”

Jane Heriot slipped her hand through Leslie’s arm, drew her up the room
to where Miss Frere was talking to a number of students, and then
touched the tutor on the arm.

“Ah, my dear,” said Miss Frere, turning to Leslie, “you would like to
have a little talk with me?”

“But, please, Miss Frere,” interrupted Jane, “Miss Gilroy has just told
me that she is going to study literature.”

“In that case I am not the tutor who will have to look after you,”
replied Miss Frere. “Shall I introduce you to Miss Maple now, or will
you wait until the morning?”

“Do wait until the morning,” said Jane. “I am dying to show you my room;
and afterwards you must come to hall. You won’t, of course, take part in
the debate to-night, but you can look on and find out how far you are
likely to enjoy yourself amongst us.”

“With so many temptations, I think I will wait to be introduced to Miss
Maple until to-morrow,” said Leslie.

“I think you are acting wisely,” said Miss Frere; “and remember, if you
want anything at any time, I shall be very glad to help you. I will
speak to Miss Maple about you, and she will see you after prayers
to-morrow.”

Leslie and Jane Heriot left the dining hall together. Annie Colchester
had long since departed.

“Ought I not to go to her?” said Leslie; “she may think it rude.”

“Rude?” cried Jane with a laugh. “Annie think it rude to be left alone?
She is hard at work at her studies already. Let me tell you, you will be
in luck if you get into that room at all to-night, for one of her
unpleasant habits is to lock the door, then she goes to bed without
thinking anything more about it. Alice Hall, her last roomfellow, was
once kept out of the room all night in consequence of Annie’s behavior.
Poor Alice had to share my sofa-bed, and, I assure you, it was a tight
fit.”

“In that case would it not be wise for me to run up immediately and
remove the key?”

Jane Heriot laughed again.

“Excellent,” she said; “and Annie will never miss it. She is the most
eccentric creature I ever met. Her brown-studies are too wonderful. We
all laugh at her, but we all like her, for she really is a good old
thing, although such an oddity. Well, I’ll come with you, for my room is
in the same corridor. Let us go at once. There are two or three friends
who are certain to come and see me to-night, and I should like to
introduce you to them.”

Just as the two girls were about to ascend the stairs they met Eileen
and Marjorie, who, arm in arm, were looking at the regulation board. As
soon as they saw Leslie they turned to speak to her.

“I hope you are comfortable, Miss Gilroy?” said Marjorie. “We are—very.”

“Please introduce me, Miss Gilroy,” said Jane Heriot, touching Leslie on
her sleeve.

Leslie did what was required.

“You don’t know anybody here yet, do you?” asked Jane, turning to
Eileen.

“No,” replied Eileen; “one or two girls spoke to us at dinner, but——”

“In that case you had better come and join my party,” said Jane. “The
girls will call on you to-morrow evening, so you must be at home; but
they will not do so to-night, as it is the first night of term. Do come,
both of you. Miss Gilroy is coming, and we shall make quite a cozy
party.”

Eileen and Marjorie said they would be delighted to comply, and the
girls went upstairs side by side. Leslie went to her own room, secured
the key, slipped it into her pocket, and joined the rest on the
threshold of Jane’s room.

Jane Heriot happened to have one of the prettiest and most tastefully
arranged rooms in North Hall. It was a corner room, and had queer little
nooks and crannies in all sorts of unexpected places. It was papered
with a very artistic paper, and had a deep dado, which Jane herself had
painted, with a running pattern of wild flowers and birds. Some good
photogravures of pictures by Burne-Jones and Watts hung upon the walls,
the curtains were of Liberty silk, the floor was covered with a
self-colored drugget, the bed was turned into a tastefully arranged
sofa and the chest of drawers was rendered unique and graceful by a
piano cloth concealing its back. The screen which hid the washing
apparatus was a Liberty one, and very pretty. A bright little fire
burned in the grate, which was agreeable, as the evening was somewhat
chilly. One of the windows stood slightly open, and the room was full of
fresh air without draught.

“We must all go down to debate within an hour,” said Jane; “and then I
hope you will return to my room, girls, for cocoa. I am giving a cocoa
party to-night, you know.”

“How delightful!” said Leslie. “How pleasant everything seems to be!”

“When did you say the debate would begin?” asked Eileen.

“Within an hour.”

“Then you have time first to tell us something of your college life.”

“I can do so if you like. We have a great deal of liberty here; and,
provided we don’t break the rules, we are not likely to get into hot
water. The studious girls work as a rule in the morning, play games in
the afternoon, and work again after dinner, until whatever hour they
wish to go to bed. We are all expected to be in bed soon after midnight,
and no one is allowed to be outside the gates after half-past ten,
unless special leave is given. By the way, do you know any people in
Wingfield, Miss Gilroy?”

“I have an introduction to one of the Dons, Mr. Matcheson,” said Leslie;
“but I don’t know him yet.”

“Oh, you are in great luck if you get into the Matcheson set,” said Jane
with a slight look of envy flitting across her face. “They are some of
the nicest people in Wingfield, and they have such delightful Sunday
evenings; they are sure to invite you to them. Do you know any people,
Miss Chetwynd?”

“Not a soul,” said Marjorie, sinking down upon a corner of Jane’s sofa,
“and I am not likely to,” she added; “for when once we take up our work
in earnest we shall have no time for social frivolities.”

“Social frivolities!” repeated Jane; “but half the good of the place is
its social life. You won’t get the benefit you ought to derive from a
residence at St. Wode’s unless you take up the social as well as the
learned side of the life.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Marjorie, knitting her pretty brows.

