Chapter Five.Seeking Sympathy.The Carters were a numerous family. They lived about a mile away from the Aldworths. The Aldworths lived in a small house in the town and the Carters in a large country place with spacious grounds and every imaginable luxury. Mr Carter had suddenly made a great pile of money in iron, had retired to private life, and had given his six children everything that money could buy. The Carters conducted themselves always according to their special will; they had no mother to look after them, their mother having died when Penelope, the youngest girl, was a baby. There were two sons in the family and four daughters. The sons were called Jim and Harry, the girls were Clara, Mabel, Annie, and Penelope. They were ordinary, good-natured, good-humoured sort of girls; they took life easily. Clara, the eldest, believed herself to be the mistress of the house, and a very sorry mistress she would have made but for the fact that there was an invaluable old nurse, a servant, who had lived with Mrs Carter before she died, and who really held the household reins. This kind-hearted, motherly body kept the young people in check, although she never appeared to cross them. They consulted her without knowing that they did so. She superintended the servants; she saw to the linen press; she arranged the food; she kept all the supplies with a liberal hand, and gave Clara and the other girlscarte blanchewith regard to what they might do with their time, and when they might entertain their friends.The old house, Court Prospect by name, on account of its extensive view, was very suitable for entertainments. Once it had been the property of a gracious and noble family; but hard times had come upon them and Sir John St. Just had been glad to receive the money which the rich Mr Carter was prepared to offer. In consequence, the St. Justs had disappeared from the neighbourhood. Beautiful Angela St. Just no longer delighted the people when she walked down the aisle of the little village church. She no longer sang with a voice which seemed to the parishioners like that of an angel, in the choir. She went away with her father, and the Carters, it must be owned, had a bad time of it during the first year of their residence at Court Prospect.But money can effect wonders. The place was according to the Carters’ ideas completely renovated. The hideous, ugly out-of-date furniture was replaced by maple with plush and gilt and modern taste. The gardens were laid out according to the ideas of a landscape gardener who had certainly never consulted the true ideas of Nature. Some of the old timber had been cut down to enlarge the view, as Clara expressed it.This young lady was now exactly eighteen years of age. She was out, and so was her twin sister, Mabel. Annie, who was only seventeen, was still supposed to be in the school-room, but she was very muchen évidenceat all the parties and entertainments; but Penelope, who was only fourteen, was obliged to be to a certain extent under tutelage.The Carters’ ball, or rather, as they expressed it themselves, their little impromptu dance, had been the talk of all the girls and young men who were lucky enough to be invited to it. It was a great honour to be intimate with the Carters; they were jolly, good-natured girls, and certainly without a trace of snobbishness in their compositions. They were so rich that they did not want to be bothered, as they expressed it, with monied people; they liked to choose their own friends. Molly and Ethel and Nesta had attracted Clara and Mabel some time ago, and their brothers, too, had considered the girls very pretty; for the young Aldworths were of the laughing, joking, gay sort of girls, who could talk in a pert, frank fashion; who were not troubled with an overplus of brains, and, in consequence, were exceedingly popular with certain individuals.It was to visit the Carters, therefore, and to unburden her mind of its load, that Ethel, with her aching head, proceeded to go on this hot summer afternoon. She found the girls and two boy friends from the neighbourhood having tea under the wide-spreading cedar tree on the lawn. This cedar tree had been the pride of Sir John St. Just, but Mr Carter seriously thought of cutting it down in order to still further enlarge the view; therefore the poor old cedar was at present on sufferance, and the young people were enjoying its shade when Ethel appeared with crimson cheeks, and eyes which still bore traces of the heavy tears which she had shed. They jumped up, and Mabel ran to meet her.“This is good; and so you have followed your horrid, detestable note. Why, of course, you are coming to-night. Clara and I won’t hear of a refusal.”“We cannot, really,” said Ethel. “We can’t either of us come.”“Let me introduce you to Mr John and Mr Henry Grace,” said Mabel, bringing Ethel up to the rest of the party.“Have some tea, Ethel, do,” said Clara, holding out her hand a little languidly. “How awfully hot you look.”Ethel sank down on a chair which one of the others had vacated and allowed herself to be cooled and petted. Clara suddenly began on the subject of the ball.“What a queer note you sent; what does it all mean?” she asked.“I will tell you afterwards; I have come over to explain,” said Ethel, “if I can see you—you and dear Mabel for a few minutes alone before I leave.”“Dear me, what is the mystery?” said Jim, who had flung himself on the grass. “Why can’t you tell us all? It would be no end of a lark. Another rumpus with the mother. Is she more cantankerous than ever?”“No, mother is quite nice, particularly nice,” said Ethel, who had often explained to the young Carters what a trial her mother was.“Well, then, come and have a game,” said Jim. “Come along, do, and forget all the worries. If it isn’t the mother it can’t be anything very serious.”“Yes, but it is, and I cannot tell you,” said Ethel.She looked so forlorn that everyone present pitied her. Her soft brown eyes filled with sudden tears and overflowed.“Oh, how my head is aching. I’ve been lying down all the afternoon. I just managed to come out to tell you, for I felt you must know.”“Is it as bad as that? Then we had best make ourselves scarce,” said Jim. “Come along, let us go away, we who are the unfavoured; we’ll leave the select few to listen to confidences.”A game of tennis was presently in active progress, Clara and Mabel, who both longed to join, did not feel too sympathetic.“Well,” said Clara, “whatever is it? Do tell all. If you won’t come to-night and you won’t play, why—”“Oh, you mean me to go,” said Ethel. “It’s always like that—I might have expected it.”“Oh, no; don’t go,” said Mabel, who was more good-natured than her sister, “that is,” she corrected herself, “if we can do anything to help you.”“I must tell you—I won’t keep you more than a few minutes. You know Marcia—you have heard of her?”“Of your elder sister? Oh, how funny! There came a letter yesterday from Colonel St. Just to father, and he said that his sister, Mrs Silchester, is coming to spend the holidays with them, and that she had mentioned your sister, Miss Marcia Aldworth. She said what a splendid girl she was. Colonel St. Just told us to tell you—he thought you would be pleased.”“Oh, she is deceived in her,” said Ethel, her face getting redder than ever. “She is deceived in her. I wish she knew. Well, I’ll tell you all about it. You know Marcia isn’t our real sister—”“Oh, my dear, of course, that is no news,” said Clara more crossly than ever.“But she is older—she is older than I am, and older than Molly. She is twenty.”This was said with effect, and a long pause followed. “She will be twenty-one before long. You can’t call that young, can you?”“Well, not as young as eighteen, of course.”“But it isn’t young at all,” said Ethel, in a fretful tone. “Now I am only seventeen, and dear Molly is only eighteen; we are quite young.”“And so are we, we are both eighteen, aren’t we, darling old Clay?” said Mabel, patting her sister on the face.“Yes, but don’t call me Clay—it does sound so earthy,” said Clara. “But do go on, Ethel. Out with this trouble.”“Well, it is this—father sent for Marcia.”“What, from that delightful school where Mrs Silchester adores her so much?”“Yes, why not? She is his child, and he sent for her, and she came, and Horace approved of the plan.”“I am always so frightened of that Horace of yours,” said Mabel. “But do hurry up.”“Well, she came. We feared she wouldn’t, for she is awfully selfish; but she did; she came, and we were so happy. It was, you know, liberation for us, for dear mother, poor darling, does take up such a lot of time. One of us has always to be with her, and sometimes two have to be with her, for father insists on her never being alone, and we are not rich like you, and cannot afford a hired nurse.”“And who would give a hired nurse to one’s mother?” said Mabel.“Well, anyhow, that is how it is; we wouldn’t, of course, and Marcia came. She came last night. She is very staid, you know, not a bit like us.”One of the boys shouted across to ask Clara when she would be finished and ready to make up a set.“I really cannot stay,” said Clara. “Oh, you aren’t a bit sympathising. I thought you would be; but I don’t suppose any one will be. Well, she came, and she absolutely refused to give more than a little bit of her time to mother. We’re to be tied as much as usual, and we cannot come to-night. You know Molly and I never do anything apart, and Molly won’t be free, for mother is never settled till between nine and ten o’clock, and it would be much, much too late. We’ll never be able to go anywhere. Marcia will manage that we’re to be tied and bound as much as ever we were, and Marcia will have all the honour and glory. Oh dear, we can only be young once. I think Marcia might have remembered that—Marcia, whose youth is quite over. I do think she might—I do!”“Poor Ethel,” said Clara, with more sympathy. “It does seem hard. Well, we’ll try and get some fun for you on your free days. After all she is your mother. Coming, Jim, coming. Sorry you can’t be here to-night, Ethel; but we’ll get up some fun again in a hurry. Now, cheer up, old girl, cheer up.”
The Carters were a numerous family. They lived about a mile away from the Aldworths. The Aldworths lived in a small house in the town and the Carters in a large country place with spacious grounds and every imaginable luxury. Mr Carter had suddenly made a great pile of money in iron, had retired to private life, and had given his six children everything that money could buy. The Carters conducted themselves always according to their special will; they had no mother to look after them, their mother having died when Penelope, the youngest girl, was a baby. There were two sons in the family and four daughters. The sons were called Jim and Harry, the girls were Clara, Mabel, Annie, and Penelope. They were ordinary, good-natured, good-humoured sort of girls; they took life easily. Clara, the eldest, believed herself to be the mistress of the house, and a very sorry mistress she would have made but for the fact that there was an invaluable old nurse, a servant, who had lived with Mrs Carter before she died, and who really held the household reins. This kind-hearted, motherly body kept the young people in check, although she never appeared to cross them. They consulted her without knowing that they did so. She superintended the servants; she saw to the linen press; she arranged the food; she kept all the supplies with a liberal hand, and gave Clara and the other girlscarte blanchewith regard to what they might do with their time, and when they might entertain their friends.
