Chapter Twenty Nine.Making Sunshine All Round.It was between three and four o’clock on that same day when Angela St. Just stepped out of her pretty carriage and went up the neatly kept path which led to Mrs Johnston’s house. Mrs Johnston was not a favourite of hers, nor, for that matter, of anybody else. How Mercy, her nice little maidservant, managed her so wonderfully; how Miss Palliser, the girl who had lately been married and gone to America, had put up with her, was a marvel to most people. But then, Angela rather liked people whom others disliked, and she generally managed to give them a ray of brightness. She entered the little parlour now, and was received by the old lady with outstretched hand.“My dear, my dear! this is good,” she said. “I am so delighted, Angela; sit dawn, and tell me all about yourself.”Angela pushed back her hat and looked at old Mrs Johnston, then she said quietly:“I was determined to give you a whole hour, and here I am, and you must make the most of me, for I am leaving Castle Walworth to-day. I am going back to Hurst Castle.”“Oh, dear, what a pity. Just when I thought you’d stay here for a good while.”“I am sorry, but it can’t be helped. My friend, Marcia—you have heard me speak of Marcia.”“Of course, I have, my dear, and a wonderful young lady she is.”“Well, she is in trouble. All the Aldworths are in trouble.”“Are they indeed?” said Mrs Johnston. She could be sympathetic enough where anybody in the most remote degree connected with the St. Justs was concerned, in especial with Angela, whom she worshipped.“I am sorry for that,” she said, “if it worries you. You ought to have no worries.”“But why not? But I’m not exactly worried, only, of course, I want to help them, and I am quite sure it will all come right in the end. I feel like that about everything.”“You are a very blessed girl,” said the old lady.Angela smiled.“God is so good to me,” she said.“Well, tell me all about it—what has put you out?”“I have told you, have I not, about Mrs Aldworth? Well, you know, she is getting better. We managed to get her to Hurst Castle last week, and she is enjoying herself very much. Marcia is looking after her, and she is gradually getting more and more the use of her limbs, and a great specialist is coming from London to see her, and to give advice as to her future treatment. Everything except one now points to the possibility of a complete recovery.”“And what is the one thing, my dear?”“The one thing that is making us all so anxious is this. You know I told you that there are three young Aldworth girls. Molly is one, Ethel another, and Nesta, the third. Nesta has been very difficult and very troublesome, and the fact is she has run away.” Mrs Johnston did not know why she suddenly gave a little jump, but the next minute she said quickly:“How old is she?”“About fifteen, I think.”“Rather big for her age?”“I should say she was; she is unformed; she is rather untidy.”“Awkward, I should say. Shouldn’t you now pronounce her awkward?”“I think I should. I don’t know her very well, you see. I have only seen her once, and Marcia has told me about her. She is a very difficult girl.”“And how long is it since she left home?”“She left home last Saturday week. She ran away first to Scarborough to stay with some friends. We were all distressed about that, and we had to tell a story to Mrs Aldworth which partly satisfied her. We didn’t tell her anything that wasn’t true. We said Nesta had gone to stay with the Griffiths, and we thought it best that she should stay there for a few days. Then we got Mrs Aldworth to Hurst Castle, and she has been doing splendidly ever since. But the difficulty is that we shall have to tell her soon that we really don’t know where Nesta is. We don’t know, and we are in great trouble.”“Oh, my dear, I am sure trouble is very bad for you, you look so frail. There now, I wonder when Mercy will bring the tea.”Mrs Johnston had scarcely uttered these words before the room door was opened, and Mercy, her cheeks crimson with excitement at the greatness of the honour conferred upon her, laid a delicately prepared tea on the centre table. There was silver of the oldest and quaintest pattern; there was china thin as an eggshell; there was a little silver teapot, in short everything was perfection. There were cakes of the very lightest that Mercy’s skilful hands could make. Angela was the last person to despise such a meal; on the contrary, she received it with marked appreciation.“How delicious! How much, much nicer than the meal I should have had at Castle Walworth. Oh, how good of you, how good of you to get it for me. But you must let me pour out the tea, and give you a cup.”The radiant face, the shining eyes, the sympathetic manner, all did their work on cross old Mrs Johnston. Why couldn’t other people come in like Angela and make sunshine all round them? What was the matter with Mrs Johnston that she forgot her ailments and her crotchets, and her disagreeablenesses? She was only anxious now to please her young guest.“There now,” she said, “it is good for sair een to look at you. You have cheered me and heartened me up wonderfully. But as I was saying, troubles aren’t good for you, dear, you are fretting yourself, I’m sure.”“I am really anxious, though I know I oughtn’t to be. I am sure things will come right, I have always thought so. They do come right in the long run, but still Mrs Aldworth is so delicate, and Nesta has run away again from the people she was staying with at Scarborough.”“Well,” said Mrs Johnston, “you say you believe things will come right. I’ve not been at all of that way of thinking. I don’t pretend that I have. It has been, my idea that things were much more likely to go wrong than right. I have found it so in life. But there, what ever possessed you, in the midst of all your anxieties, to write me a little note last night and say that you would come to see me this afternoon, and that perhaps you’d come about tea time, and that perhaps Mercy would make some of her scones, for you could never forget how delicious they tasted last time? I can tell you, Miss Angela, I awoke this morning feeling as cross and as bad and as sour as an old woman could feel, for I was aching from head to foot with the rheumatism, and I was thinking how lonely it was not to have chick nor child belonging to me, and Miss Palliser, who had her faults, poor thing, but who knew my ways, gone to America, and had it not been for your note, I don’t know what I should have done, but that cheered me, and I got downstairs. But what do you think?—even with the hope of seeing you, I couldn’t help having the grumps. But to go on with my story, I was grumbling and grumbling inside me—not that I said a word, for there wasn’t any one to say it to; Mercy was in the kitchen, with her heart in her month at the thought of seeing you, and I was by the window wondering how I could pass the hours and bear the pain in my back and down my legs, when there came a loud, impertinent sort of ring at the bell of the front door, and I wondered who that could be. I heard Mercy parleying with some one in the hall, and after a bit, in she walked and said that a girl wanted to see me, and that she knew you. Oh, dear, I thought for sure she’d come to tell me that you couldn’t come, and the same thought must have been in Mercy’s mind, for her eyes looked quite dazed. So I said: ‘Mercy, show her in,’ and in she came, as awkward a creature as you could clap your eyes on. Will you believe me, my dear, she wasn’t more than half inside the room before she bumped against my little table with my precious silver ornaments, and knocked some of them over, and it was a providence that they weren’t injured. Then, she came right in front of me, and asked me if I didn’t want some one to read to me. Never was there a queerer creature. When I questioned her whether she had brought a message from you, she said she hadn’t, and that she came herself, to see me, and that she was living in Mrs Hogg’s cottage—Mary Hogg’s cottage; that widow that I have so often told you about, the one who does my washing, by the way. You may be quite sure I was pretty well excited and angry when she said that, and I sent her away double quick; but it’s my certain sure opinion that she is the very girl you are looking for. I am as sure of it as that my name is Margaret Johnston.”