“I must try and explain. I see by Miss Gilroy’s face that she does.”

Leslie nodded and smiled.

“One of the many benefits of coming to college is to strengthen the
social side of one’s character,” said Jane. “When Miss Frere or Miss
Maple ask you to tea, they will discourse much on that point. A college
girl ought to have wider sympathies, and to be less selfish all round,
than a girl who knows only the ordinary home life. Oh, I have not a word
to say against home girls, but certainly college life does strengthen
one. Now, here we have heaps of opportunities; we know so many girls, we
enter into their lives, we have a delightful feeling of comradeship. The
wide outside world, which we get a glimpse of from our own dear little
paradise, is most strengthening to our characters. You ask some of the
older girls here what they think of St. Wode’s. They will tell you that
it is a paradise, an oasis. We are all happy; devoid of care. And the
hockey and tennis clubs, and the boating club—they are all so charming
that we cannot but have a gay time. There are twenty boats belonging to
St. Wode’s College; and on the long summer afternoons we go up the river
a good distance, and very often do our work under the trees; so you can
imagine how jolly everything is. But of course there are certain rules.
No girl can belong to the boating club, for instance, unless she can
swim in fifty feet of water.”

“I can stand that test,” said Marjorie eagerly, “and I should rather
like to be in a boat. Eileen and I have rowed a good deal on the sea
since we were quite children.”

“Can you swim, Miss Gilroy?” asked Jane.

“I am afraid I cannot,” replied Leslie; “but I don’t think I am much of
a coward, and can soon learn,” she added. “You see I have spent all my
life in London, and have not had a chance of learning.”

“Oh, if you are a London girl you ought to have courage for anything!
Then, besides the boating club, we have our bicycle clubs, and our
debating society, and our dramatic society. Oh, yes, it is a very full
life, and those derive most benefit from the college who enter into it
in its divers branches as much as possible.”

“All that social frivolity will not suit me,” said Marjorie, breaking
the silence that followed Jane’s rapid flow of words.

“Why so?”

“Because my sister and I—I am sure I can speak for her as well as
myself—have come here for a definite purpose. If we had stayed at home
we should have gone in for all those other things. We know a very
earnest student who belongs to this college, and she has given us quite
different particulars with regard to the life. She did not speak of it
as you have done, Miss Heriot.”

“May I know the name of that girl?” asked Jane.

“Certainly you may; she is a great friend of ours. I believe her room is
in West Hall; her name is Belle Acheson.”

A queer, convulsed sort of look passed over Jane’s face for a quarter of
a second, then vanished. She looked solemnly at Eileen.

“Are you a great friend of Miss Acheson’s?” she asked.

“Certainly. We have known her since we were children. But why do you
inquire?”

“I am sorry—that is all,” said Jane.

“Sorry? What can you mean? Do you know her?”

“We all know her more or less. I have nothing to say against her
personally except that she does not take the best the college affords. I
hope you will not—— But forgive me. I am a stranger to you; I ought not
to interfere.”

“It would certainly be better for you to say nothing more,” said
Marjorie in her gentle voice. “Belle is a friend of ours. Yes,” she
continued, “we have come here to learn, and we don’t wish to be
narrow-minded; but we are quite determined that we will not waste our
time nor our money in dress or ornaments.”

Here she glanced disapprovingly round the exquisitely furnished little
room.

“We mean to work hard; we shall have no time for amusement.”

Jane muttered something under her breath; then she said cheerfully:

“I am not the one to lecture you. Come, what shall I show you? It will
soon be time to go down to hall to the debate. Now, how can I amuse
you?”

“We don’t want amusing,” said Eileen; “that’s just the very point we
wish you to clearly understand. If you can tell us anything about the
poor in Wingfield, or what philanthropic societies are started, or if
there are classes for the teaching of cookery and domestic economy, we
shall be greatly obliged to you.”

“But why did you come here?” said Jane, opening her eyes wide. “This is
a place for the acquiring of academic learning, not for——”

“It is the place where Belle Acheson is acquiring her profound knowledge
of life,” said Marjorie in a slow voice.

Jane looked at her with a puzzled expression.

Just then there came a tap at the door, and two girls named Alice and
Florrie Smart, put in an appearance. They were fashionably dressed, and
rushed up to Jane and kissed her.

“Dear old Janie, how are you?” said Alice.

“Oh, we have had such a jolly time,” interrupted Florrie. “We were out
with the Davidsons all the afternoon, and thought we should be late. We
wouldn’t miss the debate to-night for a thousand worlds. Freshers? Do I
see freshers here? Pray introduce me, Janie.”

Jane performed her duties in a somewhat perfunctory manner. She was
puzzled by Eileen and Marjorie, could not understand them, and was
scarcely prepared to like them; but Leslie had already stolen into her
heart.




CHAPTER XIV

A COCOA PARTY—CONTINUED.


“Are the graces forgotten by the modern woman?” was the subject of the
debate that evening. The opener’s speech was made by Miss Frere, who
boldly threw down the gauntlet, reminded the girls assembled before her
of some of the perils which lay across their paths, and assured them
that the old graces of politeness, of gentleness, of loving service, of
all that made woman noble and graceful ought to be part of the new life
which was opening its doors wider and wider each day for the happy
modern girl.

“If in grasping the new we let go of the old, we make a vast mistake,”
she continued, her eyes flashing with suppressed fire. “We leave out
what has made woman noble and great in the past. We shut away
deliberately a vast influence which would otherwise help to pervade the
world, for a woman can be graceful, pleasant to look at, agreeable, and
not silly. She may be sympathetic without being sentimental. She may be,
in the best sense, womanly without sinking into a nonentity.”