The old house, Court Prospect by name, on account of its extensive view, was very suitable for entertainments. Once it had been the property of a gracious and noble family; but hard times had come upon them and Sir John St. Just had been glad to receive the money which the rich Mr Carter was prepared to offer. In consequence, the St. Justs had disappeared from the neighbourhood. Beautiful Angela St. Just no longer delighted the people when she walked down the aisle of the little village church. She no longer sang with a voice which seemed to the parishioners like that of an angel, in the choir. She went away with her father, and the Carters, it must be owned, had a bad time of it during the first year of their residence at Court Prospect.
But money can effect wonders. The place was according to the Carters’ ideas completely renovated. The hideous, ugly out-of-date furniture was replaced by maple with plush and gilt and modern taste. The gardens were laid out according to the ideas of a landscape gardener who had certainly never consulted the true ideas of Nature. Some of the old timber had been cut down to enlarge the view, as Clara expressed it.
This young lady was now exactly eighteen years of age. She was out, and so was her twin sister, Mabel. Annie, who was only seventeen, was still supposed to be in the school-room, but she was very muchen évidenceat all the parties and entertainments; but Penelope, who was only fourteen, was obliged to be to a certain extent under tutelage.
The Carters’ ball, or rather, as they expressed it themselves, their little impromptu dance, had been the talk of all the girls and young men who were lucky enough to be invited to it. It was a great honour to be intimate with the Carters; they were jolly, good-natured girls, and certainly without a trace of snobbishness in their compositions. They were so rich that they did not want to be bothered, as they expressed it, with monied people; they liked to choose their own friends. Molly and Ethel and Nesta had attracted Clara and Mabel some time ago, and their brothers, too, had considered the girls very pretty; for the young Aldworths were of the laughing, joking, gay sort of girls, who could talk in a pert, frank fashion; who were not troubled with an overplus of brains, and, in consequence, were exceedingly popular with certain individuals.
It was to visit the Carters, therefore, and to unburden her mind of its load, that Ethel, with her aching head, proceeded to go on this hot summer afternoon. She found the girls and two boy friends from the neighbourhood having tea under the wide-spreading cedar tree on the lawn. This cedar tree had been the pride of Sir John St. Just, but Mr Carter seriously thought of cutting it down in order to still further enlarge the view; therefore the poor old cedar was at present on sufferance, and the young people were enjoying its shade when Ethel appeared with crimson cheeks, and eyes which still bore traces of the heavy tears which she had shed. They jumped up, and Mabel ran to meet her.
“This is good; and so you have followed your horrid, detestable note. Why, of course, you are coming to-night. Clara and I won’t hear of a refusal.”
“We cannot, really,” said Ethel. “We can’t either of us come.”
“Let me introduce you to Mr John and Mr Henry Grace,” said Mabel, bringing Ethel up to the rest of the party.
“Have some tea, Ethel, do,” said Clara, holding out her hand a little languidly. “How awfully hot you look.”
Ethel sank down on a chair which one of the others had vacated and allowed herself to be cooled and petted. Clara suddenly began on the subject of the ball.
“What a queer note you sent; what does it all mean?” she asked.
“I will tell you afterwards; I have come over to explain,” said Ethel, “if I can see you—you and dear Mabel for a few minutes alone before I leave.”
“Dear me, what is the mystery?” said Jim, who had flung himself on the grass. “Why can’t you tell us all? It would be no end of a lark. Another rumpus with the mother. Is she more cantankerous than ever?”
“No, mother is quite nice, particularly nice,” said Ethel, who had often explained to the young Carters what a trial her mother was.
“Well, then, come and have a game,” said Jim. “Come along, do, and forget all the worries. If it isn’t the mother it can’t be anything very serious.”
“Yes, but it is, and I cannot tell you,” said Ethel.
She looked so forlorn that everyone present pitied her. Her soft brown eyes filled with sudden tears and overflowed.
“Oh, how my head is aching. I’ve been lying down all the afternoon. I just managed to come out to tell you, for I felt you must know.”
“Is it as bad as that? Then we had best make ourselves scarce,” said Jim. “Come along, let us go away, we who are the unfavoured; we’ll leave the select few to listen to confidences.”
A game of tennis was presently in active progress, Clara and Mabel, who both longed to join, did not feel too sympathetic.
“Well,” said Clara, “whatever is it? Do tell all. If you won’t come to-night and you won’t play, why—”
“Oh, you mean me to go,” said Ethel. “It’s always like that—I might have expected it.”
“Oh, no; don’t go,” said Mabel, who was more good-natured than her sister, “that is,” she corrected herself, “if we can do anything to help you.”
“I must tell you—I won’t keep you more than a few minutes. You know Marcia—you have heard of her?”
“Of your elder sister? Oh, how funny! There came a letter yesterday from Colonel St. Just to father, and he said that his sister, Mrs Silchester, is coming to spend the holidays with them, and that she had mentioned your sister, Miss Marcia Aldworth. She said what a splendid girl she was. Colonel St. Just told us to tell you—he thought you would be pleased.”
“Oh, she is deceived in her,” said Ethel, her face getting redder than ever. “She is deceived in her. I wish she knew. Well, I’ll tell you all about it. You know Marcia isn’t our real sister—”
“Oh, my dear, of course, that is no news,” said Clara more crossly than ever.
“But she is older—she is older than I am, and older than Molly. She is twenty.”
This was said with effect, and a long pause followed. “She will be twenty-one before long. You can’t call that young, can you?”
“Well, not as young as eighteen, of course.”
“But it isn’t young at all,” said Ethel, in a fretful tone. “Now I am only seventeen, and dear Molly is only eighteen; we are quite young.”
“And so are we, we are both eighteen, aren’t we, darling old Clay?” said Mabel, patting her sister on the face.
“Yes, but don’t call me Clay—it does sound so earthy,” said Clara. “But do go on, Ethel. Out with this trouble.”
“Well, it is this—father sent for Marcia.”
“What, from that delightful school where Mrs Silchester adores her so much?”
“Yes, why not? She is his child, and he sent for her, and she came, and Horace approved of the plan.”
“I am always so frightened of that Horace of yours,” said Mabel. “But do hurry up.”
“Well, she came. We feared she wouldn’t, for she is awfully selfish; but she did; she came, and we were so happy. It was, you know, liberation for us, for dear mother, poor darling, does take up such a lot of time. One of us has always to be with her, and sometimes two have to be with her, for father insists on her never being alone, and we are not rich like you, and cannot afford a hired nurse.”
“And who would give a hired nurse to one’s mother?” said Mabel.
“Well, anyhow, that is how it is; we wouldn’t, of course, and Marcia came. She came last night. She is very staid, you know, not a bit like us.”
One of the boys shouted across to ask Clara when she would be finished and ready to make up a set.
“I really cannot stay,” said Clara. “Oh, you aren’t a bit sympathising. I thought you would be; but I don’t suppose any one will be. Well, she came, and she absolutely refused to give more than a little bit of her time to mother. We’re to be tied as much as usual, and we cannot come to-night. You know Molly and I never do anything apart, and Molly won’t be free, for mother is never settled till between nine and ten o’clock, and it would be much, much too late. We’ll never be able to go anywhere. Marcia will manage that we’re to be tied and bound as much as ever we were, and Marcia will have all the honour and glory. Oh dear, we can only be young once. I think Marcia might have remembered that—Marcia, whose youth is quite over. I do think she might—I do!”
“Poor Ethel,” said Clara, with more sympathy. “It does seem hard. Well, we’ll try and get some fun for you on your free days. After all she is your mother. Coming, Jim, coming. Sorry you can’t be here to-night, Ethel; but we’ll get up some fun again in a hurry. Now, cheer up, old girl, cheer up.”
