Brenda and Florence had both finished their school life. No pains had been spared to render them up to date in every particular. They had gone through the usual curriculum of a girl’s education. Brenda was a little cleverer than Florence and had perhaps dived deeper into the heart of things, but Florence was the prettier of the two.
Now the last day of school was over. The last good-byes had been said. The last teacher had whispered words of affection in Brenda’s ear, and the last and most loved school-fellow had kissed Florence on her pretty cheek and had hoped in that vague way which meant nothing at all that they should meet again. School belonged to the past. They had the world before them.
Florence was eighteen years of age, Brenda nineteen. To all intents and purposes they were children. Nevertheless, they regarded themselves as full-fledged women.
They were expecting an interview any day with their lawyer, Mr Timmins. Mr Timmins had provided the funds necessary for their education. He had arranged everything for them since the time when Florence at thirteen and Brenda at fourteen had lost their father and mother. Since then they depended on Mr Timmins—that is, as far as pounds, shillings and pence was concerned. He had seen them, not very often, but at intervals. He had always been nice and fussy and good, and had begged them to work hard. He had said to them over and over, “Be sure you don’t miss your chance,” and they invariably replied in the affirmative, and had assured him that they had no intention of missing it.
They had grieved for their parents, but that grief was now over. They were accustomed to the fact that they were fatherless and motherless. They had their dreams of the future, as most girls have. But the rough ways of the world had never hitherto assailed them.
In the holidays they always went to stay with a certain Mrs Fortescue. She was no relation; in fact, they were quite without relations. They were not only orphans, but they were relationless. The only children of an only son and an only daughter, they were solitary in the world, but that fact did not trouble them. They had never taken to their hearts the old proverb, that “blood is thicker than water.” They were happy, healthy, everyday girls.
Florence was pretty, Brenda clever. They were really well-educated. Florence could sing very nicely—that is, for a girl of eighteen years of age. Her voice had possibilities which could even rise to a marketable value, but no one thought of the Heathcotes as people who required to make money by their accomplishments. They were supposed to be quite well off. They dressed well, the school they went to was expensive, and Mrs Fortescue charged quite a good sum for them in the holidays.
Mrs Fortescue was quite ordinary, but a lady. She knew nice people, and she introduced her young friends to them. The girls were welcomed by Mrs Fortescue’s friends as desirable and even pleasant acquaintances. Mrs Fortescue took them out a little, and in her heart of hearts she thought of herself as their chaperone until they married. Of course they would marry. When their school-days were over, Mr Timmins, who arranged all their money matters, would take a house for them in London; and who so suitable to chaperone these nice, well brought up girls as Mrs Fortescue? She intended to suggest this to Mr Timmins when she saw him after their school work was over.
It had been arranged all along that they were to leave school when Florence was eighteen and Brenda nineteen. Some people said it was rather young, and that Florence ought to have an extra year of training in her special department. But then, when one came to consider it, she had no special department, she was good all round—that is, fairly good. Brenda was different. Brenda had real talent—well, perhaps that was the wrong word, but a real bias towards philosophy. She liked to read books on ethical subjects. She was fond of the works of Tyndale, Huxley, and Darwin. Sometimes she startled her acquaintances and friends by her ideas, all borrowed, of course, from these great writers. Nevertheless, even Brenda was not in the least remarkable, and as she was much plainer than Florence, it was the younger sister who was looked at, who was smiled at, who was approved of.
Well, the last day at school was over, and, as usual, the Misses Heathcote arrived at Mrs Fortescue’s house at Langdale.
Langdale was a pretty town situated not very far from Tunbridge Wells. It was winter when the girls left school, and the snow was lying as a pure and beautiful mantle all over the fields when they drove up to Sunny Side, as Mrs Fortescue called her somewhat unpretentious house in the suburbs of Langdale. She came out to meet the girls and spoke to them with her usual affection.
“Ah, here you are!” she cried, “and welcome, welcome as flowers in May. You must be frozen, both of you. I have desired Jane to light a fire in your room; it is burning quite brightly. Come in, come in, my loves. I have been suffering a good deal from neuralgia, so won’t go out into the porch. Higgins, take the young ladies’ trunks round to the back entrance, where Bridget will attend to them.”
