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Girls of St. Wode's

<h2 id="chapter-vthe-modern-view-of-life."><a>CHAPTER V—THE MODERN VIEW OF LIFE.</h2> The girls came home on Wednesday, and on the following Saturday Mrs. Acheson and Belle were coming to tea. In the meantime Mrs. Chetwynd had gone through more than one stormy scene with Marjorie and Eileen. The girls positively declined to be presented to her gracious Majesty. “You may get the dresses, mother,” said Eileen, “only I sincerely hope you won’t, for we cannot wear them. We don’t quite know yet what we mean to do with our lives; but fashionable society girls we will not be. Now, mammy, why should we be fashionable girls if we dislike the idea?” Here Marjorie, notwithstanding her rude words, went on her knees, wound her strong young arms round her mother’s waist, and looked with such imploring eyes into her face that, notwithstanding her anger, Mrs. Chetwynd was touched in spite of herself. “We should hate it all, you know, dear mammy,” said Marjorie. “I speak for Eileen as well as for myself.—You agree with me, Eileen, don’t you?” “Of course,” replied Eileen. “Well, Marjorie, have it out with the dear mammy, for I must go at once to see Fowler’s last baby. I am taking it a rattle and some chocolates.” “You will kill a young infant if you give it chocolate,” said Mrs. Chetwynd, “and I forbid you to go to Fox  Buildings. No young ladies from my house must go near such a place.” “Dear me, mother, why not?” said Eileen. “Eileen, my dear, I decline to argue with you. Really, when I think of all that you two girls are doing to oppose me, and render my life miserable, I could almost wish that you were back at school.” “Of course, mother,” said Eileen gravely, “if you positively forbid me to go I will obey you.” She sat down on the nearest chair and stared hard at her mother. “I do forbid you, Eileen. Young ladies of eighteen are not allowed to go about London alone.” “But really, mother, you are mistaken,” said Marjorie; “in these days they are. All that dreadful period of bondage in which the girl of twenty years ago was kept has passed away; the English girl of the present day has her freedom. I have read all about it; I know it to be a fact. College girls, too, have told me. You cannot deny us our birthright, mammy, can you?” “College girls? What do you know about college girls—those awful, underbred, unwomanly creatures!” said Mrs. Chetwynd. “You say that, mother, because you do not know them.” “Well, I do know one thing,” continued Mrs. Chetwynd, her eyes filling with tears. “I cannot imagine what I have done to deserve such girls as you two. I have taken no end of pains with you both. Of course I was obliged to stay in India during your father’s lifetime, which prevented my having as much influence over you as I should otherwise have obtained: but I little thought to come back to such a reward as this. I sent you to the best schools I could afford, and have always attended to  your wardrobe, and given you plenty of pocket-money. I have done all that a mother could do, and now just when I was beginning to expect my reward, there come back to me a couple of——” “Tomboys, mother darling,” said Marjorie. She wound her arms still tighter round her mother’s waist, and kissed her on her cheek. “Mammy, you’ll get accustomed to us after a bit,” she cried. “We are not in the ordinary groove; but there are hundreds of girls like us. There will be more girls like us year after year; all the modern training tends to it, mammy, and you cannot keep us back. We are in the van, and in the van we will stay. Mammy, we decline to go into society, we decline to turn night into day, we decline to spend unnecessary money upon clothes.” “And what do you intend to do, Marjorie; if I may venture to ask?” said Mrs. Chetwynd, folding her hands in an attitude of despair. “Having declined so much, is there anything you agree to?” “Oh yes, lots, mother, now you are becoming reasonable, and we can talk. First of all, what we want to know is, what allowance you will give us both?” “Your father made an extraordinary will,” said Mrs. Chetwynd. “I cannot understand what made him do it, and I think he was wrong.” “What was it? Do let us hear,” said Eileen. “It was this: By his will, when you leave school and reach the age of eighteen, you are both entitled to one hundred and fifty pounds a year, and you are not to be coerced in the way you spend the money.” “Hip! hip! hurrah!” cried Eileen. She sprang suddenly to her feet, danced a minute in front of her mother, and then clapped Marjorie on the shoulder. “Then, of course, everything is plain,” she cried.  “We won’t spend any of that money on dress. Who would waste a precious hundred and fifty pounds in stupid things like frocks?” “Well, children, I shall give you each a proper wardrobe to start with,” said Mrs. Chetwynd. “You have not brought anything fit to be seen from school. Those dresses you have on now are simply disgusting; they are not even clean. I have ordered the carriage, my dears, and am going to take you at once to Madame Coray’s. She will make you two or three everyday dresses and some evening ones.” “But at least not with our money,” cried Marjorie; “that we cannot permit to be spent in such willful waste. Oh, mother, please, do allow us to dress as we like; do let us order our lives in our own way—do, mammy, do.” “I must know first of all what is your own way.” “We want to be useful members of society, and to spend scarcely any money on clothes. We have told you that we do not intend to be presented to Her Majesty.” “Well, I hope to get you to change your minds yet; but I will not order the presentation dresses to-day.” “That’s a dear. I knew you would submit.