Chapter Six.The Joy of her Life.The next morning passed somehow. The girls had decided that they would send Marcia to Coventry. They had made up their minds in a solemn conclave late the night before.“We daren’t oppose her for the present,” said Ethel, who had thought of this daring plan, “but we’ll make her life so miserable that she just won’t be able to bear it.”“She used to be so affectionate; I remember that,” said Molly. “She was very good to me when I had the measles. She used to sit in the room and never think of herself at all.”“She caught them afterwards, don’t you remember, horrid things?” said Nesta.“And I don’t think I went to sit with her at all,” said Molly.“It was rather piggish of you, wasn’t it?” said Ethel.“Well, well; don’t rake up my old faults now. Am I not sad enough? Do you really think, Nesta and Ethel, that we had best send her to Coventry? Do you mean really to Coventry?”“Yes; don’t let’s speak to her. We’ll try the effect for a week. We’ll do our duty, of course. We’ll go into mother’s room in turn, and we’ll give up everything for our mother’s sake, and we’ll deny ourselves, and we’ll never speak to Marcia at all. When we are at meals, if she forces us to speak, we’ll say yes and no, but that’s all, unless Horace or father is present. We’ll leave her quite to herself; she shall have her free hours, and her time for writing, and we wish her joy of it.”This plan of action being determined on, the girls went to bed with a certain sense of consolation.It was Ethel’s turn to spend the morning with the invalid on the following day, and she determinedly went there without a word. The effect of the Coventry system seemed at first to be but small. During breakfast that morning Marcia was absorbed in some letters she had received. She asked her father the best way to get to Hurst Castle.“Why do you want to go there?” asked her parent.“I have had a letter from Angela St. Just. She is most anxious to see me.”Ethel very nearly dropped the cup of tea which she was raising to her lips.“Angela St. Just?” she murmured under her breath. Even Mr Aldworth looked interested.“Do you know her?” he asked.“Of course I do; she was one of Mrs Silchester’s pupils. She wants me to go and see her, and, if I can be spared, to spend a little time there in the summer. I have had a long letter from her.”“She was a remarkably handsome girl; I remember that,” said Mr Aldworth. “Well, to be sure, and so she was at that school.”“You forget, father,” said Marcia, “that Mrs Silchester is Sir Edward St. Just’s sister-in-law.”“Indeed? That is news.”Horace made one or two remarks.“I am glad you know her so well, Marcia, and I hope you will have a pleasant time when you go to Hurst Castle. You say Sir Edward is staying there at present?”“Yes, with some relatives.”“And Angela?”“Yes, they’re going to spend some months there this summer.”Marcia then calmly read her remaining letters and then, just nodding towards Ethel, she said:“I think it is your turn to look after mother, dear,” and she left the room.But just as she reached the door she came back.“Be very careful, dear Ethel, not to allow her to sit in the sun. It is such a beautiful day that I think you might wheel her on to the balcony, where she can get some fresh air. Just do your best to make her happy. I shall be so pleased if I see her looking bright and comfortable this afternoon.”To these remarks Ethel proudly withheld any comment Marcia, not in the least disturbed, hurried away.“Well,” said Nesta, when her father and brother and elder sister had made themselves scarce, “she doesn’t seem to be much put out by the beginning of Coventry; does she, Molly?”“She’s so eaten up with pride,” said Molly, “talking about her Angela St. Just and her Hurst Castle—snobbish, I call it, don’t you, Ethel?”“I don’t know that I shouldn’t like a little bit of it myself,” replied Ethel. “You should hear how the people talk of her in the town. They don’t think anything at all of the Carters, I can tell you.”“You have never explained what happened during your visit yesterday,” said Molly.Marcia was passing the window. She looked in.“It’s time you went to mother, Ethel,” she said.Ethel rose with a crimson face.“Hateful old prig!” she said.“There, girls, I can’t tell you now. I’m in for a jolly time, and you’ll be amusing yourselves in the garden, and she’ll amuse herself.”“Well, you can think of me to-morrow,” said Nesta, “giving up my walk with Florrie Griffiths. That’s what I call hard, and you and Ethel will have a jolly afternoon all to yourselves, and a jolly morning to-morrow. It’s I who am to be pitied. I don’t think I can stand it. I think I’ll run away.”“Don’t be a goose, Netty. You know you’ll have to bear the burden as well as Miss Mule Selfish.”“Oh, what a funny name,” said Nesta, laughing.“Do let us call her Mule Selfish. It does sound so funny.”Ethel, having propounded this remarkable specimen of wit, went upstairs, considerably satisfied with herself. Her post that morning was no sinecure. Mrs Aldworth was in a terrible temper, and she was really weak and ill, too. It was one of her worst days. Ethel, always clumsy, was more so than usual. The sun poured in through the open window, and when the doctor arrived he was not pleased with the appearance of the room, and told Ethel so sharply.“You are a very bad nurse,” he said, “for all the training you’ve had. Now don’t allow that blind to be in such a condition a moment longer. Get one of the servants to come and mend it. I am exceedingly annoyed to see your mother in such an uncomfortable condition.”Ethel was forced to go off in search of a servant. The blind was mended after a fashion; the invalid was pitied by the doctor, who ordered a fresh tonic for her. So the weary hours flew by, and at last Ethel’s task was over. She rushed downstairs. The load was lifted from her mind; she was free for a bit. She immediately asked Molly how they might spend the afternoon.Lunch was on the table and Marcia appeared. Marcia spoke to the young lady.“How is mother?”“I don’t know,” said Ethel.“You don’t know? But you have been with her all the morning.”“The doctor called; you had better ask him.”“She will turn at that. I would like to catch her in a rage,” thought Ethel.Marcia did not turn. She guessed what was passing through her young sister’s mind. It would pass presently. They would take the discipline she was bringing them through presently. She was sorry for them; she loved them very dearly; but give them an indulgent life to the detriment of their characters, and to her own misery, she would not.By-and-by lunch came to an end, and then Marcia rose.“Now, you go to your imprisonment,” thought Molly.Marcia went into the garden. She gathered some flowers, then went into the fruit garden and picked some very fine gooseberries. She laid them in a little basket with some leaves over them, and with the fruit and flowers in her hand, and a pretty basket containing all kinds of fancy work, she went up to the sick-room.Mrs Aldworth could not but smile when she saw the calm face, the pretty white dress, the elegant young figure. Of course, she must scold this recalcitrant step-daughter, but it was nice to see her, and the flowers smelt so sweet, and she had just been pining for some gooseberries. Why hadn’t one of her own girls thought of it?Marcia spent nearly an hour putting the room in order. The Venetian blind did not work; the servant had mended it badly. She soon put that straight. She then sat down opposite to Mrs Aldworth.“Our afternoons will be our pleasantest times,” she said. “There is so much to be done in the mornings, but in the afternoons we can have long talks, and I can amuse you with some of the school-life stories. I have something quite interesting to tell you to-day, and I have brought up a book which I should like to read to you, that is, if you are inclined to listen. And, oh, mother, I think you would like this new sort of fancy work. I have got all the materials for it. It would make some charming ornamental work for the drawing room. We ought to make the drawing room pretty by the time you come back to it.”“Oh, but I shall never come back to it,” said Mrs Aldworth.“Indeed you will, and very soon too. I’m not going to allow you to be long in this bedroom. You will be downstairs again in a few days.”“Never,” said Mrs Aldworth.“Indeed you will. And anyhow we ought to have the drawing room pretty now that Molly and Ethel are out—or consider themselves so. And, mother, dear,”—Marcia’s voice assumed a new and serious tone—“I have so much to talk to you about the dear girls.”Mrs Aldworth trembled. Now, indeed, was the moment when she ought to begin, but somehow, try as she would, she found it impossible to be cross with Marcia. Still, the memory of Molly and her wrongs, of Nesta, and the burden she was unexpectedly forced to carry, of Ethel, and her tendency to sunstroke, came over her.“Before you say anything, I must be frank,” she said.“Oh, yes, mother; that’s what I should like, and expect,” said Marcia, not losing any of her cheerfulness, but laying down her work and preparing herself to listen.She did not stare as her young sisters would have done, for she knew that Mrs Aldworth hated being stared at. She only glanced now and then, and her look was full of sympathy, and there was not a trace of anger on her face.“You really are very nice, Marcia; there’s no denying it. I do wish that in some ways—not perhaps in looks, but in some ways, that my girls were more like you. But, dear, this is it—are you not a little hard on them? They’re so young.”“So young?” said Marcia. “Molly is eighteen. She is only two years younger than I am.”“But you will be twenty-one in three months’ time.”“I think, mother, if you compare birthdays, you will find that Molly will be nineteen in four months’ time. There is little more than two years between us.”Mrs Aldworth was always irritated when opposed.“That’s true,” she said. “But don’t quibble, Marcia; that is a very disagreeable trait in any girl, particularly when she is addressing a woman so much older than herself. The girls are younger than you, not only in years but in character.”“That I quite corroborate,” said Marcia firmly.“Why do you speak in that tone, as though you were finding fault with them, poor darlings, for being young and sweet and childish, and innocent?”“Mother,” said Marcia, and now she rose from her seat and dropped on her knees by the invalid’s couch, “do you think that I really blame them for being young and innocent? But I do blame them for something else.”“And what is that?”“For being selfish: for thinking of themselves more than for others.”“I don’t understand you.”“If you will consider for a moment I think you will quite understand what I mean.”“Marcia, my head aches; I cannot stand a long argument.”“Nor will I give it to you. I have come back here to help you—”“Why, of course, you were sent for for that purpose.”Marcia felt a very fierce wave of passion rising for a moment in her heart. After all, she had her passions, her strong feelings, her idiosyncrasies. She was not tame; she was not submissive; hers was a firm, steadfast, reliable nature. Hers also was a proud and rebellious one. Nevertheless, she soon conquered the rising irritation. She knew that this bad hour would have to be lived through.“I am glad you are talking to me quite plainly,” she said, “and I on my part will answer you in the same spirit. I have come back here not because I must, for as a matter of fact, I am my own mistress. You see, by my own dear mother’s will I have sufficient money of my own—not a great deal, but enough to support me. I can, therefore, be quite independent; and the fact that by my mother’s will I was made of age at twenty, puts all possibility of misconstruction of my meaning out of the question.”“Marcia, you are so terribly learned; you use such long words; you talk as though you were forty. Now, my poor children—”“Mother, you are quite a clever woman yourself, and of course you know what I mean. I have come back to help you, because I wished to—not because I was forced to do so.”“Molly says you are terribly conceited; I am afraid she is right.”Marcia took no notice of this.“Although I have come back to help you, I have not come back to ruin my young sisters.”“Now, Marcia, you really are talking the wildest nonsense.”“Not at all. Don’t you want them to love you?”Mrs Aldworth burst into tears.“What a dreadful creature you are,” she said. “As though my own sweet children did not love me. Why, they’re madly devoted to me. If my little finger aches they’re in such a state—you never knew anything like it. I have seen my poor Molly obliged to rush from the room when I have been having a bad attack of my neuralgia, just because her own precious nerves could not stand the agony. Not love me? How dare you insinuate such a thing?”