Chapter 3 The Girls of St. Wode's by L. T. Meade
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.