It was between three and four o’clock on that same day when Angela St. Just stepped out of her pretty carriage and went up the neatly kept path which led to Mrs Johnston’s house. Mrs Johnston was not a favourite of hers, nor, for that matter, of anybody else. How Mercy, her nice little maidservant, managed her so wonderfully; how Miss Palliser, the girl who had lately been married and gone to America, had put up with her, was a marvel to most people. But then, Angela rather liked people whom others disliked, and she generally managed to give them a ray of brightness. She entered the little parlour now, and was received by the old lady with outstretched hand.
“My dear, my dear! this is good,” she said. “I am so delighted, Angela; sit dawn, and tell me all about yourself.”
Angela pushed back her hat and looked at old Mrs Johnston, then she said quietly:
“I was determined to give you a whole hour, and here I am, and you must make the most of me, for I am leaving Castle Walworth to-day. I am going back to Hurst Castle.”
“Oh, dear, what a pity. Just when I thought you’d stay here for a good while.”
“I am sorry, but it can’t be helped. My friend, Marcia—you have heard me speak of Marcia.”
“Of course, I have, my dear, and a wonderful young lady she is.”
“Well, she is in trouble. All the Aldworths are in trouble.”
“Are they indeed?” said Mrs Johnston. She could be sympathetic enough where anybody in the most remote degree connected with the St. Justs was concerned, in especial with Angela, whom she worshipped.
“I am sorry for that,” she said, “if it worries you. You ought to have no worries.”
“But why not? But I’m not exactly worried, only, of course, I want to help them, and I am quite sure it will all come right in the end. I feel like that about everything.”
“You are a very blessed girl,” said the old lady.
Angela smiled.
“God is so good to me,” she said.
“Well, tell me all about it—what has put you out?”
“I have told you, have I not, about Mrs Aldworth? Well, you know, she is getting better. We managed to get her to Hurst Castle last week, and she is enjoying herself very much. Marcia is looking after her, and she is gradually getting more and more the use of her limbs, and a great specialist is coming from London to see her, and to give advice as to her future treatment. Everything except one now points to the possibility of a complete recovery.”
“And what is the one thing, my dear?”
“The one thing that is making us all so anxious is this. You know I told you that there are three young Aldworth girls. Molly is one, Ethel another, and Nesta, the third. Nesta has been very difficult and very troublesome, and the fact is she has run away.” Mrs Johnston did not know why she suddenly gave a little jump, but the next minute she said quickly:
“How old is she?”
“About fifteen, I think.”
“Rather big for her age?”
“I should say she was; she is unformed; she is rather untidy.”
“Awkward, I should say. Shouldn’t you now pronounce her awkward?”
“I think I should. I don’t know her very well, you see. I have only seen her once, and Marcia has told me about her. She is a very difficult girl.”
“And how long is it since she left home?”
“She left home last Saturday week. She ran away first to Scarborough to stay with some friends. We were all distressed about that, and we had to tell a story to Mrs Aldworth which partly satisfied her. We didn’t tell her anything that wasn’t true. We said Nesta had gone to stay with the Griffiths, and we thought it best that she should stay there for a few days. Then we got Mrs Aldworth to Hurst Castle, and she has been doing splendidly ever since. But the difficulty is that we shall have to tell her soon that we really don’t know where Nesta is. We don’t know, and we are in great trouble.”
“Oh, my dear, I am sure trouble is very bad for you, you look so frail. There now, I wonder when Mercy will bring the tea.”
Mrs Johnston had scarcely uttered these words before the room door was opened, and Mercy, her cheeks crimson with excitement at the greatness of the honour conferred upon her, laid a delicately prepared tea on the centre table. There was silver of the oldest and quaintest pattern; there was china thin as an eggshell; there was a little silver teapot, in short everything was perfection. There were cakes of the very lightest that Mercy’s skilful hands could make. Angela was the last person to despise such a meal; on the contrary, she received it with marked appreciation.
“How delicious! How much, much nicer than the meal I should have had at Castle Walworth. Oh, how good of you, how good of you to get it for me. But you must let me pour out the tea, and give you a cup.”
The radiant face, the shining eyes, the sympathetic manner, all did their work on cross old Mrs Johnston. Why couldn’t other people come in like Angela and make sunshine all round them? What was the matter with Mrs Johnston that she forgot her ailments and her crotchets, and her disagreeablenesses? She was only anxious now to please her young guest.
“There now,” she said, “it is good for sair een to look at you. You have cheered me and heartened me up wonderfully. But as I was saying, troubles aren’t good for you, dear, you are fretting yourself, I’m sure.”
“I am really anxious, though I know I oughtn’t to be. I am sure things will come right, I have always thought so. They do come right in the long run, but still Mrs Aldworth is so delicate, and Nesta has run away again from the people she was staying with at Scarborough.”