“Mother, we evidently have different ideas with regard to love. My idea is this—that you ought to sacrifice yourself for the one you love. Now, if I came here and took the complete charge of you away from your own daughters; if I gave them nothing whatever to do for you, and if they were to spend their entire time amusing themselves, and not once considering you, I should do them a cruel wrong; I should injure their characters, and I should make them, what they are already inclined to be—most terribly selfish. That, God helping me, I will not do. I will share the charge of you with them, or I will return to Frankfort to Mrs Silchester, whom I love; to the life that I delight in; to the friends I have made. I will not budge an inch; I will nurse you with the girls, or not at all.”Mrs Aldworth looked up. After all, with a captious, fretful, irritable invalid, a woman with so vacillating a nature as Mrs Aldworth’s, there was nothing so effective as firmness. She succumbed. In a minute she had flung her arms round Marcia’s neck.“My darling,” she said, “I do see what you mean. And you are right; you will train them, you will be, in my absence, a mother to them.”“Not a mother, for I, like them, am young; but I will be to them an elder sister, and I will teach them—not in words, but by precept and by sympathy and by love, what I should like them to learn. They want a great deal of looking after; and, first of all, they want a complete change in their method of living.”“I am afraid even for them, and for you, I cannot quite ignore my pain, my constant suffering, my weary nights, my long, long, fatiguing days.”“Of course you cannot, and I have said enough for the present. Now, let us have a jolly time. See, I am going to have a particularly nice tea for you this afternoon. I have told Susan to bring it up when it is ready. We’ll have it on that balcony.”“Oh, but I shall catch cold.”“Indeed you won’t. Do you see that shady corner, and how the scent-laden air is pervading the whole place, and the sun will be shining across the other half, and you can see a long way down the garden? I’ll sit near you and read to you when you like, out of such a funny book.”“My taste and yours don’t agree with regard to reading,” said Mrs Aldworth, always glad to hail any interruption. “I suppose I have degenerated; I am certainly not an intellectual woman; I don’t pretend that I am. I like the stories that are in the penny papers. We get two or three of them, and we always enjoy them. Will you read me one of those?”“No, mother.”“Oh, how cross you are!”“I am very sorry, mother, but I will read you something just as amusing. Did you ever hear of ‘The Reminiscences of an Irish R.M.’?”“No, it sounds very dull.”“Wait till you hear it. It will make you laugh a great deal more than the stories in the penny papers.”“They make me cry a great deal. Molly reads rather badly, but yesterday I found myself weeping in the middle of the night over the woes of the poor little heroine. I am sure the next number of the paper has come in, and I am so anxious to know if she is really married to the Earl of Dorchester.”“It will be Nesta’s turn to-morrow, and she can read to you. Now for the balcony and a pleasant time.” They had a pleasant time, and the hours flew by on wings. Marcia told stories; she laughed, she chatted, and she read a little from “The Reminiscences of an Irish R.M.” Mrs Aldworth laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks.“Oh, rich! rich!” she exclaimed. “That scene with the dog is inimitable. How funny, how truly funny! But, Marcia, isn’t it bad for my nerves to laugh so much?”“It’s the best thing for them in all the world.”“Marcia, you are wonderful!”“Now for the new fancy work,” said Marcia.She taught the invalid a different sort of stitch from any which she had before learned. She gave her bright-coloured silks, and a piece of art cloth to embroider upon, and soon her stepmother was so fascinated that she allowed her young companion to work in silence, often raising her eyes to look across the distant garden.The girls were spending the afternoon in the garden; but presently they went out, all three of them gaudily and badly dressed. They walked through the garden, gathered some roses, and then disappeared through a little wicket gate at the further end.Marcia felt quite sure that they did this for the purpose of showing her how they were enjoying themselves, while she was in prison. She smiled to herself.“Poor little things,” she thought. “I wonder how soon I shall win their hearts.”She had marked out a plan of action for herself. She had practically secured Mrs Aldworth—not for long, of course, for Nesta would turn her round the next day, and Molly the day after. It would be a constant repetition of the battle; but in the end she would win her. The girls, of course, were different. Unselfishness must be born within them before they really did what Marcia wanted them to do. Unselfishness, brave hearts, pure spirits, noble ways.“Two, three months should do it,” thought the girl; “then I can go back with Angela St. Just in the autumn; for she is returning to Frankfort, I know, just to be with Mrs Silchester, and I can take her back. Oh, little Angela!”Marcia recalled the soft touch of Angela’s blooming cheek; the look in her lovely eyes; the refinement in all her bearing.Mrs Aldworth indulged in a nap; but now tea appeared and there was again bustle and movement, and when Mr Aldworth entered the room presently, he was so surprised at the improvement in his wife that he scarcely knew her.“Marcia, you are a magician,” he said.“You must uphold me with regard to the girls,” said Marcia.“Of course, dear, you must uphold her. She has been explaining things to me,” said the wife. “She says that my children are exceedingly selfish.”“I have always known that,” replied Mr Aldworth, looking at his daughter.Mrs Aldworth began to frown. “I must say I think it is very unkind of you to say so; but of course you stick up for Marcia, and you abuse my poor children. That is always the way. I suppose just because Marcia’s mother thought herself a fine county lady and I—my people only in common trade, that—”“Oh, hush, Amelia,” said her husband.“Mother—dear mother!” said Marcia.Mr Aldworth backed out of the room as quickly as he could. He met his son on the stairs.“Don’t go in,” he said. “She’s as jealous as ever she can be. Like a bear with a sore head. The girls are all out enjoying themselves and Marcia is keeping guard. I must say that she makes an excellent nurse. I believe your mother will be ever so much better in a short time. She has her out on the balcony, prettily dressed, surrounded by coloured silks and all that sort of thing, and Marcia herself is looking like a picture.”“She is very handsome,” interrupted Horace. “I’ll go in and have a peep. I don’t often visit mother.”If there was a person in the whole world whom Mrs Aldworth respected, it was her stepson. She was, of course, a little bit afraid of him; she was not in the least afraid of her husband. She had led him a sorry sort of life, poor man, since he had brought her home, an exceedingly pretty, self-willed, rather vulgar little bride. Horace and Marcia had a bad time during those early days, but Marcia had a worse time than Horace, for Horace never submitted, never brooked injustice, and managed before she was a year his stepmother to turn that same little stepmother round his fingers. Marcia, luckily for herself, was sent to school when she was old enough, but Horace lived on in the house. He took up his father’s business and did well in it, and was his father’s prop and right hand.“Horace, dear,” exclaimed Marcia, when she saw her brother.Horace came out through the open window, bending his tall head to do so.“Upon my word,” he said, “this is very pleasant. How nice you look, mother, and how well. Marcia, I congratulate you.”“Horace, she has been reading me such a lecture—your poor old mother. She says that my children are so selfish.”“A most self-evident fact,” replied Horace.“Horace! You too?”“Come, mother, you must acknowledge it.”“Marcia is going to take them in hand.”“Good girl, capital!” said Horace, giving his sister a glance of approval.“Don’t you think we needn’t talk of it just now?” said Marcia. “We don’t see so much of you, Horace. Have you nothing funny to tell mother?”“I have, I have all kinds of stories. But you look tired, old girl. Run away and rest in the garden for an hour. I’ll stay with mother for just that time.”Marcia gave him a glance of real gratitude. Oh, she was tired. The invalid was difficult; the afternoon hours seemed as though they would never end.When she went back again Horace had soothed his mother into a most beatific state of bliss. She told Marcia that she was the best girl in all the world; that she would confide the entire future of her three girls to dear Marcia, that Marcia should train them, should make them noble like herself.“And I’ll tell them so: I’ll tell that naughty little Nesta to-morrow afternoon. I’ll tell her she must look after me: I’ll be firm; I’ll put down my foot,” said Mrs Aldworth.Marcia made no response. Another long hour and a half had to be got through and then the invalid was safe in bed, with all her small requirements at hand. She opened her eyes sleepily.“God bless you, Marcia dear. You are a very good girl, and the joy of my life.”
The next morning passed somehow. The girls had decided that they would send Marcia to Coventry. They had made up their minds in a solemn conclave late the night before.
“We daren’t oppose her for the present,” said Ethel, who had thought of this daring plan, “but we’ll make her life so miserable that she just won’t be able to bear it.”
“She used to be so affectionate; I remember that,” said Molly. “She was very good to me when I had the measles. She used to sit in the room and never think of herself at all.”
“She caught them afterwards, don’t you remember, horrid things?” said Nesta.
“And I don’t think I went to sit with her at all,” said Molly.
“It was rather piggish of you, wasn’t it?” said Ethel.
“Well, well; don’t rake up my old faults now. Am I not sad enough? Do you really think, Nesta and Ethel, that we had best send her to Coventry? Do you mean really to Coventry?”
“Yes; don’t let’s speak to her. We’ll try the effect for a week. We’ll do our duty, of course. We’ll go into mother’s room in turn, and we’ll give up everything for our mother’s sake, and we’ll deny ourselves, and we’ll never speak to Marcia at all. When we are at meals, if she forces us to speak, we’ll say yes and no, but that’s all, unless Horace or father is present. We’ll leave her quite to herself; she shall have her free hours, and her time for writing, and we wish her joy of it.”
This plan of action being determined on, the girls went to bed with a certain sense of consolation.
It was Ethel’s turn to spend the morning with the invalid on the following day, and she determinedly went there without a word. The effect of the Coventry system seemed at first to be but small. During breakfast that morning Marcia was absorbed in some letters she had received. She asked her father the best way to get to Hurst Castle.
“Why do you want to go there?” asked her parent.
“I have had a letter from Angela St. Just. She is most anxious to see me.”
Ethel very nearly dropped the cup of tea which she was raising to her lips.
“Angela St. Just?” she murmured under her breath. Even Mr Aldworth looked interested.
“Do you know her?” he asked.
“Of course I do; she was one of Mrs Silchester’s pupils. She wants me to go and see her, and, if I can be spared, to spend a little time there in the summer. I have had a long letter from her.”
“She was a remarkably handsome girl; I remember that,” said Mr Aldworth. “Well, to be sure, and so she was at that school.”
“You forget, father,” said Marcia, “that Mrs Silchester is Sir Edward St. Just’s sister-in-law.”
“Indeed? That is news.”
Horace made one or two remarks.
“I am glad you know her so well, Marcia, and I hope you will have a pleasant time when you go to Hurst Castle. You say Sir Edward is staying there at present?”
“Yes, with some relatives.”
“And Angela?”
“Yes, they’re going to spend some months there this summer.”
Marcia then calmly read her remaining letters and then, just nodding towards Ethel, she said:
“I think it is your turn to look after mother, dear,” and she left the room.
But just as she reached the door she came back.
“Be very careful, dear Ethel, not to allow her to sit in the sun. It is such a beautiful day that I think you might wheel her on to the balcony, where she can get some fresh air. Just do your best to make her happy. I shall be so pleased if I see her looking bright and comfortable this afternoon.”