The well-known cabman of the district said he would, and the girls found themselves shut into a warm hall, where a fire was lighted in the grate and where the place looked as homelike as it always did when they came back to it. They both kissed Mrs Fortescue as in duty bound. They liked her without loving her. She had never done anything for them except for a money consideration, and they knew this fact, although they did not speak of it. Somehow it seemed to keep their hearts at arm’s length from her.
She was a pretty little woman of about forty years of age, with a keen, very keen eye to the main chance. Her own means were small. She was always glad to have the Heathcotes to help her to pay her Christmas bills and to enable her to take her summer holidays free. She looked upon them now as her property, and she always spoke of her house as their home.
The girls went up to their room. There Bridget, the one servant, who had served Mrs Fortescue for so long, was waiting for them. The room looked very pretty. There were two little beds side by side, ornamented with pink draperies at the back of the brass bedsteads, pink draperies at the foot, pretty pink eiderdowns covering the beds themselves, a nice green felt carpet on the floor, and green art serge window curtains, which were drawn now to keep out the wintry blast. The fire crackled and roared merrily. The room was sweet and fresh and clean. It had the fragrant smell of lavender. Mrs Fortescue grew a lot of lavender in her garden, and kept bags of it profusely sprinkled through her linen. The girls always associated the smell of lavender with Mrs Fortescue.
Bridget welcomed them back as she had done three times a year for so long now. They seemed never to remember anything else.
“How are you, Bridget?” said Florence, in her bright voice. “As well as ever, I hope?”
“Oh, yes, miss; what should ail me?” said Bridget.
She showed her teeth as she laughed, and looked gleesome and good tempered and pleasant. She felt as though she would like to kiss her two young ladies, as she invariably called the Misses Heathcote.
“Here is your hot water, miss,” she said, turning to Brenda; “and I think the fire is all right, and dinner will be ready in ten minutes. If you want anything else, you can ring for me.”
She knew all about their trunks. There were invariably three trunks, two of which were kept in the storeroom downstairs, one of which came upstairs and was for immediate use. This trunk contained the girls’ pretty blouses and ribbons, their sponge-bags, their night-cases, their brushes and combs, their slippers for use in the bedroom, and their pretty embroidered shoes to wear at dinnertime. Bridget had already unfastened this trunk. She glanced round the room just as she had done three times a year for the last four or five years, and then went away, leaving the young ladies to themselves. They were her young ladies; of course they would always come to Sunny Side. As far as she was concerned, this was only one more home coming, just like all the rest.
The girls hastily changed and made themselves smart, as was their wont, for dinner. Mrs Fortescue wanted them to look smart. She hated dowdy people. She always dressed extremely well herself, following the fashion as far as lay within her means, powdering her face, and arranging her dyed hair to the best possible advantage. She imagined that she did not look more than thirty years of age, but the girls knew quite well that her hair was dyed and her face powdered. They did not like her any the less for that, however. If she chose to be so silly, it was no affair of theirs. She was a good old thing. That is what they said to each other when they spoke of her at all—quite good-natured, and kind to them.
But Florence brushed out her radiant hair now with a kind of viciousness which she had never exhibited before, and as she coiled it round her stately young head, she turned and spoke to her sister.
“Do you like that new shade of Mrs Fortescue’s hair or do you not, Brenda?”
“I did not notice it,” said Brenda.
“Well, I did; and I think it is hideous. What blouse will you put on, Brenda?”
“I don’t know: that pink one; won’t that do?”
“No, it doesn’t suit you. Wear white; I am going to.”
Both sisters put on white blouses made in the extreme of the fashion. Florence’s hair was one of her great beauties. It was of a very rich golden brown. She had quantities of it, and it had the natural fussiness and inclination to wave which made artificial means of producing that result unnecessary. Brenda’s hair was of a pale brown, without any wave or curl, but it was soft and thick and glossy. Brenda’s eyes were exactly the same colour as her hair, and she had rather pale eyebrows. Her face was quite a nice little one, but not beautiful. Florence’s face was beautiful—that is, it was beautiful at times. It could flash with animation, and her eyes could express scorn. She had a changing colour, too, and full red lips which revealed pearly teeth. Her looks were decidedly above the average, and there was a mocking light in her eyes which repelled and captivated at the same time.
Arm in arm, the two sisters went downstairs to the cosy drawing-room, where Mrs Fortescue was waiting for them.
“Ah, that is right, my loves. It is nice to see you both. Now I think I am entitled to a kiss, am I not?”
Florence went straight up at once and kissed the good lady on her forehead. Brenda did likewise.