Miss Frere’s words were full of feeling, and Leslie listened to her with
an ever-growing admiration. In such tones, with almost similar words,
had her own mother often spoken to her. From that moment she believed in
Miss Frere, and determined to do her utmost to secure the friendship of
one who looked so noble and spoke so well.

Marjorie and Eileen, however, fidgeted, rumpled up their short locks,
and glanced impatiently one at the other.

The opener’s speech lasted about twenty minutes; then came the speech
from the opposition. Marjorie could not help starting as she heard Belle
Acheson’s well-known voice. Her words were forcible and full of power,
put together with much grammatical fluency, and absolutely to the point.
She did her utmost to crush Miss Frere, declaring that if woman, the
modern woman, who had such a vast work before her, was to spend her life
devoting herself to the pleasures of the toilet, to society, to mere
ornamentation, to the thought of what others would think of her, she
would be frittering away her birthright, and would be a despicable
creature.

“There are no two sides,” cried Belle. “Woman has got to choose. If she
means to take up her whole mission, she must drop that which has
hindered her in the past; she must cast away her crutch and stand
alone.”

“Hear! hear!” burst from some of the students whose ideas coincided with
Belle’s.

“For shame!” muttered others.

“Yes,” continued Belle, raising her short-sighted eyes and glancing down
the hall to right and left of her. “I repeat once again that there are
no two sides. I disagree with Miss Frere in toto. Away with shams! Away
with shams!”

As Belle said the last words she brought down her hand upon the table
with a great clap which caused the glass and bottle of water standing
upon it to rattle ominously.

There was a stamping of feet when she sat down. Marjorie and Eileen
looked no longer displeased; their eyes were bright and their cheeks
flushed.

“Dear old Belle,” whispered one of the girls to the other; “it is quite
refreshing to hear her and to see her again.”

“How true to her colours she is,” said Eileen. “I respect her more than
words can say.”

After the speeches from the opener and the opposition, the debate
proceeded with enthusiasm. Girls argued for Miss Frere and against Miss
Frere; but finally, when the summing-up was over, Miss Frere was able to
declare that she had a small victory on her side. She then thanked the
girls for their polite attention, hoped that those who differed from her
would by and by see matters in another light, and broke up the debate.

It was now past ten o’clock; and Jane, turning to Leslie, reminded her
that she had promised to join the cocoa party in her room.

“And I shall be delighted if your friends will come too,” she said. “Oh,
I see they have joined Belle Acheson; I cannot help being sorry for
them.”

“Is that girl Belle Acheson?” cried Leslie in some astonishment. “I only
met the Chetwynds to-day, and they were speaking of her.”

“Belle is a perfect horror,” said Jane. “She leads the extreme party in
the college; but I do not think anyone really likes her. Now, do come to
my room.”

Four other girls were already assembled in Miss Heriot’s room. They had
provided themselves with seats, and were lounging about in a very
free-and-easy manner. Jane proceeded to make cocoa, chatting as she did
so. All the talk was intelligent and bright. The girls drew Leslie into
their midst, holding out affectionate hands of comradeship. They asked
her eagerly about her former life, and what she had done in the way of
study. When they heard that she had passed her London Matriculation,
they congratulated her, and said that she would be sure to do well at
St. Wode’s.

“And you will be popular too,” said Florrie Smart. “I can see that at a
glance. Oh, I don’t mean to flatter; but you are not the sort who will
go over to the Belle Acheson side.”

“I don’t think I shall,” replied Leslie gently. “I did not approve of
what she said. My mother agrees entirely with Miss Frere.”

“And therefore you agree with Miss Frere; is not that so?” said Alice
Smart.

“I love my mother more than words can say,” replied Leslie. The tears
started to her eyes as she spoke. Florrie Smart held out her hand and
gave Leslie an affectionate pressure on her arm.

“I quite understand,” she said. “Alice and I also have a mother—such a
darling.”

“But I do wish you had a room to yourself, you poor old thing,” said
Alice Smart. “Miss Colchester is a well-meaning creature; but to live
with her—oh, it would be a real trial!”

“And I wonder what Miss Gilroy will do when the other girls call on
her,” said Jane. “Annie will be so cross; she won’t make herself the
least bit agreeable. She is learning-mad; that is the only word I can
say for her.”

“I must make the best of it, however matters turn out,” said Leslie. “I
am only sorry that Miss Colchester is not a little more tidy; but I dare
say I shall get on with her very well.”

“And you know you can make your own part of the room as pretty as you
please,” said Florrie, speaking again. “You ought to go to Hunt’s, in
the Broad, to-morrow; he is the decorator of all our rooms. Some of us
spend a good deal over our rooms; others again are more economical. But
Hunt will do the thing in any way you wish, and he won’t send in the
account until the end of term. That latter fact is of importance to some
of us, I can tell you.”

As Florrie said the last words she rose.

“I am too sleepy to stay up another moment,” she said, “fascinating as
your cocoa-parties always are, Janie; but I was out so long this
afternoon that I am half-dead with sleep.”

“And I, too, am very sleepy,” said Alice, rising. “Janie, that cocoa was
excellent. Ta-ta; sleep well.”

The girls nodded to Leslie, then to Jane Heriot, and the next moment
Leslie was also bidding Miss Heriot good-night. She ran down the
corridor to her own room. As she approached the door, a furious sound of
someone pacing up and down fell on her ears. She felt glad that she had
secured the key. She opened the door quickly, and then saw Annie, with
her red hair flying wildly about her face and shoulders, pacing up and
down the room. Annie was talking aloud with great force.