To these remarks Ethel proudly withheld any comment Marcia, not in the least disturbed, hurried away.
“Well,” said Nesta, when her father and brother and elder sister had made themselves scarce, “she doesn’t seem to be much put out by the beginning of Coventry; does she, Molly?”
“She’s so eaten up with pride,” said Molly, “talking about her Angela St. Just and her Hurst Castle—snobbish, I call it, don’t you, Ethel?”
“I don’t know that I shouldn’t like a little bit of it myself,” replied Ethel. “You should hear how the people talk of her in the town. They don’t think anything at all of the Carters, I can tell you.”
“You have never explained what happened during your visit yesterday,” said Molly.
Marcia was passing the window. She looked in.
“It’s time you went to mother, Ethel,” she said.
Ethel rose with a crimson face.
“Hateful old prig!” she said.
“There, girls, I can’t tell you now. I’m in for a jolly time, and you’ll be amusing yourselves in the garden, and she’ll amuse herself.”
“Well, you can think of me to-morrow,” said Nesta, “giving up my walk with Florrie Griffiths. That’s what I call hard, and you and Ethel will have a jolly afternoon all to yourselves, and a jolly morning to-morrow. It’s I who am to be pitied. I don’t think I can stand it. I think I’ll run away.”
“Don’t be a goose, Netty. You know you’ll have to bear the burden as well as Miss Mule Selfish.”
“Oh, what a funny name,” said Nesta, laughing.
“Do let us call her Mule Selfish. It does sound so funny.”
Ethel, having propounded this remarkable specimen of wit, went upstairs, considerably satisfied with herself. Her post that morning was no sinecure. Mrs Aldworth was in a terrible temper, and she was really weak and ill, too. It was one of her worst days. Ethel, always clumsy, was more so than usual. The sun poured in through the open window, and when the doctor arrived he was not pleased with the appearance of the room, and told Ethel so sharply.
“You are a very bad nurse,” he said, “for all the training you’ve had. Now don’t allow that blind to be in such a condition a moment longer. Get one of the servants to come and mend it. I am exceedingly annoyed to see your mother in such an uncomfortable condition.”
Ethel was forced to go off in search of a servant. The blind was mended after a fashion; the invalid was pitied by the doctor, who ordered a fresh tonic for her. So the weary hours flew by, and at last Ethel’s task was over. She rushed downstairs. The load was lifted from her mind; she was free for a bit. She immediately asked Molly how they might spend the afternoon.
Lunch was on the table and Marcia appeared. Marcia spoke to the young lady.
“How is mother?”
“I don’t know,” said Ethel.
“You don’t know? But you have been with her all the morning.”
“The doctor called; you had better ask him.”
“She will turn at that. I would like to catch her in a rage,” thought Ethel.
Marcia did not turn. She guessed what was passing through her young sister’s mind. It would pass presently. They would take the discipline she was bringing them through presently. She was sorry for them; she loved them very dearly; but give them an indulgent life to the detriment of their characters, and to her own misery, she would not.
By-and-by lunch came to an end, and then Marcia rose.
“Now, you go to your imprisonment,” thought Molly.
Marcia went into the garden. She gathered some flowers, then went into the fruit garden and picked some very fine gooseberries. She laid them in a little basket with some leaves over them, and with the fruit and flowers in her hand, and a pretty basket containing all kinds of fancy work, she went up to the sick-room.
Mrs Aldworth could not but smile when she saw the calm face, the pretty white dress, the elegant young figure. Of course, she must scold this recalcitrant step-daughter, but it was nice to see her, and the flowers smelt so sweet, and she had just been pining for some gooseberries. Why hadn’t one of her own girls thought of it?
Marcia spent nearly an hour putting the room in order. The Venetian blind did not work; the servant had mended it badly. She soon put that straight. She then sat down opposite to Mrs Aldworth.
“Our afternoons will be our pleasantest times,” she said. “There is so much to be done in the mornings, but in the afternoons we can have long talks, and I can amuse you with some of the school-life stories. I have something quite interesting to tell you to-day, and I have brought up a book which I should like to read to you, that is, if you are inclined to listen. And, oh, mother, I think you would like this new sort of fancy work. I have got all the materials for it. It would make some charming ornamental work for the drawing room. We ought to make the drawing room pretty by the time you come back to it.”
“Oh, but I shall never come back to it,” said Mrs Aldworth.
“Indeed you will, and very soon too. I’m not going to allow you to be long in this bedroom. You will be downstairs again in a few days.”
“Never,” said Mrs Aldworth.
“Indeed you will. And anyhow we ought to have the drawing room pretty now that Molly and Ethel are out—or consider themselves so. And, mother, dear,”—Marcia’s voice assumed a new and serious tone—“I have so much to talk to you about the dear girls.”
Mrs Aldworth trembled. Now, indeed, was the moment when she ought to begin, but somehow, try as she would, she found it impossible to be cross with Marcia. Still, the memory of Molly and her wrongs, of Nesta, and the burden she was unexpectedly forced to carry, of Ethel, and her tendency to sunstroke, came over her.
“Before you say anything, I must be frank,” she said.
“Oh, yes, mother; that’s what I should like, and expect,” said Marcia, not losing any of her cheerfulness, but laying down her work and preparing herself to listen.
She did not stare as her young sisters would have done, for she knew that Mrs Aldworth hated being stared at. She only glanced now and then, and her look was full of sympathy, and there was not a trace of anger on her face.
“You really are very nice, Marcia; there’s no denying it. I do wish that in some ways—not perhaps in looks, but in some ways, that my girls were more like you. But, dear, this is it—are you not a little hard on them? They’re so young.”
“So young?” said Marcia. “Molly is eighteen. She is only two years younger than I am.”
“But you will be twenty-one in three months’ time.”
“I think, mother, if you compare birthdays, you will find that Molly will be nineteen in four months’ time. There is little more than two years between us.”
Mrs Aldworth was always irritated when opposed.
“That’s true,” she said. “But don’t quibble, Marcia; that is a very disagreeable trait in any girl, particularly when she is addressing a woman so much older than herself. The girls are younger than you, not only in years but in character.”
“That I quite corroborate,” said Marcia firmly.
“Why do you speak in that tone, as though you were finding fault with them, poor darlings, for being young and sweet and childish, and innocent?”
“Mother,” said Marcia, and now she rose from her seat and dropped on her knees by the invalid’s couch, “do you think that I really blame them for being young and innocent? But I do blame them for something else.”
“And what is that?”
“For being selfish: for thinking of themselves more than for others.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“If you will consider for a moment I think you will quite understand what I mean.”
“Marcia, my head aches; I cannot stand a long argument.”
“Nor will I give it to you. I have come back here to help you—”
“Why, of course, you were sent for for that purpose.”
Marcia felt a very fierce wave of passion rising for a moment in her heart. After all, she had her passions, her strong feelings, her idiosyncrasies. She was not tame; she was not submissive; hers was a firm, steadfast, reliable nature. Hers also was a proud and rebellious one. Nevertheless, she soon conquered the rising irritation. She knew that this bad hour would have to be lived through.
“I am glad you are talking to me quite plainly,” she said, “and I on my part will answer you in the same spirit. I have come back here not because I must, for as a matter of fact, I am my own mistress. You see, by my own dear mother’s will I have sufficient money of my own—not a great deal, but enough to support me. I can, therefore, be quite independent; and the fact that by my mother’s will I was made of age at twenty, puts all possibility of misconstruction of my meaning out of the question.”
“Marcia, you are so terribly learned; you use such long words; you talk as though you were forty. Now, my poor children—”
“Mother, you are quite a clever woman yourself, and of course you know what I mean. I have come back to help you, because I wished to—not because I was forced to do so.”
“Molly says you are terribly conceited; I am afraid she is right.”
Marcia took no notice of this.
“Although I have come back to help you, I have not come back to ruin my young sisters.”
“Now, Marcia, you really are talking the wildest nonsense.”
“Not at all. Don’t you want them to love you?”
Mrs Aldworth burst into tears.
“What a dreadful creature you are,” she said. “As though my own sweet children did not love me. Why, they’re madly devoted to me. If my little finger aches they’re in such a state—you never knew anything like it. I have seen my poor Molly obliged to rush from the room when I have been having a bad attack of my neuralgia, just because her own precious nerves could not stand the agony. Not love me? How dare you insinuate such a thing?”
“Mother, we evidently have different ideas with regard to love. My idea is this—that you ought to sacrifice yourself for the one you love. Now, if I came here and took the complete charge of you away from your own daughters; if I gave them nothing whatever to do for you, and if they were to spend their entire time amusing themselves, and not once considering you, I should do them a cruel wrong; I should injure their characters, and I should make them, what they are already inclined to be—most terribly selfish. That, God helping me, I will not do. I will share the charge of you with them, or I will return to Frankfort to Mrs Silchester, whom I love; to the life that I delight in; to the friends I have made. I will not budge an inch; I will nurse you with the girls, or not at all.”
Mrs Aldworth looked up. After all, with a captious, fretful, irritable invalid, a woman with so vacillating a nature as Mrs Aldworth’s, there was nothing so effective as firmness. She succumbed. In a minute she had flung her arms round Marcia’s neck.
“My darling,” she said, “I do see what you mean. And you are right; you will train them, you will be, in my absence, a mother to them.”
“Not a mother, for I, like them, am young; but I will be to them an elder sister, and I will teach them—not in words, but by precept and by sympathy and by love, what I should like them to learn. They want a great deal of looking after; and, first of all, they want a complete change in their method of living.”
“I am afraid even for them, and for you, I cannot quite ignore my pain, my constant suffering, my weary nights, my long, long, fatiguing days.”
“Of course you cannot, and I have said enough for the present. Now, let us have a jolly time. See, I am going to have a particularly nice tea for you this afternoon. I have told Susan to bring it up when it is ready. We’ll have it on that balcony.”
“Oh, but I shall catch cold.”
