The Girls of St. Wode's. Meade L. T.

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