“Aren’t you hungry?” said Mrs Fortescue.
“Yes,” said Brenda, “I am starving.”
“And so am I,” said Florence.
“Dinner is quite ready. Shall we all go into the dining-room?”
They went, the two fresh girls and the woman with the dyed hair, who imagined herself just as young as they—or rather tried to imagine herself their equal with regard to age. Mrs Fortescue looked at them with approval. She fancied she saw great success both for herself and Florence in Florence’s face. Of course Florence would make a brilliant match. Some one would fall in love with her—if possible, some one with a title. Brenda must be content with a humbler fate, but she, too, would secure a mate. When Florence was not by, she was an exceedingly nice-looking girl, so placid and gentle and clever-looking. Mrs Fortescue was very proud of Brenda’s cleverness. She liked to draw her out to talk on philosophical subjects. It was quite wonderful to hear her; and then that little tone—not of unbelief, oh no; but doubt, yes, doubt—was quite exciting and charming.
Brenda could talk better than Florence. The clergyman of the parish, Mr Russell, was unmarried. He would be an excellent husband for Brenda, just the very man, who would begin by converting her to truly orthodox views, and then would assure her how deeply he loved her. She would settle down at Langdale as the rector’s wife. It would be an excellent position and very nice for Mrs Fortescue, who, of course, would be always dear Brenda’s right hand, her mainstay in any perplexity. She knew that the rector’s wife would hold an excellent position in a small town like Langdale. She would be the first lady in the place. To her would be given the task of leading what society there was to lead. She would have to discern the sheep from the goats. Those who were not admitted within the charmed circle would not be worth knowing.
Mrs Fortescue thought of all these things as she looked at Brenda across the dinner-table.
Presently, Florence laughed.
“What is the matter, dear?” said Mrs Fortescue.
“It seems quite incomprehensible,” said Florence.
“What, my love? What do you mean?”
“Why, that our school-days are over. Things seem so exactly like they have always seemed. This is two days before Christmas. To-morrow we will go as usual to help with the church decorations. The next day will be Christmas Day. Then I suppose there’ll be some sort of festivities going, and—and— But what I want to know is this?”
“Yes?” said Mrs Fortescue.
Bridget had left the room. An excellent dessert was on the board. The fire glowed red; the light was good.
“Yes?” she repeated.
“I want to know what is the end of it all. We are not going back to school at the end of January. We have done with school.”
“Yes, darling,” said Mrs Fortescue.
She rose as she spoke. She went swiftly up to the girl and put her arm round her neck.
“You have done with school in one sense, but all your beautiful future lies before you. You forget that Mr Timmins is coming to-morrow.”
“I had forgotten,” said Florence. “Had you, Brenda?”
“No,” said Brenda, “how could I forget? I had a letter from him at Chester House this morning.”
“What time did he say he would come, dear?” asked Mrs Fortescue.
“He said he would be here in the morning and he wanted us both to be in.”
“He wants to talk to you about your future, darlings,” said Mrs Fortescue; “very natural, very right. You had no idea, had you, Brenda, of going to Newnham or Girton I do trust and hope you had no thoughts in that direction. Men don’t like women who have led collegiate lives: I know that for a fact; my own dear Frank often said so. He said he could not bear really learned women.”
“I should have thought,” said Brenda, “that men preferred women who could think. But I am afraid,” she added, “that I don’t very much care what men think on the subject. All the same, I am not going to either Newnham or Girton, so you can make your mind easy on that score, Mrs Fortescue.”
“That is right, darling, that is right. I haven’t an idea what Mr Timmins particularly wants to say to you, but I trust whatever he does say will be confided to me.”
“Why, of course,” said Florence.
“And in your future, darlings, I hope that I, your old friend, will bear a part.”
The girls were silent, looking at her intently. She had expected an eager rush of words from those young lips, and their silence made her uneasy.
“I have done all I can for you, haven’t I, my sweet ones?”
“Oh yes! You have been very kind, Mrs Fortescue,” said Brenda.
“But that is not all,” said Mrs Fortescue, her voice dropping. “I—and you must know it—I love you both.”
Florence’s fine dark eyes were opened to their fullest extent. Brenda looked very gently at the little woman with the dyed hair. Neither said a word. Mrs Fortescue sprang to her feet.