“Well,” said Mrs Johnston, “you say you believe things will come right. I’ve not been at all of that way of thinking. I don’t pretend that I have. It has been, my idea that things were much more likely to go wrong than right. I have found it so in life. But there, what ever possessed you, in the midst of all your anxieties, to write me a little note last night and say that you would come to see me this afternoon, and that perhaps you’d come about tea time, and that perhaps Mercy would make some of her scones, for you could never forget how delicious they tasted last time? I can tell you, Miss Angela, I awoke this morning feeling as cross and as bad and as sour as an old woman could feel, for I was aching from head to foot with the rheumatism, and I was thinking how lonely it was not to have chick nor child belonging to me, and Miss Palliser, who had her faults, poor thing, but who knew my ways, gone to America, and had it not been for your note, I don’t know what I should have done, but that cheered me, and I got downstairs. But what do you think?—even with the hope of seeing you, I couldn’t help having the grumps. But to go on with my story, I was grumbling and grumbling inside me—not that I said a word, for there wasn’t any one to say it to; Mercy was in the kitchen, with her heart in her month at the thought of seeing you, and I was by the window wondering how I could pass the hours and bear the pain in my back and down my legs, when there came a loud, impertinent sort of ring at the bell of the front door, and I wondered who that could be. I heard Mercy parleying with some one in the hall, and after a bit, in she walked and said that a girl wanted to see me, and that she knew you. Oh, dear, I thought for sure she’d come to tell me that you couldn’t come, and the same thought must have been in Mercy’s mind, for her eyes looked quite dazed. So I said: ‘Mercy, show her in,’ and in she came, as awkward a creature as you could clap your eyes on. Will you believe me, my dear, she wasn’t more than half inside the room before she bumped against my little table with my precious silver ornaments, and knocked some of them over, and it was a providence that they weren’t injured. Then, she came right in front of me, and asked me if I didn’t want some one to read to me. Never was there a queerer creature. When I questioned her whether she had brought a message from you, she said she hadn’t, and that she came herself, to see me, and that she was living in Mrs Hogg’s cottage—Mary Hogg’s cottage; that widow that I have so often told you about, the one who does my washing, by the way. You may be quite sure I was pretty well excited and angry when she said that, and I sent her away double quick; but it’s my certain sure opinion that she is the very girl you are looking for. I am as sure of it as that my name is Margaret Johnston.”
Chapter Thirty.Found at last.Angela did not quite know how she got out of the house. There was some fuss and some regret on the part of Mrs Johnston, and Mercy very nearly cried, but at last she did get away. She stepped into her little carriage, and drove down the road and went straight as fast as she possibly could to Mrs Hogg’s cottage.Mrs Hogg was still busy over her washing, but she had come to the wringing stage, and the steam was not quite so thick in the kitchen, and certainly her face, flushed and tired as it was, quite beamed when she saw Angela.“Dear, dear, Miss Angela, you mustn’t come in. ’Tain’t a fit place to put your dainty, beautiful feet into, ’tain’t really, Miss.”“Will you come and speak to me here for a minute, Mrs Hogg?” said Angela, and she waited in the tiny porch.Mrs Hogg came out.“You have a girl staying with you, haven’t you?”“Oh, dear me, Miss, so I have, a young girl—I don’t know nothing about her, not even her name, nor a single thing. It was Mary, my daughter, sent her. She’s nothing but a fuss and a worry, and that touchy about her food as never was, turning up her nose at good red herring and at pease pudding, and dumplings, and what more can a poor woman give, I’d like to know?”“You are sure you don’t know her name?”“No, Miss. She’s a very queer girl.”“Is she—you understand those sort of things, Mrs Hogg—is she, in your opinion, a young lady?”“Handsome is as handsome does,” was Mrs Hogg’s rejoinder, “and to my way o’ thinking—to be frank with you—Miss, she ain’t.”This was rather a damper to Angela’s hopes, but after a minute she reflected that probably Nesta was a rough specimen of the genus Lady, and that at any rate it was her duty to follow up this clue to the end.“I should like to see her,” she said. “Where is she now?”“Oh, Miss, if I thought, even for a single moment, that she was a friend of yourn, I’d treat her very different; but all she did was to stand in the middle of my kitchen on Saturday—”“On Saturday?” said Angela.“Yes; Miss, on Saturday, and she says as bold as brass—‘Mary Hogg sent me.’ That was her; but if I’d known—”“Where is she now?” said Angela:“I gave her a bit of dinner when she came in all flustered and angry, forsooth, because poor old Mrs Johnston hadn’t been given a stroke of blindness—that seemed to put her out more than anything else. She must have a most malicious mind—that is, according to my way of thinking. Well, anyhow, Miss, I gave her a bit of dinner when she came in, and I told her to take it out and eat it. I don’t know from Adam where she is now.”“She would go, perhaps, into the country?”“Well, Miss, perhaps she would. Would you like Ben and Dan to go along and look for her!”“I wish they would,” said Angela.Ben and Dan were rotated out of their lairs in the back part of the premises, and were only too charmed to do Angela’s bidding. They flew off, fleet as a pair of little hares, down the shady lanes, looking in vain for Nesta.But it was Angela herself who at last found her. She had decided not to drive in her carriage, for the sound of wheels, and the rhythmic beat of the ponies’ feet might startle the girl, and if she really meant to hide, might make her hide all the more securely. No, she would walk. So she gathered up her white skirt and walked down the summer lanes. By-and-by she thought she heard a noise which was different from the song of the birds, and the rushing of the waters, and the varied hum of innumerable bees. She stood quite still. It was the sound of distress, it was a sob, and the sob seemed to come from the throat of a girl. Angela stepped very softly. She went over the long grass and came to a tree, and at the foot of that tree lay a girl, her face downward, her whole figure shaken with sobs. Angela laid her hand on her.“Why, Nesta!” she said. “How silly of Nesta to be afraid.”The words were so unexpected that Nesta jumped to her feet; then covered her face, then flung herself face downwards again and sobbed more piteously than ever.“I have found you, Nesta, and nobody is going to be in the least bit angry with you. May I sit by you for a little?”“You are Miss St. Just—you are the person everybody worships and makes a fuss over. I don’t want you. Go away.”“I am sorry you don’t want me, but I am not going away. I am going to stay by you; may I?”Nesta could not refuse. Angela sat down. Ben and Dan peeped their round childish faces over the top of the hedge and saw Angela sitting by Nesta’s side.“Hooray!” said Ben.“Hurroa!” said Dan.Angela turned.“Go back to your mother, boys. Here is a penny for you, Dan, and another for you, Ben. Go back to your mother, and say that I have found my friend, Miss Nesta Aldworth, and am taking her back to Castle Walworth.”This was a most awe-inspiring message; the boys, young as they were, understood some of its grand import. They rushed presently into their mother’s cottage.