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