“What can be the matter?” said Leslie as she entered.

“Oh, is that you, my new roomfellow? Pray don’t disturb me. I have just
reached the bottom of a problem; but my brain nearly went in the effort.
I see it at last; it is magnificent. I do wish you were mathematical;
you could rejoice with me.”

Leslie glanced at her with a smile.

“I don’t know anything whatever about mathematics,” she said; “but, at
least, I won’t disturb you.”

She moved softly to her own end, sat down on a corner of her sofa-bed,
and taking up her Bible read a verse or two before she went to bed. The
familiar words quieted her overexcited heart. She thought of her mother
at home, of Llewellyn, and of the younger children; and for the first
time a rush of real loneliness visited her.

“But I won’t give way to it,” she said to herself. “Strange as it all is
at the present moment, I am certain I shall find it delightful by and
by. I intend to make the very best of everything. Poor Annie
Colchester—has she a chance to sleep with that terrible mental
excitement? I only trust I shan’t go mad over literature in the way she
does over mathematics.”

Annie, having worn off some of her surplus excitement, had again sunk
down by her desk; her face was buried in her hands, and she was sighing
in a feeble sort of fashion. Leslie went up and touched her on her
shoulder.

“You ought to go to bed,” she said; “you are absolutely weary from all
that work.”

“To bed?” said Annie. “Just feel my brow.” She caught hold of Leslie’s
slim hand and held it to her forehead.

“It does burn awfully,” said Leslie. “You really ought not to work too
hard.”

“But I must; you can never guess what depends on my work. There, I ought
not to confide in a new girl and on the first night.”

“Tell me anything that will comfort you,” said Leslie in a voice full of
sympathy. “I quite understand home life, if it is that you allude to.”

“I don’t. I never knew home life, and I cannot possibly tell you
to-night, nor, perhaps, ever; but I am willing to say this much: There
is a great, a terrible reason why I must succeed. If I take honors in
mathematics all will be well, if not—— Don’t ask me any more, Miss
Gilroy.”

“Well, at least, let me help you to go to bed,” said Leslie.

“To bed, with this head of mine! It is almost on fire, and my feet are
like ice. I could not possibly sleep. I often lie awake until morning.
When matters are very bad, I rise and pace the floor. You won’t mind,
will you, if you hear me pacing between two and four, because I do so
most nights?”

“I am sorry,” said Leslie, trying to smother her own feelings of
annoyance. “I mean I am sorry on your account; but you must go to bed
now. I cannot share your room and not feel a certain amount of
responsibility with regard to you. I will rub your feet and make them
warm if you will let me, and if I put a handkerchief, wrung out of
water, to your head the heat will soon leave it. Llewellyn was like that
once or twice, and I always got him to sleep in that fashion. He fell
asleep while I was rubbing. Oh, it is so soothing! Do let me try it.”

“You are a kind-hearted creature; but who in the world is Llewellyn?”

“My brother, and the darling of my heart.”

“Your brother, the darling of your heart,” echoed Annie. A queer
expression filled her eyes; they flashed with sudden fire. She started
to her feet.

“I am glad you are my roomfellow,” she said impulsively. “I feel that by
and by we shall be friends. Do give me your hand; put it on my forehead.
It is true that you have a soothing touch.”

“The thing to remember just now,” said Leslie, speaking as brightly as
she could, “is that it is almost twelve o’clock. It is very wrong indeed
of you to be up so late; and when did you eat anything last? I happened
to notice that you scarcely touched your dinner.”

“When did I eat? I can never eat when my brain is on fire.”

“Have you nothing in the room now—biscuits, or anything of that sort?”

“I have a dim sort of idea that a tin of very stale biscuits stands
behind that rubbish on the top of the chest of drawers.”

“Stale as they are, they will be better than nothing. You must eat one.
I shall get something better for you to-morrow. I am sure that I have
been sent to this room to help you a little. Now, do take off your
things, and get into bed. Try to remember that if you become seriously
ill you won’t be able to help the person you mean to help; you won’t get
your honors after all.”

“Are you certain? How seriously you speak!”

“Yes, I am quite certain. A sick brain never gets anything really worth
having. My mother has told me that.”

“Your mother; but she must be a middle-aged woman.”

“I do not see what that has to do with it; and at any rate she is only a
little over forty.”

“Oh, she is more than middle-aged. She belongs to the dead and gone
woman, who never did anything worth speaking of in her life.”

“You are vastly mistaken,” said Leslie, with spirit. “You would not say
that if you knew her. My mother is a journalist, and makes a very good
income with her work. I don’t think anyone could write a better leader
than she, and as to her pars., they are quite the best the _Grapho_ ever
receives.”

“Does your mother write for the _Grapho_?”

“Yes, and for several other leading papers. She is on the staff of the
_Daily Post_.”

“You astound me. She must be a well-informed woman.”

“She does know a few things,” said Leslie, trying to suppress a smile.
“Now, please get into bed; for, if you are not tired, I am.”

“Well, just to please you, and as it is your first night. You are a nice
creature. I saw that the moment you entered the room, and I am truly
sorry I am your roomfellow, for I know I shall worry you terribly. I may
as well tell you frankly that annoy you I shall, for I cannot possibly
help myself. If I get mathematics on the brain I always go the whole
length, and that means pacing the floor and mumbling problems to myself,
sometimes for hours. As to tidiness, I have known myself to fling a book
from one end of the room to the other in a fit of excitement. I only
trust none of my books may hit you by mistake.”

“I echo that wish,” said Leslie; “but, as I have got a screen, I shall
put it round my bed now that you have warned me. Please get into your
own bed now, for I do not mean to sleep until I see you comfortable, and
I am dead tired.”