“Indeed you won’t. Do you see that shady corner, and how the scent-laden air is pervading the whole place, and the sun will be shining across the other half, and you can see a long way down the garden? I’ll sit near you and read to you when you like, out of such a funny book.”
“My taste and yours don’t agree with regard to reading,” said Mrs Aldworth, always glad to hail any interruption. “I suppose I have degenerated; I am certainly not an intellectual woman; I don’t pretend that I am. I like the stories that are in the penny papers. We get two or three of them, and we always enjoy them. Will you read me one of those?”
“No, mother.”
“Oh, how cross you are!”
“I am very sorry, mother, but I will read you something just as amusing. Did you ever hear of ‘The Reminiscences of an Irish R.M.’?”
“No, it sounds very dull.”
“Wait till you hear it. It will make you laugh a great deal more than the stories in the penny papers.”
“They make me cry a great deal. Molly reads rather badly, but yesterday I found myself weeping in the middle of the night over the woes of the poor little heroine. I am sure the next number of the paper has come in, and I am so anxious to know if she is really married to the Earl of Dorchester.”
“It will be Nesta’s turn to-morrow, and she can read to you. Now for the balcony and a pleasant time.” They had a pleasant time, and the hours flew by on wings. Marcia told stories; she laughed, she chatted, and she read a little from “The Reminiscences of an Irish R.M.” Mrs Aldworth laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks.
“Oh, rich! rich!” she exclaimed. “That scene with the dog is inimitable. How funny, how truly funny! But, Marcia, isn’t it bad for my nerves to laugh so much?”
“It’s the best thing for them in all the world.”
“Marcia, you are wonderful!”
“Now for the new fancy work,” said Marcia.
She taught the invalid a different sort of stitch from any which she had before learned. She gave her bright-coloured silks, and a piece of art cloth to embroider upon, and soon her stepmother was so fascinated that she allowed her young companion to work in silence, often raising her eyes to look across the distant garden.
The girls were spending the afternoon in the garden; but presently they went out, all three of them gaudily and badly dressed. They walked through the garden, gathered some roses, and then disappeared through a little wicket gate at the further end.
Marcia felt quite sure that they did this for the purpose of showing her how they were enjoying themselves, while she was in prison. She smiled to herself.
“Poor little things,” she thought. “I wonder how soon I shall win their hearts.”
She had marked out a plan of action for herself. She had practically secured Mrs Aldworth—not for long, of course, for Nesta would turn her round the next day, and Molly the day after. It would be a constant repetition of the battle; but in the end she would win her. The girls, of course, were different. Unselfishness must be born within them before they really did what Marcia wanted them to do. Unselfishness, brave hearts, pure spirits, noble ways.
“Two, three months should do it,” thought the girl; “then I can go back with Angela St. Just in the autumn; for she is returning to Frankfort, I know, just to be with Mrs Silchester, and I can take her back. Oh, little Angela!”
Marcia recalled the soft touch of Angela’s blooming cheek; the look in her lovely eyes; the refinement in all her bearing.
Mrs Aldworth indulged in a nap; but now tea appeared and there was again bustle and movement, and when Mr Aldworth entered the room presently, he was so surprised at the improvement in his wife that he scarcely knew her.
“Marcia, you are a magician,” he said.
“You must uphold me with regard to the girls,” said Marcia.
“Of course, dear, you must uphold her. She has been explaining things to me,” said the wife. “She says that my children are exceedingly selfish.”
“I have always known that,” replied Mr Aldworth, looking at his daughter.
Mrs Aldworth began to frown. “I must say I think it is very unkind of you to say so; but of course you stick up for Marcia, and you abuse my poor children. That is always the way. I suppose just because Marcia’s mother thought herself a fine county lady and I—my people only in common trade, that—”
“Oh, hush, Amelia,” said her husband.
“Mother—dear mother!” said Marcia.
Mr Aldworth backed out of the room as quickly as he could. He met his son on the stairs.
“Don’t go in,” he said. “She’s as jealous as ever she can be. Like a bear with a sore head. The girls are all out enjoying themselves and Marcia is keeping guard. I must say that she makes an excellent nurse. I believe your mother will be ever so much better in a short time. She has her out on the balcony, prettily dressed, surrounded by coloured silks and all that sort of thing, and Marcia herself is looking like a picture.”
“She is very handsome,” interrupted Horace. “I’ll go in and have a peep. I don’t often visit mother.”
If there was a person in the whole world whom Mrs Aldworth respected, it was her stepson. She was, of course, a little bit afraid of him; she was not in the least afraid of her husband. She had led him a sorry sort of life, poor man, since he had brought her home, an exceedingly pretty, self-willed, rather vulgar little bride. Horace and Marcia had a bad time during those early days, but Marcia had a worse time than Horace, for Horace never submitted, never brooked injustice, and managed before she was a year his stepmother to turn that same little stepmother round his fingers. Marcia, luckily for herself, was sent to school when she was old enough, but Horace lived on in the house. He took up his father’s business and did well in it, and was his father’s prop and right hand.
“Horace, dear,” exclaimed Marcia, when she saw her brother.
Horace came out through the open window, bending his tall head to do so.
“Upon my word,” he said, “this is very pleasant. How nice you look, mother, and how well. Marcia, I congratulate you.”
“Horace, she has been reading me such a lecture—your poor old mother. She says that my children are so selfish.”
“A most self-evident fact,” replied Horace.
“Horace! You too?”
“Come, mother, you must acknowledge it.”
“Marcia is going to take them in hand.”
“Good girl, capital!” said Horace, giving his sister a glance of approval.
“Don’t you think we needn’t talk of it just now?” said Marcia. “We don’t see so much of you, Horace. Have you nothing funny to tell mother?”
“I have, I have all kinds of stories. But you look tired, old girl. Run away and rest in the garden for an hour. I’ll stay with mother for just that time.”
Marcia gave him a glance of real gratitude. Oh, she was tired. The invalid was difficult; the afternoon hours seemed as though they would never end.
When she went back again Horace had soothed his mother into a most beatific state of bliss. She told Marcia that she was the best girl in all the world; that she would confide the entire future of her three girls to dear Marcia, that Marcia should train them, should make them noble like herself.
“And I’ll tell them so: I’ll tell that naughty little Nesta to-morrow afternoon. I’ll tell her she must look after me: I’ll be firm; I’ll put down my foot,” said Mrs Aldworth.
Marcia made no response. Another long hour and a half had to be got through and then the invalid was safe in bed, with all her small requirements at hand. She opened her eyes sleepily.
“God bless you, Marcia dear. You are a very good girl, and the joy of my life.”
Chapter Seven.Shirking Duty.Now Nesta was perhaps the naughtiest of the three Aldworth girls. She had been more spoiled than the others, and was naturally of a somewhat braver and more determined nature. She was fully resolved that nothing would really induce her to give up her walk with Flossie Griffiths. Flossie was her dearest friend. Between Flossie and Nesta had sprung up that sort of adoring friendship that often exists between two young girls in that period of their lives. Flossie and Nesta declared that they thought alike, that when a thought darted through the brain of one, it immediately visited the other. Every idea was in common; all their plans were made to suit the convenience of each other. Nesta used to say that Flossie was like her true sister, for her own sisters were of course absorbed in each other.“There are Molly and Ethel, they are always hugger-muggering,” she used to say. “What should I do but for my Flossie? I am quite happy because I have got my Flossie.”Therefore, to have to tell her that she could not walk with her, could not confide secrets to her, could not be so much in her company just because there was a tiresome old mother at home, who ought to be nursed by an equally tiresome elder sister, a confirmed old maid, was more than Nesta could brook. She had made up her mind, therefore, what she would do. She would not confide her scheme to her sisters, but after dinner, instead of going to her mother’s room, she would slip out of the house, rush down a side path in the garden, get into the wood, and go off to Flossie’s house. The idea had come into her venturesome brain that morning; but she was quite cautious enough to keep it to herself. She knew well that with regard to such an escapade she would have no sympathy from her elder sisters. They were highly pleased with the complete day of liberty which lay before them. They had planned it delightfully. They were resolved to ask the Carters to have tea with them in the summerhouse at the far end of the garden. They had so often been at the Carters’ house, now it would be their turn to entertain them, and they should have a right good time. They had coaxed Susan, the parlour maid, into their conspiracy, and Susan had proved herself agreeable. She said that hot cakes and several dainty sweets should be forthcoming, and that the two Miss Carters should have as good a tea as she and cook could devise between them.“But not a word to Marcia,” said Molly, “and for goodness’ sake, not a word to Nesta. She is so greedy that she would be capable of coming down and helping herself to the things in the pantry if she knew.”Nesta did know, however; for nothing ever went on in that house that she did not contrive to learn all about, but as she herself had a scheme quite ripe for action, she was determined to leave her sisters alone.“One of them will have to go to mother,” she thought, “and goodness me what a fuss there’ll be. Of course, mother can’t be left alone, and I cannot be got back in a hurry, particularly when Flossie and I’ll be out and away the very minute I get to her house. Marcia is going by train to visit that tiresome Angela St. Just. I heard her telling father so this morning. I wouldn’t be in Molly’s shoes, or in Ethel’s shoes. Yes, it will be Molly’s turn—I wouldn’t be in Molly’s shoes. Dear, dear! What fun it is! It is quite exciting, we live in a continual sort of battle, each of us dodging the others.”Nesta had to be very careful, and to keep the watchful eyes of her companions from fixing themselves too much on her face.Marcia came down to lunch that day neatly dressed, with her hat on.“Did you leave mother to put your hat on?” asked Ethel, in a vindictive tone.“No, mother helped me to dress. She was most particular. She has very good taste when she likes.”“She is everything that is good; don’t run her down to us,” said Molly.They had, it may be perceived, almost dropped the Coventry system. It was tiresome and uninteresting when nobody took any notice of it.“Nesta, dear,” said Marcia during lunch, “you will be very careful about mother. I think you are going to have a nice afternoon. I have left her so well and comfortable, and so inclined to enjoy herself.”