“We will go into the drawing-room now,” she said. “You will tell me when you are sleepy and want to go to bed; would you like a game of cut-throat bridge first?”
The girls said they would like a game of bridge, and cards were produced. They played for about an hour, Mrs Fortescue invariably holding the best hand and the girls laughing good-humouredly at her luck. They played for love, not money. Mrs Fortescue thought the game uninteresting.
It was between ten and eleven when the sisters went up to their room. They said good-night to Mrs Fortescue on the landing.
They reached the comfortable bedroom where they had slept during the holidays for so many long years, and looked around them.
Florence suddenly said—
“Brenda, what should I do without you!” and Brenda flew to Florence, flung her arms round her neck and burst into tears.
“Why, what is it?” said the younger and taller sister of the two.
“I don’t know,” said Brenda.
She stopped crying almost immediately, mopped her eyes and smiled. Then she said, abruptly—
“I don’t think I like Mrs Fortescue.”
“That is wrong of you, Brenda. She has always been good to us.”
“I know it is wrong of me,” said Brenda, “not to like her, but all the same, I don’t. I was never sure about it till to-night. Now I am practically certain I don’t like her.”
“But why?” said Florence. “Is it because she dyes her hair?”
“That is one thing,” said Brenda. “The character of the woman who dyes her hair must be objectionable to me. I don’t want her to have anything to do with my future. I shall tell Mr Timmins so to-morrow.”
“Oh, will you really? She will be so terribly disappointed.”
“I can’t help it,” said Brenda.
Florence had seated herself in a very comfortable easy-chair and Brenda was kneeling at her feet.
“You see,” she said solemnly, “we have only one life in this world—one life and one youth, and I don’t want mine to be commonplace. I think Mrs Fortescue would make it so. I can stand her for four weeks at Christmas; I can even endure her for seven weeks in the summer. But always! No, Flo, no: I couldn’t endure her always, could you?”
“Oh,” said Florence with a laugh, “I mean to get married very soon and have done with her. She will be quite useful until I am married. Why—how shocked you look, Brenda!”
“You are only eighteen; how can you think of such a thing as getting married?” said Brenda.
Florence laughed and stroked her sister’s hair.
“I think of it very often,” she said, “almost every day; in fact, it is the only thing before me. I mean to marry a rich and great man.”
“But you must love him,” said Brenda.
“I dare say I shall be able to manage that too,” cried Florence.
The next day Mr Timmins arrived. He came by the train which reached Langdale at three o’clock. He invariably did come by that train. There was nothing at all remarkable in his paying the girls a visit. He was their business man. It was his custom to have an interview with them and with Mrs Fortescue at least once a year. It is true he had come last to see them in the summer, so that it was somewhat remarkable for him to state his intention of coming to Langdale again so soon. But the girls thought nothing at all about this, and if Mrs Fortescue did, she was more pleased than otherwise. Of course, now that her dear young charges had left school for ever, there would be a good deal to talk over and their future to be arranged. She would probably have to take a larger house. The cottage where she lived was very nice and quite sufficiently good to receive schoolgirls in the holidays; but it was not a fit home for young heiresses, who would naturally want to entertain company when they were at home, and who would also naturally require to visit the great world.
Mrs Fortescue felt excited. There were two years yet of her lease to run; but she thought she might manage to induce her landlord to take the little house off her hands, or she might sublet it. In all probability Mr Timmins would require her to live in London with the Misses Heathcote. He would himself choose a pretty house for her there. Her eyes shone as she thought of her future. In London she would have to dress better. She would, in all probability, have to visit one of those celebrated beauty shops in Bond Street in order to get herself quite up to the mark. There were all kinds of inventions now for defying the ravages of age, for keeping a youthful bloom on the cheek and a youthful lustre on the hair. It would be necessary for Mrs Fortescue to look as charming as ever in order to take her young charges about. How pleasant it would be to go with them from one gay assembly to another, to watch their innocent triumphs!
As she lay down in bed on the first night after their arrival she appraised with a great deal of discernment their manifest charms. Florence was, of course, the beauty, but Brenda had a quiet distinction of her own. Her face was full of intellect. Her eyes full of resource. She was dignified, too, more so than Florence, who was all sparkling and gay, as befitted the roses in her cheeks and the flashes of light in her big brown eyes. Altogether, they were a charming pair, and when dressed as they ought to be (how Mrs Fortescue would love that part of her duty!) would do anybody credit.