Annie opened her red-brown eyes very slowly, and fixed them on Leslie’s
face.

“To oblige you, I’ll do what you wish,” she said.

She tumbled into bed, did not attempt to say her prayers, flung her head
on the pillow, and closed her eyes.

“How my temples do beat,” she said with a sort of a sob, “and my legs
are icy up to my knees, and——”

“Drink this cold water to begin with,” said Leslie. “You are under my
care now, and must submit to my directions.”

She brought a glass of ice-cold water, and held it to Annie’s lips.

“Oh, thank you; I was so terribly thirsty!” Annie drained the glass off
and returned it to her companion.

“You are good,” she repeated. She flung her head down again on her
pillow.

Leslie got out one of her own handkerchiefs, wrung it out of cold water,
and laid it upon Annie’s brow. Then kneeling down, she softly unfastened
the bedclothes, and began to rub the girl’s feet. She did this softly
and rhythmically, as she had done often and often for Llewellyn when he
was in his fits of literary despair. By slow degrees her efforts took
effect; Annie’s groans grew less, her eyes closed, and in half an hour
she was asleep.

“Poor thing!” thought Leslie. “I shall see to her having a nice meal
to-morrow evening. I shall make her give me some of her money to get the
needful things with. We will have our own spirit-stove and a saucepan,
and I will buy milk and cocoa. When she has taken something hot, which
will be much better than cold water, and goes to bed really warm, she
will sleep. I only trust she won’t wake between two and four o’clock,
for I am dead tired.”

Remembering Annie’s warning, Leslie put the screen round her bed, next
tumbled in; thought that the bed with the broken spring was anything but
comfortable, but then reflected that she was too tired to care. She was
at St. Wode’s; the dream of her life was fulfilled, and even Annie
Colchester could not keep her awake.




CHAPTER XV

BELLE’S ROOM AT ST. WODE’S.


Eileen and Marjory had found their way to Belle’s hall. They were
standing in the attic which she had described to them so graphically.

“I cannot imagine how you managed to furnish it in this extraordinary
way,” began Eileen. “I have heard from one or two of the girls here that
the furniture is put in by the heads of the college. Now, our rooms, for
instance, are quite decently furnished.”

“Too much furniture,” interrupted Belle. She uttered a groan as she
spoke.

“The rooms certainly possess the necessary comforts of civilized life,”
pursued Eileen, “and for my part I cannot say that I am sorry. We have
no luxuries; but the furniture in the room is good and neat. We have a
chest of drawers each, and proper washhand-stands of course, and snug
little sofa-beds, and carpets, and curtains to the windows, and——”

“Need you quote any further from that tiresome list?” said Belle again.
She was standing by her small attic window with her back to the view.

“One thing is delightful in this room,” said Eileen, running up to the
window as she spoke. “You have a splendid view—much better than ours. Do
step aside, Belle, and let me look out.”

“If you wish to,” said Belle drearily.

“Wish to! I always love scenery. Surely, Belle, you cannot think it
wrong to look out at this lovely view?”

“No, not wrong exactly,” said Belle; “not wrong; but I have little heart
to admire anything to-day. I am disappointed, and I must own it.”

“Now, what have we done to annoy you?” said Marjorie.

“Much,” replied Belle. She looked fixedly from one sister to the other.
“I had hoped a great deal before you arrived; but already the keenest
sense of disillusionment is mine. You are neither of you beginning your
college life as I could have hoped. There are two attics on the same
floor with this, which you might have got had you given me the
management of your affairs. I should have gone to Miss Lauderdale and
represented the case to her. I believe she would have been very glad to
let them to you. The college is overfull at present, and yet no girls
wish to use the attics. These attics are at present unfurnished, and the
college would, doubtless, when the matter was properly represented,
allow you to have them as bare as you pleased. They did so in my case. I
represented that it would be a saving. I managed the thing somehow, and
here I am. It is true that I dread the governors visiting my room and
ordering some of those useless articles which the other girls weaken
their characters by using. But you did not put the matter into my hands,
your old friend; and now you are accommodated with some of the nicest
rooms in college.”

“Oh, never mind; don’t worry any more about the furniture,” said Eileen.
“It seems to me that one can waste time in trying to lead the existence
of the anchorite as well as in endeavoring to surround one’s self with
luxuries.”

“One thing, at least, we will promise you, Belle—we are not going in for
any extras—no pictures nor knick-knacks for us.”

“Thank Heaven!” said Belle, with a deep sigh. “Had you done so, I must
have cut you.”

“Don’t you think that would have been rather narrow of you?” said
Marjorie.

“Narrow or not, I should have felt it my duty to do it. I have my
eccentricities—I own to the fact—and I will cling to them through thick
and thin. What you said just now was quite right, Eileen; we will drop
the subject of furniture. After all, what does it matter whether one has
a chest of drawers or not, whether one has a suitable washhand-stand or
not? Are these the things we live at St. Wode’s for? What about the
intellect, what about the development of the brain? Your brows are
capable of expansion, your eyes are capable of acquiring depth, your——”

“Hear! hear!” said Eileen.

“Do not interrupt me with that senseless remark. I speak to you from my
soul. You come here to study, to forget yourselves in the great riches
of the past. You are like two miners come to dig out the gold. You have
heard of that awful place, Klondike, where people go mad over earthly
gold. Yours is the intellectual, the spiritual, the gold which is
treasured in the great storehouses of the past.”

As Belle spoke she paced up and down the room. Her dress was very
untidy, and there was a great rent behind. While she was speaking there
came a soft tap at the door. She did not hear it. Eileen went and opened
it. Lettie stood without.