“Oh, yes,” said Nesta.“That’s a good girl,” said Marcia. “I see by your face that you are going to make us all happy.”“I hope so,” replied Nesta.These remarks would have aroused the suspicions of Molly and Ethel on another occasion, for they would have considered them wonderfully unlike the pert Nesta; but they were absorbed by the thought of their own tea party, and took no notice.Marcia had to hurry through her lunch in order to catch her train. She told her sisters she would be back about nine o’clock that evening and went away.“Now, Nesta, it is your turn,” said Molly. “You ought to be going to mother. Do go along and make yourself scarce. Do your duty; it’s no use grumbling. She’s off now for her fill of pleasure, and we cannot get her back. Horrid, mean, spiteful old cat!”“You can’t be called Miss Mule Selfish for nothing, can you?” said Nesta.Molly laughed at this.“Doesn’t it sound funny?” she said. “I’ll tell—”She stopped herself. She was about to say that she would tell the Carters, who would keenly relish the joke.Nesta slipped out of the room. She had already secreted her hat under the stairs. It was soon on her head, and a minute or two later she had dashed down the sidewalk, passed through the wicket gate, and was away through the woods.The Griffiths lived about three-quarters of a mile away. They were not rich like the Carters, but they had a little house in the opposite suburb of the town, a little house with a fairly big garden, and with woods quite near. Flossie was an only child; she was a great pet with her father and mother, whom she contrived completely to turn round her little finger.She was standing now at the gate, waiting anxiously for the moment when her darling Nesta would arrive. She and Nesta were to go for a picnic all by themselves to a distant ruin. Flossie was to bring the eatables; Nesta knew nothing of this delectable plan, for Flossie had resolved to keep it a secret all to herself. But now, with her basket packed—that basket which contained tea, milk, sugar, various cakes, a small pot of jam, some bread, and a little pat of butter, as well as a second basket filled with ripe gooseberries—she anxiously waited for her visitor.By-and-by Nesta was seen. She was running, and looked very untidy, and not like her usually spruce self.“Dear, dear!” called out Flossie. “How do you do, Nesta? What in the world is the matter? You haven’t put on your best frock or anything.”“I’m very lucky to be here at all,” said Nesta. “For goodness’ sake don’t speak to me for a minute, until I have got back my breath. I have run all the way, and I am choking—oh, my heart will burst.”“Lean against me,” said Flossie.Nesta flung herself against her friend. Flossie was slender and dark, with very curly hair. Nesta was a large girl, built on a generous scale. When she flung herself now against poor Flossie, the latter almost staggered.“Oh, come,” said Flossie, “not quite so violent as that. Here, let us flop down under this tree. You can take your breath and tell me what it is all about.”“Oh, I can’t,” said Nesta, who was beginning to recover herself already. “We must be off as fast as possible. Oh, I have had a time of it coming to you. Goodness gracious me, whatever is that?”She pointed to the tea basket.“We’re going to Norland’s Cliff, you and I, to have tea all by ourselves. Isn’t it prime? Isn’t it golloptious?” said Flossie.“Flossie! Has your mother said you might?”“Yes, yes, of course, she has. I asked her this morning, and she said: ‘Certainly, dear.’”“But I thought there were donkey races there to-day.”“There are; but I didn’t say a word about that to mother. She never guessed. Luckily, father was out of the room. It will be much more fun going there to-day, for we’ll see the races; that is if we are quick. But I’m sure, Nesta, I did think you’d come looking a little bit smart, and you’ve got your very oldest hat on too, and that dress.”“Oh, if you’re ashamed of me,” began Nesta, tears springing to her blue eyes—they could always rise there at a moment’s warning.“I didn’t mean to hurt you, dear,” said Flossie, who was really deeply attached to her friend; “but whatever is it?”“You must take me as I am, or I’ll go home again if you like,” said Nesta. “It would be much better for me to go home. I wouldn’t get into quite such an awful row as I shall get into all for love of you, if I went home now. I’ll go if you wish. I’ll just be in time to escape the very worst of the fuss. What am I to do, dear?”“Never mind about your dress. I’d lend you something of mine, only you are twice as big.”“Well, I’ll carry this basket,” said Nesta, picking up the tea basket. “Now, do let us go; I shan’t have an easy moment until we are well out of sight of the house.”The girls walked on briskly. They had, for some time, to walk along the dusty road, but soon they came to a stile which led across some fields, delightfully green and inviting looking at this time of the year. The fields led again into a wood, and this wood, by an upland path, came at last to Norland’s Cliff. Norland’s Cliff was the highest point in that part of the country, and on this eminence had once been built by an eccentric Sir Guy Norland, a tower. He had built it as a sort of a vantage tower, in order to see as far round him as possible; but in the end, in a fit of madness, he had thrown himself from the tower, and his mangled body was found there on a certain winter’s night. Afterwards no one had gone near the tower except as a sort of show place; and it was, of course, supposed to be haunted, particularly at night, when Sir Guy Norland was said to ride round and round on horseback.But it was a beautiful summer day on the present occasion, and the girls thought of no ghosts, and when they were in the shelter of the woods Nesta began to recount her wrongs.“She has come back, the old spitfire,” she said, and she explained the whole situation.Flossie was full of commiseration.“She wanted you to give up your delightful time with me—this Saturday to which we have been looking forward for such a long time—just to sit with your mother?”“That’s it, Floss; that’s the truth, Floss. Oh, Floss, how am I to bear it?”“And you ran away then?”“Yes, I ran away, I just could do nothing else; I couldn’t give up my afternoon with you. It is all very well to talk of filial affection, but the deepest affection of my heart is given to you, Floss.”“That’s very kind of you,” said Flossie, but she did not speak with the intense rapture that Nesta expected.“Aren’t you awfully, awfully shocked about it all?” said Nesta, noticing the tone, and becoming annoyed by it.“I am dreadfully sorry that anything should have occurred to prevent your coming to me; but it does seem fair that you should sometimes be with your mother. When my darling old mothery has a headache I like to sit with her and bathe her forehead with eau de Cologne.”“Oh, that’s all very well,” said Nesta, “and so would I like to sit with my dear mothery, if she only had a headache once a month or so; but when it is every day, and all day long, and all night too, you get about tired of it.”“I expect you do,” said Flossie, who was not at all strong-minded, and was easily brought round to Nesta’s point of view. “Well, at any rate, here you are, and we’ll try and have all the fun we can. Oh, do look at those donkeys down there, and the crowd of men, and girls and boys. Isn’t it gay?”“I wonder if we can get into the tower,” said Nesta.“We must get into the tower,” remarked Flossie. “I have determined all along that we will have tea just on the very spot where Sir Guy threw himself over the wall. I know the very niche. It will seem so exciting to-night when we are dropping off to sleep. I do like to have a sort of eerie feeling when I’m in a very snug bedroom, close to my father and mother, with the door just a teeny bit open between us. I love it. I wouldn’t like it if there was anything to be frightened about, but to know that you have been close to something queer and uncanny, it makes you seem to sort of hug yourself up, don’t you know the feeling, Nesta?”“I do, and I don’t,” said Nesta. “I sleep in the room with Molly and Ethel, and we always jabber and jabber until we drop asleep. That’s what we do, but we have great fun all the same.”Flossie gave a faint sigh. They approached the tower; but to their surprise a custodian stood at the entrance and informed the two little girls that this was a very special show day, and that no one could be admitted into the tower under the large sum of twopence. Neither Nesta nor Flossie had brought a farthing with them, and they stood back, feeling dismayed.“Never mind,” said Nesta, “let us go and have tea in the wood, it will be just as good fun.”“I suppose it will; only I did want to see the donkey races. Where are the races, please?” continued Flossie, turning to the man.But here again disappointment awaited them. They would not be allowed within sight of the donkey races without paying a penny each.“I have heaps of money at home,” said Flossie, “a whole little savings bank of pennies.”“And I have half a crown which I have not broken into yet,” said Nesta. “It’s too bad.”“Well, we have an excellent tea, and it is very shady and pleasant in the woods, much better than sitting in your mother’s room, getting scolded,” said Flossie, “so do come along and let us enjoy ourselves.”
Now Nesta was perhaps the naughtiest of the three Aldworth girls. She had been more spoiled than the others, and was naturally of a somewhat braver and more determined nature. She was fully resolved that nothing would really induce her to give up her walk with Flossie Griffiths. Flossie was her dearest friend. Between Flossie and Nesta had sprung up that sort of adoring friendship that often exists between two young girls in that period of their lives. Flossie and Nesta declared that they thought alike, that when a thought darted through the brain of one, it immediately visited the other. Every idea was in common; all their plans were made to suit the convenience of each other. Nesta used to say that Flossie was like her true sister, for her own sisters were of course absorbed in each other.
“There are Molly and Ethel, they are always hugger-muggering,” she used to say. “What should I do but for my Flossie? I am quite happy because I have got my Flossie.”
Therefore, to have to tell her that she could not walk with her, could not confide secrets to her, could not be so much in her company just because there was a tiresome old mother at home, who ought to be nursed by an equally tiresome elder sister, a confirmed old maid, was more than Nesta could brook. She had made up her mind, therefore, what she would do. She would not confide her scheme to her sisters, but after dinner, instead of going to her mother’s room, she would slip out of the house, rush down a side path in the garden, get into the wood, and go off to Flossie’s house. The idea had come into her venturesome brain that morning; but she was quite cautious enough to keep it to herself. She knew well that with regard to such an escapade she would have no sympathy from her elder sisters. They were highly pleased with the complete day of liberty which lay before them. They had planned it delightfully. They were resolved to ask the Carters to have tea with them in the summerhouse at the far end of the garden. They had so often been at the Carters’ house, now it would be their turn to entertain them, and they should have a right good time. They had coaxed Susan, the parlour maid, into their conspiracy, and Susan had proved herself agreeable. She said that hot cakes and several dainty sweets should be forthcoming, and that the two Miss Carters should have as good a tea as she and cook could devise between them.