“You be a little flat, mammy!” they said. “Why, the gel you give red herrings to, and no butter, is a friend of our Miss Angela’s.”“The Lord forgive me!” said Mrs Hogg, and she forgot all about her washing, and sat down on the first chair she could find, and let her broad toil-worn hands spread themselves out one on each knee.“The Lord forgive me!” she said at intervals.Ben was deeply touched. He went and bought some fruit with his penny and pressed it on his mother, but she scarcely seemed to see it.“To think as I complained to her of robbing me of half my rightful bedclothes,” was her next remark. “May I see myself in my true light in the future. How could I tell? HowcouldI tell?”But down by the stream a very different scene was being enacted; for Angela, having given her message to the boys, did not say anything more for a long time. Nesta waited for her to speak. At first Nesta was angry at being, as she expressed it, caught. She had not that worshipful attitude towards Angela St. Just that all the other girls of the neighbourhood seemed to feel. She rather despised her, and did not at all wish to be in her company. But then that was because she had never before been in close contact with Angela. But now that Angela gave that remarkable message, that respect-restoring message to the boys, it seemed to Nesta that a healing balm, sweet as honey itself, had been poured over her troubled heart. She could not help liking it; she could not help reflecting over it. A friend of Angela’s, and she was to go back with her to Castle Walworth.After a little she raised her head again and peeped at her companion. How pretty Angela looked in her white dress, with her perfect little profile, the dark lashes partly shading her cheeks. She was looking down; she was thinking. Her lips were moving. Perhaps she was a real angel—perhaps she was praying. Very much the same sort of feeling as she had inspired in the breast of Penelope Carter, began now to dawn in that of Nesta, and yet Nesta had a far harder and more difficult nature than Penelope. All the same Nesta was touched. She reflected on the difference between herself and this young lady, and yet Angela had spoken of her as her friend. Then suddenly, she did not know why—Nesta touched Angela on the arm. The moment she did this Angela turned. Quick as thought her soft eyes looked full into Nesta’s face.“Oh, you poor child, you poor child!” she said, and then she swept her arms round the girl and kissed her several times on her cheek.“Now, Nesta,” she said, “we won’t ask you for any motives. I am not going to put a single question to you, but I want you just to come straight back with me to the Castle. I will tell you after dinner what I am going to do next; but there is no scolding, nothing of that sort, you are just to come back with me.”“Am I?” said Nesta. “I can’t believe it.”“You will believe it when you see it. Come, we must be quick, it is getting late.”She took Nesta’s hand and led her down the road. There was the pretty carriage, there were the ponies with the silver bells; there was the smartly dressed little groom.“Harold, get up behind,” said Angela, “I am in a great hurry to get back to Castle Walworth.”Nesta found herself seated beside Angela, and quick as thought, it seemed to her, they were flashing through the summer air, past Mrs Hogg’s cottage, where the boys, Ben and Dan, raised the loudest and heartiest “Hooray!” and “Hurroa!” that Angela had ever heard. The ponies pricked up their ears at the sound, and flew faster than ever, up the village high street, past the station, and up and up, a little slower now, the steep hill where Nesta and Mary Hogg had walked side by side; then through the portcullis, and into the courtyard of the castle.Then indeed a new shyness came over Nesta. It was like a troubled, hopeless, despairing sinner, so she thought, being led into heaven by an angel.“I’m not fit—I’m not really,” she said, and she tugged at Angela’s hand, as if she would refuse to go in.“Oh, you are fit enough,” said Angela, “you are my friend.”When they got inside, Angela said something to a man who was standing near in livery, and then they went down a passage, where they met no one, up some low steps, along another passage and then a door was flung open, and Angela and Nesta entered. They entered a pretty bedroom, furnished as Nesta had never seen a bedroom before. Angela went up to a girl who was sitting by the window sewing.“Clements,” she said, “this is my friend. I want you to put her into one of my pretty dresses, so that she may come down to dinner with me. Attend to her and see to everything she wants; she will sleep here to-night. This room leads out of my room, dear,” she said, giving Nesta another smiling glance, and then she left her.Clements dressed Nesta in white, and she would have thought on another occasion that she had never looked so nice. But she was really past thinking of how she looked, for somehow Angela’s treatment was awaking something different within her, something which had never, even on that night when her mother was so terribly ill, been truly awakened before. She looked humble and very sad when Angela came back to her.“You look quite sweet,” said Angela, giving her a kiss. “Come along downstairs. By the way, I have sent a telegram to Marcia to tell her that you are all right, and that I am bringing you back to-morrow.”“Home?” said Nesta.“Well, to your mother. That will make you happy, won’t it?”“Mothery!” said Nesta, and there was a lump in her throat.“I’ll tell you all about it after dinner. I have excellent news for you,” said Angela.At another time that dinner, eaten in the company of people whom Nesta had never even dreamed about before, might have confused her, but she was past being confused now. She had a curious sensation, however, that the rich and delicately cooked food provided for the guests at Castle Walworth was as little to her taste as fried herrings and pease pudding at Mrs Hogg’s cottage. There was a heavy weight about her heart; she could scarcely raise her eyes to look at any one. Angela seemed to know all that, for after dinner she took her away, and out in the cool garden in the shadows of the summer night she talked to Nesta as no one had ever talked to her before.
Angela did not quite know how she got out of the house. There was some fuss and some regret on the part of Mrs Johnston, and Mercy very nearly cried, but at last she did get away. She stepped into her little carriage, and drove down the road and went straight as fast as she possibly could to Mrs Hogg’s cottage.
Mrs Hogg was still busy over her washing, but she had come to the wringing stage, and the steam was not quite so thick in the kitchen, and certainly her face, flushed and tired as it was, quite beamed when she saw Angela.
“Dear, dear, Miss Angela, you mustn’t come in. ’Tain’t a fit place to put your dainty, beautiful feet into, ’tain’t really, Miss.”
“Will you come and speak to me here for a minute, Mrs Hogg?” said Angela, and she waited in the tiny porch.
Mrs Hogg came out.
“You have a girl staying with you, haven’t you?”
“Oh, dear me, Miss, so I have, a young girl—I don’t know nothing about her, not even her name, nor a single thing. It was Mary, my daughter, sent her. She’s nothing but a fuss and a worry, and that touchy about her food as never was, turning up her nose at good red herring and at pease pudding, and dumplings, and what more can a poor woman give, I’d like to know?”
