Roland flushed a little.
“I—I feel as if it was selfish even to hope for it,” he blurted out.
“No,” his mother replied, “it is not. Your whole future may hang upon it. You have always done very well at school, and now with your tutor. You might get a scholarship at Winton and then College, which we have always looked forward to for you, would be possible;” for Roland was a boy not only of ability, but great steadiness and perseverance.
“It’s—it’s very good of you and Dads,” he murmured.
Mrs Fortescue’s spirits seemed to be recovering themselves a little. She was still quite a young woman and naturally of a gentle, rather childlike character, easily depressed and easily cheered. And Roland’s way of receiving the bad news seemed to strengthen her.
“There are some things I am thankful for,” she went on. “We can at once face it all and arrange to live in the new way, without any waiting or suspense or any trying to keep up appearances. It is the sort of tremendous blow that can’t be kept secret. As soon as possible Daddy and I will look out for a small house. I feel as if every day here was wasting money.”
Leila and Chrissie had been silent for a minute or two; Leila in a mixed state of feeling, uncertain whether to think of herself as a heroine, or a martyr. Christabel, on her side, was far from pleased at the “fuss” as she called it to herself, that her mother was making about Roland.
“It isn’t fair,” she thought, “it’s much worse for us. Boys and men can work; being poor doesn’t matter for them. Besides, Roland’s going to get all he wants, and we’re evidently to be sacrificed for him,” and the expression on her face was not a pleasant one.
“And what’s to become of its?” she inquired. “Lell and me? We’ll have to be governesses, or dressmakers, I suppose.”
Mrs Fortescue could not help smiling, though she felt disappointed at the child’s tone.