“Dear me, Lettie, do come in,” said Eileen. “We have not seen you for
quite a long time—nearly twenty-four hours.”

She kissed her cousin as she spoke.

“How are you getting on?”

“Capitally,” said Lettie. “I went to your rooms in North Hall and heard
that you were here. You did not visit me, so I thought Belle might be
engrossing your society. How are you, Belle?”

“Well, thank you,” replied Belle, in an absent voice. “By the way, are
you?—oh, yes! I remember now; you are—the girl who ought never to have
come to St. Wode’s.”

“You are quite mistaken,” replied Letitia with spirit. “I am a girl who
will be very much benefited by the pleasant life which I see opening
before me. By the way, Eileen and Marjory, I am going to the Broad now.
There are a lot of things I require for my room. I thought perhaps you
would like to come too. You will want shelves for your books and a few
knick-knacks and——”

“If you go with that young person——” said Belle, making a step forward.
She approached Eileen and almost glared into her face.

Eileen laughed.

“Dear Belle, do finish your sentence,” she said. “What is to happen to
me if I dare to go to the Broad with poor Lettie?”

“You make my soul sink in despair,” said Belle. “I scarcely know what I
feel; my heart is wrung. Oh! how you disappoint me!”

“Whether you buy things or not, Eileen, do come with me,” said Lettie.
“I don’t know my way to the Broad at present, and would rather be with
you than alone. Whatever you may do in the future, please remember that
I am your first cousin, almost your sister, and we have lived together
all our lives.”

“Of course, dear Lettie, we will both come,” said Eileen. “Belle, we
will visit you another day; we are only interrupting your work now.”

“I was resting when you arrived,” said Belle. She threw herself
tragically back against one of the hard-bottomed chairs. “Go—yes go; I
don’t expect to see much of any of you. It is the fate of those who
would explore, who would delve in the mines of the past, to bring up
diamonds alone; we are solitary in our labor. I had a hope, it is true,
when I saw you in London; but never mind. Go, all of you; there is the
door—go!”

“I wish you’d let me mend your dress first,” said Lettie, whipping a
neat little housewife out of her pocket and preparing to thread a
needle.

“Mend my dress?” said Belle. “What do you mean?”

“If you will just stand with your back to the light, you can go on
thinking and talking; I won’t be a minute sewing up that awful rent. You
are not respectable as you are. Now, do let me.”

“Yes, do, Belle; don’t be a goose,” said Marjorie.

Belle’s eyes flashed. Lettie was already attacking her with needle and
thread. The rent was presently sewn up.

“I tell you what it is,” said Lettie good-humoredly, “I’m not half such
a bad soul as you make me out. Now that I happen to be in the same
hall——”

Belle shivered.

“I’ll run up to this desolate attic, now and then, and look after your
wardrobe.”

“You won’t; for I shan’t admit you,” said Belle.

“Yes, I will. I shall take opportunities of coming in when you are
absent. You are a friend of Marjorie and Eileen; and, for the sake of
their respectability, you must not go about in absolute rags. Now, come,
girls, and leave her in peace.”

Belle approached her attic window. She stood now with her back to the
girls and her face to the view; but it is to be doubted if she saw it.
Her dress, a dirty serge, trailed along the floor, one wisp of her thin
hair had escaped from the little knot at the back of her head, and was
lying on her shoulder.

“Poor Belle,” said Eileen, with a sigh.

“I tell you what it is, girls,” said Lettie, as she went downstairs.
“Belle is such an oddity that, if something is not done to save her, she
will soon lose her senses. I mean to hunt her up. I was wondering last
night what my mission in this place could be. I little thought that I
was to be inflicted with Belle Acheson.”

“She certainly doesn’t wish for you, Lettie, so you needn’t take her up
unless you like,” said Eileen.

“Oh, I must do something,” said Lettie; “that fact has been well borne
in upon me—it is to be Belle Acheson or nothing. No trial could well be
greater. I hope I shall benefit by it. But come now; I want to order my
things.”

“Must you order them to-day?”

“Of course I must. My room is disgracefully bare; and as I have plenty
of money I mean to make it as pretty and cheerful as possible, and as
like a dream.”

“Have your lectures been decided for you yet?” said Eileen, in a
would-be stern voice.

“Yes; I saw Miss Browning after breakfast. I am going to work a little
bit at literature.”

“A little bit at literature! Lettie, you are perfectly awful.”

“Well, I’m not going to kill myself, darling, if that’s what you mean.
Of course I shall work for so many hours a day; but I don’t think I
shall take honors. If I get through my pass exam., I shall consider that
I am doing admirably. Now do come, girls; hurry up. You must have tea
with me to-morrow in my room. I expect I shall know all the nicest girls
in the place; they are going to call on me most likely this evening. Oh,
I shall make my room perfectly sweet. You will all love to come to me;
and if I can wheedle that poor old Belle out of her den, I shall feel
that I have achieved a triumph. But tell me now, girls, how you are both
getting on?”

“Very well, indeed,” said Eileen.

“And you are not going to buy pretty things for your rooms?”

“No.”

“At least let me recommend you to provide yourselves with a tea-service
each; because if other girls invite you to tea you must return the
compliment. Then they give endless cocoa parties here, and you will be
expected to take your share.”

“I don’t see that at all,” replied Eileen. “If we are bound to entertain
a great deal at St. Wode’s, we may just as well stay with mother in
London. I mean to ask Miss Frere about the poor; surely we can visit
them if we like?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” said Letitia. “To quote your own
words, you have come here to study. Surely you can visit the poor when
you college life is over?”