“You are sure you don’t know her name?”
“No, Miss. She’s a very queer girl.”
“Is she—you understand those sort of things, Mrs Hogg—is she, in your opinion, a young lady?”
“Handsome is as handsome does,” was Mrs Hogg’s rejoinder, “and to my way o’ thinking—to be frank with you—Miss, she ain’t.”
This was rather a damper to Angela’s hopes, but after a minute she reflected that probably Nesta was a rough specimen of the genus Lady, and that at any rate it was her duty to follow up this clue to the end.
“I should like to see her,” she said. “Where is she now?”
“Oh, Miss, if I thought, even for a single moment, that she was a friend of yourn, I’d treat her very different; but all she did was to stand in the middle of my kitchen on Saturday—”
“On Saturday?” said Angela.
“Yes; Miss, on Saturday, and she says as bold as brass—‘Mary Hogg sent me.’ That was her; but if I’d known—”
“Where is she now?” said Angela:
“I gave her a bit of dinner when she came in all flustered and angry, forsooth, because poor old Mrs Johnston hadn’t been given a stroke of blindness—that seemed to put her out more than anything else. She must have a most malicious mind—that is, according to my way of thinking. Well, anyhow, Miss, I gave her a bit of dinner when she came in, and I told her to take it out and eat it. I don’t know from Adam where she is now.”
“She would go, perhaps, into the country?”
“Well, Miss, perhaps she would. Would you like Ben and Dan to go along and look for her!”
“I wish they would,” said Angela.
Ben and Dan were rotated out of their lairs in the back part of the premises, and were only too charmed to do Angela’s bidding. They flew off, fleet as a pair of little hares, down the shady lanes, looking in vain for Nesta.
But it was Angela herself who at last found her. She had decided not to drive in her carriage, for the sound of wheels, and the rhythmic beat of the ponies’ feet might startle the girl, and if she really meant to hide, might make her hide all the more securely. No, she would walk. So she gathered up her white skirt and walked down the summer lanes. By-and-by she thought she heard a noise which was different from the song of the birds, and the rushing of the waters, and the varied hum of innumerable bees. She stood quite still. It was the sound of distress, it was a sob, and the sob seemed to come from the throat of a girl. Angela stepped very softly. She went over the long grass and came to a tree, and at the foot of that tree lay a girl, her face downward, her whole figure shaken with sobs. Angela laid her hand on her.
“Why, Nesta!” she said. “How silly of Nesta to be afraid.”
The words were so unexpected that Nesta jumped to her feet; then covered her face, then flung herself face downwards again and sobbed more piteously than ever.
“I have found you, Nesta, and nobody is going to be in the least bit angry with you. May I sit by you for a little?”
“You are Miss St. Just—you are the person everybody worships and makes a fuss over. I don’t want you. Go away.”
“I am sorry you don’t want me, but I am not going away. I am going to stay by you; may I?”
Nesta could not refuse. Angela sat down. Ben and Dan peeped their round childish faces over the top of the hedge and saw Angela sitting by Nesta’s side.
“Hooray!” said Ben.
“Hurroa!” said Dan.
Angela turned.
“Go back to your mother, boys. Here is a penny for you, Dan, and another for you, Ben. Go back to your mother, and say that I have found my friend, Miss Nesta Aldworth, and am taking her back to Castle Walworth.”
This was a most awe-inspiring message; the boys, young as they were, understood some of its grand import. They rushed presently into their mother’s cottage.
“You be a little flat, mammy!” they said. “Why, the gel you give red herrings to, and no butter, is a friend of our Miss Angela’s.”
“The Lord forgive me!” said Mrs Hogg, and she forgot all about her washing, and sat down on the first chair she could find, and let her broad toil-worn hands spread themselves out one on each knee.
“The Lord forgive me!” she said at intervals.
Ben was deeply touched. He went and bought some fruit with his penny and pressed it on his mother, but she scarcely seemed to see it.
“To think as I complained to her of robbing me of half my rightful bedclothes,” was her next remark. “May I see myself in my true light in the future. How could I tell? HowcouldI tell?”
But down by the stream a very different scene was being enacted; for Angela, having given her message to the boys, did not say anything more for a long time. Nesta waited for her to speak. At first Nesta was angry at being, as she expressed it, caught. She had not that worshipful attitude towards Angela St. Just that all the other girls of the neighbourhood seemed to feel. She rather despised her, and did not at all wish to be in her company. But then that was because she had never before been in close contact with Angela. But now that Angela gave that remarkable message, that respect-restoring message to the boys, it seemed to Nesta that a healing balm, sweet as honey itself, had been poured over her troubled heart. She could not help liking it; she could not help reflecting over it. A friend of Angela’s, and she was to go back with her to Castle Walworth.
After a little she raised her head again and peeped at her companion. How pretty Angela looked in her white dress, with her perfect little profile, the dark lashes partly shading her cheeks. She was looking down; she was thinking. Her lips were moving. Perhaps she was a real angel—perhaps she was praying. Very much the same sort of feeling as she had inspired in the breast of Penelope Carter, began now to dawn in that of Nesta, and yet Nesta had a far harder and more difficult nature than Penelope. All the same Nesta was touched. She reflected on the difference between herself and this young lady, and yet Angela had spoken of her as her friend. Then suddenly, she did not know why—Nesta touched Angela on the arm. The moment she did this Angela turned. Quick as thought her soft eyes looked full into Nesta’s face.
“Oh, you poor child, you poor child!” she said, and then she swept her arms round the girl and kissed her several times on her cheek.
“Now, Nesta,” she said, “we won’t ask you for any motives. I am not going to put a single question to you, but I want you just to come straight back with me to the Castle. I will tell you after dinner what I am going to do next; but there is no scolding, nothing of that sort, you are just to come back with me.”
“Am I?” said Nesta. “I can’t believe it.”
“You will believe it when you see it. Come, we must be quick, it is getting late.”
She took Nesta’s hand and led her down the road. There was the pretty carriage, there were the ponies with the silver bells; there was the smartly dressed little groom.
“Harold, get up behind,” said Angela, “I am in a great hurry to get back to Castle Walworth.”
