L. Meade - The Girls of St. Wode's

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.

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.