“We can at least make clothes for them; that is a good idea,” said
Marjorie.

“Much better than visiting them,” cried Letitia. “You can buy yards of
holland and any other stiff, disagreeable, pricky material you like, and
work away in your leisure hours when the rest of us are having fun. By
the way, have you seen Miss Gilroy this morning?”

“Two or three times. Poor girl, I rather pity her. She is in a room with
a dreadful creature of the name of Annie Colchester.”

“How pretty Miss Gilroy is,” said Lettie. “Might we not call and ask her
to come to the Broad with us? She is sure to want things for her room.”

“Just as you please,” said Eileen. “I’ll run up to Miss Colchester’s
room and find out if she is in.”

Lettie and Marjorie remained on the sweep of gravel outside the hall.
Eileen ran into the house. In a few minutes she returned, accompanied by
Leslie.

“This is really kind of you,” said Leslie. “I was wondering how I could
get to the Broad, for I don’t know many girls yet; but I am told that
some of the students will call on me to-night.”

“They are to call on us, too,” said Eileen. “It is rather formidable, is
it not?”

“But, Miss Gilroy, don’t you want to buy things for your room?”

“A few things I must have,” said Leslie, “but I rather despair of making
a room shared with Miss Colchester pretty; all the same, I will do my
best.”

The girls visited Hunt’s well-known shop in the Broad and gave their
orders. Lettie’s were extensive. She must have pictures. Burne-Jones’
“Love among the Ruins,” “The Happy Warrior” by Watts, “St. Cecilia and a
Choir of Angels” by Van Eyck, and other treasures were secured.
Knick-knacks also were bought by the young lady, who had a keen eye to
effect. She bought big jars of dark-blue china, a few cups and saucers,
two or three plates, a fan or two, a couple of screens, a few
æsthetic-looking tablecloths, and a piano-cloth to cover the back of her
chest of drawers. A pretty little tea-service, a brass kettle, and a
tea-table which could fold up and be put out of the way when not needed
for use, were also secured. Finally she treated herself to a great bunch
of flowers and some flowering plants.

Her purchases took time, and in spite of themselves Eileen and Marjorie
were interested. After a great deal of persuasion they were induced to
buy a table and some very plain cups and saucers.

“We will not get any more; it is downright sinful waste,” said Marjorie,
frowning as she spoke.

“All right,” said Lettie. “I am not going to influence you. You are at
present under the awful eye of Belle Acheson. By and by you will see for
yourselves that it is the height of nonsense not to live in comfort when
you can. Now, look at Miss Gilroy; she has more sense than to make
herself miserable when she need not.”

“I certainly do not intend to make myself miserable,” said Leslie.
“There are several useful purchases that I must make. I have the
misfortune,” she continued, glancing from one girl to the other, “to
sleep in the room with a genius, and must provide accordingly.”

“It is such a pity you cannot have a room to yourself,” said Eileen. “I
trust the annoyance won’t last long.”

“I hope not,” said Leslie. “Yes, I must have one of those pretty art
table-cloths, and then I want to go to a grocer’s where I can buy cocoa
and biscuits and tinned milk.”

After a good deal of time spent in making their various purchases, the
girls returned to the college well laden. They met several of their
companions, who nodded to them kindly.

“I consider that we are now settled in college and that our real life
begins to-morrow,” said Leslie. “I have arranged about my work, and mean
to study hard after dinner to-night.”

“You won’t have much chance of that,” said a merry voice, and Jane
Heriot came up.

“Why so?” asked Leslie.

“How do you do?” said Jane, nodding to the two Chetwynd girls. She then
turned to Leslie.

“I will tell you why you won’t have any chance, Miss Gilroy. A whole
party are coming to visit you in your rooms this evening; it is the
custom, and you must submit. You will see half of us to-night and half
of us to-morrow; but after that you will be left in peace. If you like
our society you can have it; if you don’t—why, you can keep as lonely as
you like. But this evening and to-morrow you must put up with us; it is
the fate of all freshers.”




CHAPTER XVI

FRESHERS.


In less than a week’s time the four freshers were completely settled
into the life at St. Wode’s. They had their work marked out for them,
the lectures they were to attend were definitely arranged, the books
they were to read were selected, some from the library, some from
Green’s in the Broad. They joined the tennis, racquets, and boating
clubs; Eileen and Marjorie, having submitted to the necessary test, were
made full-blown members of the latter club immediately. Leslie had to
take a few swimming lessons before she could do so.

Annie Colchester had begun to make friends with Leslie. She submitted to
her roomfellow’s ministrations at night, gulping down the cup of hot
cocoa which Leslie, evening after evening, presented to her, drinking
it, it is true, as one in a dream, her red-brown eyes looking far ahead
of her, her heavy brows contracted in an anxious frown. Nevertheless she
got into bed in reasonable time, and Leslie saw that her feet were no
longer cold nor her forehead burning.

Leslie determined to try for honors in English language and literature.
Her tastes all lay in this direction, her idea being by and by to follow
her mother’s profession of journalism, for which she already showed
considerable aptitude. As she intended to aim at a first, or, at least,
second class, her range of study was very wide; and German, French, and
Italian literature had to be more or less understood in order to give
her a thorough and complete grip of her subject. But Leslie was a
healthy girl; she had been well trained, she had plenty of
self-possession, and an abundance of strong common-sense. She had no
idea of allowing herself to break down. In order to avoid such a
catastrophe, she divided her hours carefully, allowing a certain amount
for recreation and a certain amount also for the guiding of her wayward
companion, to whom, as the days went on, she became really attached.