Nesta found herself seated beside Angela, and quick as thought, it seemed to her, they were flashing through the summer air, past Mrs Hogg’s cottage, where the boys, Ben and Dan, raised the loudest and heartiest “Hooray!” and “Hurroa!” that Angela had ever heard. The ponies pricked up their ears at the sound, and flew faster than ever, up the village high street, past the station, and up and up, a little slower now, the steep hill where Nesta and Mary Hogg had walked side by side; then through the portcullis, and into the courtyard of the castle.
Then indeed a new shyness came over Nesta. It was like a troubled, hopeless, despairing sinner, so she thought, being led into heaven by an angel.
“I’m not fit—I’m not really,” she said, and she tugged at Angela’s hand, as if she would refuse to go in.
“Oh, you are fit enough,” said Angela, “you are my friend.”
When they got inside, Angela said something to a man who was standing near in livery, and then they went down a passage, where they met no one, up some low steps, along another passage and then a door was flung open, and Angela and Nesta entered. They entered a pretty bedroom, furnished as Nesta had never seen a bedroom before. Angela went up to a girl who was sitting by the window sewing.
“Clements,” she said, “this is my friend. I want you to put her into one of my pretty dresses, so that she may come down to dinner with me. Attend to her and see to everything she wants; she will sleep here to-night. This room leads out of my room, dear,” she said, giving Nesta another smiling glance, and then she left her.
Clements dressed Nesta in white, and she would have thought on another occasion that she had never looked so nice. But she was really past thinking of how she looked, for somehow Angela’s treatment was awaking something different within her, something which had never, even on that night when her mother was so terribly ill, been truly awakened before. She looked humble and very sad when Angela came back to her.
“You look quite sweet,” said Angela, giving her a kiss. “Come along downstairs. By the way, I have sent a telegram to Marcia to tell her that you are all right, and that I am bringing you back to-morrow.”
“Home?” said Nesta.
“Well, to your mother. That will make you happy, won’t it?”
“Mothery!” said Nesta, and there was a lump in her throat.
“I’ll tell you all about it after dinner. I have excellent news for you,” said Angela.
At another time that dinner, eaten in the company of people whom Nesta had never even dreamed about before, might have confused her, but she was past being confused now. She had a curious sensation, however, that the rich and delicately cooked food provided for the guests at Castle Walworth was as little to her taste as fried herrings and pease pudding at Mrs Hogg’s cottage. There was a heavy weight about her heart; she could scarcely raise her eyes to look at any one. Angela seemed to know all that, for after dinner she took her away, and out in the cool garden in the shadows of the summer night she talked to Nesta as no one had ever talked to her before.
Chapter Thirty One.The Best of them All.“It is all too wonderful,” said Nesta.“Yes, isn’t it?” replied Penelope.“To think,” continued Nesta, “that I should like it, that I should even on the whole be quite pleased.”“As to me,” said Penelope, “I can scarcely contain myself. It is all on account of her, too. In fact, it is on account of both of them. They are both coming, you know.”“Oh, it is mostly on account of her, as far as I am concerned,” said Nesta.As Nesta spoke Penelope looked at her.“You certainly are very much changed,” she said. “I wouldn’t know you for the same girl.”“And I wouldn’t know you for the same girl,” retorted Nesta. “You seem to be sort of—sort of watching yourself all the time.”Penelope smiled. She slipped her hand through Nesta’s arm.“Let us walk up and down,” she said.The girls disappeared out of a low French window, and paced slowly up the shrubbery at Court Prospect. When they came to the end of the shrubbery they crossed the lawn and stood for a few moments just where they could get a peep into what had been the rose garden. That old-world garden where Angela used to walk when she was a child, and where her mother had walked before her. When they reached this spot, Penelope said very slowly:“Do you know, Nesta, it was here, just here, she found me. Here on the ground.”“Were you really just here?” said Nesta.“I was, and I was about as miserable a girl as could be found in the wide world. I told you all about it, didn’t I?”“Oh, yes, and we needn’t go into it now, need we?”“We need never talk of it any more. It is buried away deep; even God has forgotten it, at least, that is what Angela says.”“I was a thousand times worse than you,” said Nesta, “and Angela says—by the way she found me, too, lying on the grass—I was sobbing bitterly. I had cause to sob, I was just fifty times as wicked as you. But we needn’t talk of that now.”“Of course not,” replied Penelope, “for as Angela says, if God has forgotten, nobody else need mind.”“But it is strange,” continued Nesta, “how different you are.”“And how different you are, Nesta, so we both understand each other.”They walked a little further, and then they turned. Wonderful things had happened since that day only two short months ago, when Angela St. Just had found Nesta sobbing her heart out on the banks of the pretty little river Tarn, which flowed not far from Castle Walworth.Amongst many remarkable things Mrs Aldworth had been restored to comparative health. The great specialist who had come down from London on purpose to see her, declared that all the treatment she had hitherto undergone was wrong. He had suggested a course of electricity, which really had a miraculous effect. It strengthened her nerves and seemed to build up her whole system. Mrs Aldworth was so well that it was no longer in the least necessary for her to be confined to her bedroom. She had remained at Hurst Castle for over six weeks, and a fortnight ago had started for the continent with Molly, and Ethel, and Nurse Davenant as her companions. This was Angela’s suggestion. Angela thought that Mrs Aldworth and the girls would really enjoy a little tour in Normandy and Brittany, and afterwards they might go further south. To Mrs Aldworth it seemed like a glimpse of heaven, and Molly and Ethel were in raptures at the thought of their new dresses, and their new surroundings, and had gone off with the cheers and good will of every one concerned.The final arrangement of all was that Nesta and Penelope were to go for a year to that excellent school at Frankfort, which Mrs Silchester presided over. Marcia was to go back again to her beloved occupation, and Angela was to spend the winter with them. Thus, indeed, was everythingcouleur de rose.“For my part,” said Nesta, as she continued to talk to her companion, “I can’t imagine how I could ever take up with that common girl, Flossie Griffiths.”“Angela says that no one is common, that if we look deep enough we shall find something to love and to care for in every human being,” said Penelope. “I never used to think so, and if any one had said that sort of thing to me some time ago, I should have set that person down as a prig, but somehow when Angela says it, I don’t seem to mind a bit. It seems to come all right. Isn’t it quite wonderful?”