Mrs Fortescue and the Misses Heathcote! She could hear their names being announced on the threshold of more than one notable reception room, could see the eager light in manly eyes and the deference which would be shown to her as the chaperone of the young heiresses!
Yes, Mr Timmins’ visit was decidedly welcome. He should have the very best of receptions.
On the day when Mr Timmins had elected to come it was Christmas Eve. In consequence, the trains were a little out of order, and Mrs Fortescue could not tell exactly when he would arrive.
“He said three o’clock, dears,” she remarked to her young charges as they sat together at breakfast, the girls wearing pretty brown dresses which suited their clear complexions to a nicety. “Now, as a rule, the three o’clock train is in to the moment, but of course to-day it may be late—in all probability it will be late. I shall order hot cakes for tea; Bridget is quite celebrated for her hot cakes. We will have tea ready for him when he comes. Then when he has had his chat with me, he will want to say a word or two to you, Brenda, and you, Florence. You had better not be out of the way.”
“We thought of going for a good walk,” said Florence. “It is you, after all, he wants to see, Mrs Fortescue. He never has had much to say to us, has he?” Here she looked at her sister.
“No,” said Brenda, thoughtfully. “But,” she added, “when he wrote to me this time, he said he particularly wanted to see you and me alone, Flo. He didn’t even mention your name, Mrs Fortescue.”
“Ah well, dear,” said Mrs Fortescue, with a smile; “that is quite natural. You have left school, you know.”
“I can’t quite believe it, can you, Brenda?” said Florence. “It seems just as if we must be going back to the dear old place.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Brenda. “We are not going back: we said good-bye to every one, don’t you remember?”
“You are never going back, dears, and for my part, I am glad,” said Mrs Fortescue. “You will be my charge in future; at least, I hope so.”
The girls were silent, looking hard at her. “As I have taken care of you since you were quite young girls, you will naturally wish for my protection until you are both married.”
Brenda was silent. Florence said eagerly—“I mean to marry as soon as possible.” Here she laughed, showing her pearly teeth, and a flashing light of anticipated triumph coming into her eyes.
“Of course you will marry soon, Florence,” said Mrs Fortescue. “You are far too pretty not to be somebody’s darling before long. And you, Brenda, also have an exceedingly attractive face. What are your dreams for the future, my love?”
“I cannot tell you,” said Brenda.
She got up as she spoke, and walked to the window. After a time, she said something to her sister, and the girls left the room arm-in-arm.
Mrs Fortescue felt rather annoyed by their manners. They were very independent, as independent as though they were of age; whereas at the present moment they had not a shilling—no, not a shilling in the world that she did not supply to them under Mr Timmins’ directions. Were they going to prove troublesome? She sincerely hoped not. They were good girls but that house in London might not be quite so agreeable as her dreams had pictured if Brenda developed a very strong will of her own and Florence was determined to marry for the sake of marrying. Still, Mr Timmins would put all right, and he would be with them at three o’clock.
The girls absented themselves during the whole of the morning, but appeared again in time for lunch, which they ate with a healthy appetite. They praised Mrs Fortescue’s food, comparing it with what they had at school to the disadvantage of the latter. Mrs Fortescue was pleased. She prided herself very much on Bridget’s cooking.
“And now,” she said, when the meal had come to an end, “you will go upstairs and put on your prettiest dresses and wait in the drawing-room for Mr Timmins. I shall not be far off. He will naturally want to see me as soon as he has had his talk with you both, so I shall remain writing letters in the dining-room. There are so many letters and cards to send off at Christmas time that I shall be fully occupied, and when you touch the bell, Brenda, I shall know what it means. In any case, I will send tea into the drawing-room at a quarter to four. That will give you time to get through your business first, and if you want me to come in and pour out the tea, I shall know if you will just touch the bell.”
“Thank you,” said Brenda. “But it isn’t half-past one yet, and the day is a lovely one. Florence and I want to take a good brisk walk between now and three o’clock. We shall be back before three. We cannot be mewed up in the house until Mr Timmins chooses to arrive.”
“Oh, my dear children! He will think it queer.”
“I am sorry,” said Brenda, “but he had no right to choose Christmas Eve as the day when he was to come to see us. His train may not be in till late. Anyhow, we want to take advantage of the sunshine. Come, Florence.”
The girls left the room and soon afterwards were seen going out arm-in-arm. They walked down the little avenue, and were lost to view.