“But not a word to Marcia,” said Molly, “and for goodness’ sake, not a word to Nesta. She is so greedy that she would be capable of coming down and helping herself to the things in the pantry if she knew.”
Nesta did know, however; for nothing ever went on in that house that she did not contrive to learn all about, but as she herself had a scheme quite ripe for action, she was determined to leave her sisters alone.
“One of them will have to go to mother,” she thought, “and goodness me what a fuss there’ll be. Of course, mother can’t be left alone, and I cannot be got back in a hurry, particularly when Flossie and I’ll be out and away the very minute I get to her house. Marcia is going by train to visit that tiresome Angela St. Just. I heard her telling father so this morning. I wouldn’t be in Molly’s shoes, or in Ethel’s shoes. Yes, it will be Molly’s turn—I wouldn’t be in Molly’s shoes. Dear, dear! What fun it is! It is quite exciting, we live in a continual sort of battle, each of us dodging the others.”
Nesta had to be very careful, and to keep the watchful eyes of her companions from fixing themselves too much on her face.
Marcia came down to lunch that day neatly dressed, with her hat on.
“Did you leave mother to put your hat on?” asked Ethel, in a vindictive tone.
“No, mother helped me to dress. She was most particular. She has very good taste when she likes.”
“She is everything that is good; don’t run her down to us,” said Molly.
They had, it may be perceived, almost dropped the Coventry system. It was tiresome and uninteresting when nobody took any notice of it.
“Nesta, dear,” said Marcia during lunch, “you will be very careful about mother. I think you are going to have a nice afternoon. I have left her so well and comfortable, and so inclined to enjoy herself.”
“Oh, yes,” said Nesta.
“That’s a good girl,” said Marcia. “I see by your face that you are going to make us all happy.”
“I hope so,” replied Nesta.
These remarks would have aroused the suspicions of Molly and Ethel on another occasion, for they would have considered them wonderfully unlike the pert Nesta; but they were absorbed by the thought of their own tea party, and took no notice.
Marcia had to hurry through her lunch in order to catch her train. She told her sisters she would be back about nine o’clock that evening and went away.
“Now, Nesta, it is your turn,” said Molly. “You ought to be going to mother. Do go along and make yourself scarce. Do your duty; it’s no use grumbling. She’s off now for her fill of pleasure, and we cannot get her back. Horrid, mean, spiteful old cat!”
“You can’t be called Miss Mule Selfish for nothing, can you?” said Nesta.
Molly laughed at this.
“Doesn’t it sound funny?” she said. “I’ll tell—”
She stopped herself. She was about to say that she would tell the Carters, who would keenly relish the joke.
Nesta slipped out of the room. She had already secreted her hat under the stairs. It was soon on her head, and a minute or two later she had dashed down the sidewalk, passed through the wicket gate, and was away through the woods.
The Griffiths lived about three-quarters of a mile away. They were not rich like the Carters, but they had a little house in the opposite suburb of the town, a little house with a fairly big garden, and with woods quite near. Flossie was an only child; she was a great pet with her father and mother, whom she contrived completely to turn round her little finger.
She was standing now at the gate, waiting anxiously for the moment when her darling Nesta would arrive. She and Nesta were to go for a picnic all by themselves to a distant ruin. Flossie was to bring the eatables; Nesta knew nothing of this delectable plan, for Flossie had resolved to keep it a secret all to herself. But now, with her basket packed—that basket which contained tea, milk, sugar, various cakes, a small pot of jam, some bread, and a little pat of butter, as well as a second basket filled with ripe gooseberries—she anxiously waited for her visitor.
By-and-by Nesta was seen. She was running, and looked very untidy, and not like her usually spruce self.
“Dear, dear!” called out Flossie. “How do you do, Nesta? What in the world is the matter? You haven’t put on your best frock or anything.”
“I’m very lucky to be here at all,” said Nesta. “For goodness’ sake don’t speak to me for a minute, until I have got back my breath. I have run all the way, and I am choking—oh, my heart will burst.”
“Lean against me,” said Flossie.
Nesta flung herself against her friend. Flossie was slender and dark, with very curly hair. Nesta was a large girl, built on a generous scale. When she flung herself now against poor Flossie, the latter almost staggered.
“Oh, come,” said Flossie, “not quite so violent as that. Here, let us flop down under this tree. You can take your breath and tell me what it is all about.”
“Oh, I can’t,” said Nesta, who was beginning to recover herself already. “We must be off as fast as possible. Oh, I have had a time of it coming to you. Goodness gracious me, whatever is that?”
She pointed to the tea basket.
“We’re going to Norland’s Cliff, you and I, to have tea all by ourselves. Isn’t it prime? Isn’t it golloptious?” said Flossie.
“Flossie! Has your mother said you might?”
“Yes, yes, of course, she has. I asked her this morning, and she said: ‘Certainly, dear.’”
“But I thought there were donkey races there to-day.”
“There are; but I didn’t say a word about that to mother. She never guessed. Luckily, father was out of the room. It will be much more fun going there to-day, for we’ll see the races; that is if we are quick. But I’m sure, Nesta, I did think you’d come looking a little bit smart, and you’ve got your very oldest hat on too, and that dress.”
“Oh, if you’re ashamed of me,” began Nesta, tears springing to her blue eyes—they could always rise there at a moment’s warning.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, dear,” said Flossie, who was really deeply attached to her friend; “but whatever is it?”
“You must take me as I am, or I’ll go home again if you like,” said Nesta. “It would be much better for me to go home. I wouldn’t get into quite such an awful row as I shall get into all for love of you, if I went home now. I’ll go if you wish. I’ll just be in time to escape the very worst of the fuss. What am I to do, dear?”
“Never mind about your dress. I’d lend you something of mine, only you are twice as big.”
“Well, I’ll carry this basket,” said Nesta, picking up the tea basket. “Now, do let us go; I shan’t have an easy moment until we are well out of sight of the house.”
The girls walked on briskly. They had, for some time, to walk along the dusty road, but soon they came to a stile which led across some fields, delightfully green and inviting looking at this time of the year. The fields led again into a wood, and this wood, by an upland path, came at last to Norland’s Cliff. Norland’s Cliff was the highest point in that part of the country, and on this eminence had once been built by an eccentric Sir Guy Norland, a tower. He had built it as a sort of a vantage tower, in order to see as far round him as possible; but in the end, in a fit of madness, he had thrown himself from the tower, and his mangled body was found there on a certain winter’s night. Afterwards no one had gone near the tower except as a sort of show place; and it was, of course, supposed to be haunted, particularly at night, when Sir Guy Norland was said to ride round and round on horseback.
But it was a beautiful summer day on the present occasion, and the girls thought of no ghosts, and when they were in the shelter of the woods Nesta began to recount her wrongs.
“She has come back, the old spitfire,” she said, and she explained the whole situation.
Flossie was full of commiseration.
“She wanted you to give up your delightful time with me—this Saturday to which we have been looking forward for such a long time—just to sit with your mother?”
“That’s it, Floss; that’s the truth, Floss. Oh, Floss, how am I to bear it?”
“And you ran away then?”
“Yes, I ran away, I just could do nothing else; I couldn’t give up my afternoon with you. It is all very well to talk of filial affection, but the deepest affection of my heart is given to you, Floss.”
“That’s very kind of you,” said Flossie, but she did not speak with the intense rapture that Nesta expected.
“Aren’t you awfully, awfully shocked about it all?” said Nesta, noticing the tone, and becoming annoyed by it.
“I am dreadfully sorry that anything should have occurred to prevent your coming to me; but it does seem fair that you should sometimes be with your mother. When my darling old mothery has a headache I like to sit with her and bathe her forehead with eau de Cologne.”
“Oh, that’s all very well,” said Nesta, “and so would I like to sit with my dear mothery, if she only had a headache once a month or so; but when it is every day, and all day long, and all night too, you get about tired of it.”
“I expect you do,” said Flossie, who was not at all strong-minded, and was easily brought round to Nesta’s point of view. “Well, at any rate, here you are, and we’ll try and have all the fun we can. Oh, do look at those donkeys down there, and the crowd of men, and girls and boys. Isn’t it gay?”
“I wonder if we can get into the tower,” said Nesta.
“We must get into the tower,” remarked Flossie. “I have determined all along that we will have tea just on the very spot where Sir Guy threw himself over the wall. I know the very niche. It will seem so exciting to-night when we are dropping off to sleep. I do like to have a sort of eerie feeling when I’m in a very snug bedroom, close to my father and mother, with the door just a teeny bit open between us. I love it. I wouldn’t like it if there was anything to be frightened about, but to know that you have been close to something queer and uncanny, it makes you seem to sort of hug yourself up, don’t you know the feeling, Nesta?”
“I do, and I don’t,” said Nesta. “I sleep in the room with Molly and Ethel, and we always jabber and jabber until we drop asleep. That’s what we do, but we have great fun all the same.”
Flossie gave a faint sigh. They approached the tower; but to their surprise a custodian stood at the entrance and informed the two little girls that this was a very special show day, and that no one could be admitted into the tower under the large sum of twopence. Neither Nesta nor Flossie had brought a farthing with them, and they stood back, feeling dismayed.
“Never mind,” said Nesta, “let us go and have tea in the wood, it will be just as good fun.”
“I suppose it will; only I did want to see the donkey races. Where are the races, please?” continued Flossie, turning to the man.
But here again disappointment awaited them. They would not be allowed within sight of the donkey races without paying a penny each.
“I have heaps of money at home,” said Flossie, “a whole little savings bank of pennies.”
“And I have half a crown which I have not broken into yet,” said Nesta. “It’s too bad.”
“Well, we have an excellent tea, and it is very shady and pleasant in the woods, much better than sitting in your mother’s room, getting scolded,” said Flossie, “so do come along and let us enjoy ourselves.”