“Yes, she is like no one else,” said Nesta.But just as this moment, when they were both talking and wondering what the future would bring forth, and what golden hopes would be realised, and how many good resolutions carried into effect, there was seen crossing the lawn a stout little woman and a girl walking by her side. This person was no other than Mrs Griffiths, of Scarborough fame. Just for the moment Nesta held back. She had not seen Mrs Griffiths, and had not heard a single word from Flossie since the day she had left Scarborough. Mrs Griffiths had not even acknowledged the letter in which Nesta had returned the half-sovereign.“Oh, there they come, and I don’t one bit want to meet them,” said Nesta to Penelope.But Mrs Griffiths quickly waddled forward.“Now, my dear Nesta, this is just wonderful. I am glad to see you again. Do you remember the shrimps and the wading, and how we bathed on a certain morning that shall be nameless?”Nesta coloured and glanced at Penelope. Flossie, without taking any notice of Nesta, went straight up to Penelope.“Well,” she said, “and how are you? What is all this fuss about? Why should you, who hoped to be a grand lady, go off to a dull German school? I am sure I should hate it.”“I don’t,” said Penelope. “I like it very much.”“Nesta,” said Mrs Griffiths, “just come along and have a walk with me all alone.”Nesta was forced to comply.“Is it true,” said Mrs Griffiths, in an awe-struck tone, “that you are hand in glove with those aristocratic St. Justs?”“I am not,” said Nesta, who with all her faults was very downright. “Only Angela, one of the family, has been very kind to me, more than kind. She wouldn’t have noticed me but for Marcia, dear Marcia. I owe it all to her.”“To your sister Marcia, that priggish girl, the old maid of the family as you used to call her? Miss Mule Selfish?”Mrs Griffiths laughed.“I did roar over that name,” she said. “I told Griffiths about it, and I thought he wouldn’t never stop laughing. He said it was the best and very smartest thing he had ever heard any girl say. It was you who gave it, wasn’t it?”“I did; I am horrible sorry, for she isn’t Miss Mule Selfish at all. The name fits me best,” said Nesta.“Oh, my word,” said Mrs Griffiths. “How queer you are. You are much changed; I doubt if you are improved. Flossie, come along here this minute.”Flossie ran forward.“What do you think Nesta calls herself now?”“What?” said Flossie, who was not specially inclined to be friendly.“Why, she says she was all wrong about that fine-lady sister of hers, and that she herself is Miss Mule Selfish.”“Very likely,” said Flossie. “I always did think Nesta a remarkably selfish girl, even when she was supposed to be my great friend. Mother, have you told her?”“No,” said Mrs Griffiths, “I have been asking her about herself. She is going to the German school, and she seems quite pleased.”“Yes, I am delighted,” said Nesta.“Well then, you may as well tell her now,” said Flossie.“It’s this,” said Mrs Griffiths, slightly mincing her words and speaking in a rather affected tone, “that Floss and I are going to London, for father—we always call him father, don’t we, Floss?—that is Mr Griffiths, you know, has got a splendid opening there, and he is taking a very fine house in Bayswater, and we are to live there, and Flossie will have masters for music and dancing, and she will come out presently, and perhaps make a great match, for I am given to understand that the men admire her very much, with her black eyes and her rosy cheeks.”“Oh, don’t,” said Flossie, flushing, it is true, but at the same time flashing her eyes with a delighted glance from Nesta to Penelope. “We’ll be very rich in the future,” she said, in a modest tone, and then she dropped her eyes.There was a dead pause for a minute or two.“Father has been having some luck lately,” said Mrs Griffiths, “and so perhaps he’ll ride over the heads even of the grand Aldworths, and even of you Carters, although you do own a fine place like Court Prospect.”“We are very glad,” said Nesta.“I thought, perhaps,” said Flossie, “it would be best to say that seeing the change in my circumstances, I wish to have nothing more to do with you, Nesta Aldworth.”“It seems unkind,” said Mrs Griffiths. “I didn’t much like coming up here to say it, but Flossie was determined.”“It was father and I who settled it last night,” said Flossie. “I spoke to him about it, and he said that such a very deceitful girl could have nothing to do with me in the future; so this is good-bye. I wish you well, of course. I would not wish my worst enemy anything but well, but whatever happens in the future I cannot know you.”“Very well; of course I am sorry. I know I behaved like a perfect horror,” said Nesta.“You say that!” cried Flossie. There was a queer look in her black eyes. She fully expected that Nesta would make a scene and get, in short, into one of her celebrated tantrums; but Nesta’s eyes kept on being sorry, and Penelope said:“Oh, don’t let’s talk about disagreeables. If we are all happy in our own way, why should we nag and jar at one another? Do come into the house, Mrs Griffiths, and have some tea, and if father is anywhere round I’ll ask him to have a chat with you. I am sure he will be delighted to hear that Mr Griffiths had made a lot of money.”“Not so much made, my dear,” said Mrs Griffiths, going on in front with Penelope, “but in the making. That’s it—it’s in the making. We are likely to be richer and richer. Father is so excited you can scarcely hold him in bounds. But there, my dear, there. I am sorry Flossie is so rude, but the child’s head is turned by her fine prospects.”When they got near the house Nesta turned and looked at Flossie.“So you are never going to speak to me again, even though—”“Well?” said Flossie.“Even though we were such friends always.”“You never really loved me; I don’t believe it a bit,” was Flossie’s response. “Did you, now?”“I think I did,” said Nesta; “in a horribly selfish way perhaps.”“Well, you were fairly generous, that I will say,” continued Flossie, “with regard to your yellow-boy. Anyhow, I’ll try to think kindly of you. Take a kiss and we’ll say no more about it.”Nesta thought that to kiss Flossie at that moment was one of the hardest things she had to do. But then she was doing a great many hard things just then, and she found as life went on that she had to go on doing hard things, harder and harder each day; a fault to be struggled with each day, a lesson to be learnt, for hers was by no means an easy character. She was not naturally amiable; she was full of self-will, pride, and obstinacy; but nevertheless, that sweet germ of love which Angela had planted in her heart that day down by the river, kept on growing and growing, sometimes, it is true, very nearly nipped by the frosts of that wintry side of her nature, or scorched by the tempests of her violent passions, but nevertheless, the fires of summer, and the frosts of winter could not quite destroy it, for it was watered by something higher than anything Nesta could herself impart to it.“Nesta is the best of them all,” said Marcia, a long time afterwards to Angela, “and she owes it to you.”“No,” said Angela, “she owes it to God.”The End.
