“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