—She is the best little mother in the whole world,” said Eileen, rapturously kissing her parent, and then clasping Marjorie’s hand. “Then, you will give in all round, mammy dear?” said Marjorie. “Suppose I say no?” answered Mrs. Chetwynd. “Then I am afraid——” said Eileen. She glanced at Marjorie, and Marjorie nodded. Mrs. Chetwynd suddenly rose. “Girls,” she said, “don’t say what you are just about to say. I can guess what it is, and I am not prepared to listen. Until you are of age it is your duty to obey me.  Notwithstanding your father’s will, and the improper allowance which I am forced to give you both, as long as you are under my roof you must be clothed as I wish, and you must not go to places that I disapprove of. My poor, dear, misguided children, a woman’s true aim when she reaches maturity is to marry a good husband, and to have a happy home of her own.” “But I never intend to marry,” said Marjorie. “I have not the faintest idea of putting myself under the control of any man. I mean to keep my liberty and have a jolly good, useful time.” “And so do I,” said Eileen. “I mean to have a very full and very busy life, mother.” “Ditto,” cried Marjorie. “Letitia has not yet spoken,” said Mrs. Chetwynd.—“What are your wishes, my love?” “Well, of course, Aunt Helen, I should like a society-life very much.” “But you’re just not going to have it, Lettie,” said Eileen. “You’ll have to do exactly what we do. We have no idea of having our own mother fagged to death; an old woman like mother taken out day and night at all hours, just to give you a jolly time.” “But, really, my dears, I am not an old woman,” said Mrs. Chetwynd indignantly. “Well, mother, you are not as young as you used to be. You are forty, if you are a day, and no one at forty can be called a chicken. It’s much more healthy for you to go to bed in good time. Oh, I have read a lot about society and all its trash. It just encourages one to be terribly immoral.” “Immoral! my dear Eileen. It’s awful to hear you speak.” “But it’s true, mother. For instance, people tell no  end of fibs—lies I call them. They say they are not at home when they are; they pretend to be delighted to see a person who in reality they loathe. Oh, I am acquainted with the ghastly round; and if you think I am going to let myself in for it you are mistaken. But, dear old mammy, you shan’t be worried any longer; we will go out with you now, and we’ll be as good as gold, and you shall get us each a new dark-blue serge dress and a new sailor hat, and a pair of thick dogskin gloves. Surely that is enough.” “And what about evening dresses, and Sunday dresses, and visiting dresses?” said Mrs. Chetwynd. “As to Sunday dresses,” cried Marjorie, “I don’t see why neat serge dresses should not do quite well for church; and as to visiting dresses, we do not intend to visit in the ordinary sense. The friend who does not wish to see us in our serge costumes we do not intend to cultivate.” “There are still evening dresses, my dear.” “But, mother, you are not going to take us out to dinners?” “You must have one or two dinner dresses,” said Mrs. Chetwynd, “and that is an end of the matter. Go upstairs and put on your hats. I am ashamed to go out with you as matters now stand.” The two girls left the room linking their arms together. Letitia remained behind. “May I ask, Letitia,” said Mrs. Chetwynd, “when this madness seized Marjorie and Eileen?” “It has been coming on gradually,” said Letitia. “It is very bad, I know. I was afraid you would suffer a good deal when they explained themselves.” “But when did it begin?” “Well, two or three girls—Americans, I think—joined the school last term, and Marjorie and Eileen  became great friends with them; and just about then they began to change. They were always careless with regard to their dress, and would not allow Miss Ross—our English teacher who had us under her special care—to spend the money which you sent on dress at all.” “And do you mean to tell me that Miss Ross consulted them?” “Well, Aunt Helen, they had an extraordinary way of pleading their own cause. I cannot understand it. They have saved a good deal of money, if that is any satisfaction.” “None whatever, child. I have got more money than I know what to do with, and I choose my girls to look nice. Letitia, what a pity it is you are not my own child.” “For some reasons I wish I were, Aunt Helen.” “You are so very neat, dear, so very dainty—that is the only word for it. What am I to do with those other two?” “I am dreadfully afraid you will have to give them their own way.” “Their own way! Nonsense, my dear! impossible. Children, only eighteen.” “But old enough, according to your own showing, Aunt Helen, to be presented to the Queen, to enter society, and to marry if suitable husbands come to the fore.” “Of course; but they would be presented to the Queen by their mother; they would enter society under their mother’s wing; and if they married, their husbands would look after them. Now to allow those wild imps, those irresponsible girls, to have their own way is not to be heard of for a single moment.” “Well, Aunt Helen, I am sure it will come right in the end. They are queer, obstinate, out-of-the-way girls; but they have got fine characters, and would not willingly  pain you. The only thing is that they look at life from a totally different standpoint. I’ll have a right good talk with them, so try not to fret. I will put it to them that it is their bounden duty to yield to you. They often mind what I say when they won’t mind their elders. But is not that the carriage? Had not I better get ready?”  <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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