As to Annie herself, this was the first time she had ever permitted the
advances of any student. This large room at St. Wode’s had been more or
less of a worry to the governors, and it was finally settled, when
Annie’s time to leave the college arrived, that it should be divided by
a partition and let in future to two students. Up to the present no girl
had ever stayed more than one term with Annie. Remembering this, Annie,
one day toward the middle of the term, raised her eyes from her books
and fixed them on Leslie.

“You will be glad when the term is over, won’t you?” she said abruptly.

“What do you mean?” replied Leslie.

“Why, you will be parting from me, you know. I won’t be the constant
worry and plague of your life. If I take honors I shall be leaving St.
Wode’s. In any case, you are quite certain to wish for another room, and
to get it also next term. If I do remain, therefore, I shall be plagued
with some terrible student of the Florrie Smart or Jane Heriot style. I
nearly went mad over the last one; you can scarcely guess what a relief
you are, by way of contrast.”

“Thank you very much indeed for saying anything so nice,” replied
Leslie; “and perhaps now you will allow me in my turn to make a remark.
It is this: If by any chance you don’t leave St. Wode’s, Annie, I hope
you will allow me to be your roomfellow again next term.”

“Do you mean it?” said Annie, a flash of light coming into her eyes, and
then leaving them. “But,” she added abruptly, “you speak of something
which must not take place. I must pass in honors; if I don’t I shall
die.”

“And you are certain to succeed,” said Leslie in a tone of sympathy. “I
wish I could feel as sure of taking honors by and by in literature. I
find these modern languages so very stiff.”

“What are you studying now?” asked Annie.

“I have to take German literature from 1500 to the death of Goethe,”
said Leslie. “The course is enormous, and I am sometimes almost in
despair.”

“But you have only just come; you can easily manage, and in any case,
even if you fail——”

“I do not mean to fail any more than you do,” replied Leslie.

Annie did not smile. Her queer red-brown eyes with their distended
pupils gazed straight before her.

“It can never mean the same to you,” she said at last in a solemn voice,
and then she looked down again at her book, pushed her hands through her
red locks, and resumed her contemplation of the problem which lay before
her.

A few moments later there came a tap at the door. Annie did not hear it.
Leslie opened the door.

Jane Heriot stood without.

“These letters have just come for you and Annie Colchester,” she said:
“and, as I was coming upstairs, I thought I would leave them with you.”

Leslie thanked her and eagerly grasped the little parcel. There were two
letters for herself—one from her mother and one from Llewellyn. Her eyes
shone with pleasure at the anticipation of the delightful time she would
have reveling in the home news; the other letter was directed to Annie
Colchester.

Now Leslie had not failed to remark that Annie seldom or never got
letters, that she had made no real friends in the college, and that, as
far as she could tell, she seemed to have no special friend anywhere.

“Here is a letter for you, Annie,” cried Leslie. “I am so glad that you
have got one at last——”

She took the letter as she spoke over to Annie, who started up, dropped
her pen, and stood with both hands outstretched.

“It has come,” she cried: “at last I have news.”

Her face grew suddenly white as death.

“What is it, dear?” said Leslie with sympathy.

“At last I have news,” repeated Annie. “I have been starving, or,
rather, I have been thirsting. You cannot tell what a thirst like mine
means; and this, this is a cup of cold water.”

“Well, read it in peace,” said Leslie. “I won’t disturb you. I am truly
glad it has come.”

Leslie seated herself with her back to her companion and opened her own
letters. After a time she looked round. Annie was standing just where
she was when she received the letter; both her hands were clutching it
tightly, her eyes were fixed upon the written words, and her face was
white.

“Have you had bad news?” said Leslie.

“Don’t notice me,” replied Annie. She crushed the letter up tight,
thrust it into her pocket, and said abruptly, “What is the hour?”

“It is quite late—between ten and eleven.”

“I don’t care. I must go into the grounds; the air is stifling.”

“But they are just shutting up.”

“I shall go—I know a way. Don’t say a word. I’ll be back presently.”

She seized a small cloth cap which she was fond of wearing, and ran out
of the room.

Leslie stood and thought about her for a moment or two; but then her own
correspondence absorbed her, and she did not notice when eleven and even
twelve struck.

Just after midnight she rose with a sigh to prepare for bed. She looked
round the room. There was no sign of Annie Colchester.

“How stupid of me to have forgotten about her,” she thought with
compunction. “She ought to have been in bed and to have taken her cocoa
an hour ago. Oh! now I remember; she got a letter which upset her very
much and went out. Dear, dear! where can she be?”

Leslie went to the window and flung it open; she put her head out, and
tried to peer into the darkness; but the moon had already set, and she
could not see more than a couple of yards in front of her. She ventured
to call Annie’s name softly; there was no reply. She shut the window.

“There is nothing for it but for me to go and look for her,” she said to
herself. “She is a very queer, erratic creature; and that letter—there
was bad news in that letter. Poor girl, she spoke of it as cold water to
the thirsty; she looked when I saw her last as if it had half killed
her. What can she be doing out by herself? Yes, I must find her without
delay.”

Leslie left the room; but she had scarcely gone a dozen paces down the
corridor before she met Annie returning. Annie’s eyes were very bright,
her cheeks were no longer pale, and there was a brilliant color in them.
She did not take the least notice of Leslie; but, going into the room,
shut the door. Leslie opened it and followed her.

“Dear me, Annie!” she said, “I was quite frightened about you.”

“Don’t begin,” said Annie.

“Don’t begin! What do you mean?”

“I mean that I don’t want you to begin to ask questions. I am going to
get into be

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