“It is all too wonderful,” said Nesta.
“Yes, isn’t it?” replied Penelope.
“To think,” continued Nesta, “that I should like it, that I should even on the whole be quite pleased.”
“As to me,” said Penelope, “I can scarcely contain myself. It is all on account of her, too. In fact, it is on account of both of them. They are both coming, you know.”
“Oh, it is mostly on account of her, as far as I am concerned,” said Nesta.
As Nesta spoke Penelope looked at her.
“You certainly are very much changed,” she said. “I wouldn’t know you for the same girl.”
“And I wouldn’t know you for the same girl,” retorted Nesta. “You seem to be sort of—sort of watching yourself all the time.”
Penelope smiled. She slipped her hand through Nesta’s arm.
“Let us walk up and down,” she said.
The girls disappeared out of a low French window, and paced slowly up the shrubbery at Court Prospect. When they came to the end of the shrubbery they crossed the lawn and stood for a few moments just where they could get a peep into what had been the rose garden. That old-world garden where Angela used to walk when she was a child, and where her mother had walked before her. When they reached this spot, Penelope said very slowly:
“Do you know, Nesta, it was here, just here, she found me. Here on the ground.”
“Were you really just here?” said Nesta.
“I was, and I was about as miserable a girl as could be found in the wide world. I told you all about it, didn’t I?”
“Oh, yes, and we needn’t go into it now, need we?”
“We need never talk of it any more. It is buried away deep; even God has forgotten it, at least, that is what Angela says.”
“I was a thousand times worse than you,” said Nesta, “and Angela says—by the way she found me, too, lying on the grass—I was sobbing bitterly. I had cause to sob, I was just fifty times as wicked as you. But we needn’t talk of that now.”
“Of course not,” replied Penelope, “for as Angela says, if God has forgotten, nobody else need mind.”
“But it is strange,” continued Nesta, “how different you are.”
“And how different you are, Nesta, so we both understand each other.”
They walked a little further, and then they turned. Wonderful things had happened since that day only two short months ago, when Angela St. Just had found Nesta sobbing her heart out on the banks of the pretty little river Tarn, which flowed not far from Castle Walworth.
Amongst many remarkable things Mrs Aldworth had been restored to comparative health. The great specialist who had come down from London on purpose to see her, declared that all the treatment she had hitherto undergone was wrong. He had suggested a course of electricity, which really had a miraculous effect. It strengthened her nerves and seemed to build up her whole system. Mrs Aldworth was so well that it was no longer in the least necessary for her to be confined to her bedroom. She had remained at Hurst Castle for over six weeks, and a fortnight ago had started for the continent with Molly, and Ethel, and Nurse Davenant as her companions. This was Angela’s suggestion. Angela thought that Mrs Aldworth and the girls would really enjoy a little tour in Normandy and Brittany, and afterwards they might go further south. To Mrs Aldworth it seemed like a glimpse of heaven, and Molly and Ethel were in raptures at the thought of their new dresses, and their new surroundings, and had gone off with the cheers and good will of every one concerned.
The final arrangement of all was that Nesta and Penelope were to go for a year to that excellent school at Frankfort, which Mrs Silchester presided over. Marcia was to go back again to her beloved occupation, and Angela was to spend the winter with them. Thus, indeed, was everythingcouleur de rose.
“For my part,” said Nesta, as she continued to talk to her companion, “I can’t imagine how I could ever take up with that common girl, Flossie Griffiths.”
“Angela says that no one is common, that if we look deep enough we shall find something to love and to care for in every human being,” said Penelope. “I never used to think so, and if any one had said that sort of thing to me some time ago, I should have set that person down as a prig, but somehow when Angela says it, I don’t seem to mind a bit. It seems to come all right. Isn’t it quite wonderful?”
“Yes, she is like no one else,” said Nesta.
But just as this moment, when they were both talking and wondering what the future would bring forth, and what golden hopes would be realised, and how many good resolutions carried into effect, there was seen crossing the lawn a stout little woman and a girl walking by her side. This person was no other than Mrs Griffiths, of Scarborough fame. Just for the moment Nesta held back. She had not seen Mrs Griffiths, and had not heard a single word from Flossie since the day she had left Scarborough. Mrs Griffiths had not even acknowledged the letter in which Nesta had returned the half-sovereign.
“Oh, there they come, and I don’t one bit want to meet them,” said Nesta to Penelope.
But Mrs Griffiths quickly waddled forward.
“Now, my dear Nesta, this is just wonderful. I am glad to see you again. Do you remember the shrimps and the wading, and how we bathed on a certain morning that shall be nameless?”
Nesta coloured and glanced at Penelope. Flossie, without taking any notice of Nesta, went straight up to Penelope.
“Well,” she said, “and how are you? What is all this fuss about? Why should you, who hoped to be a grand lady, go off to a dull German school? I am sure I should hate it.”
“I don’t,” said Penelope. “I like it very much.”
“Nesta,” said Mrs Griffiths, “just come along and have a walk with me all alone.”
Nesta was forced to comply.
“Is it true,” said Mrs Griffiths, in an awe-struck tone, “that you are hand in glove with those aristocratic St. Justs?”
“I am not,” said Nesta, who with all her faults was very downright. “Only Angela, one of the family, has been very kind to me, more than kind. She wouldn’t have noticed me but for Marcia, dear Marcia. I owe it all to her.”
“To your sister Marcia, that priggish girl, the old maid of the family as you used to call her? Miss Mule Selfish?”
Mrs Griffiths laughed.
“I did roar over that name,” she said. “I told Griffiths about it, and I thought he wouldn’t never stop laughing. He said it was the best and very smartest thing he had ever heard any girl say. It was you who gave it, wasn’t it?”
“I did; I am horrible sorry, for she isn’t Miss Mule Selfish at all. The name fits me best,” said Nesta.
“Oh, my word,” said Mrs Griffiths. “How queer you are. You are much changed; I doubt if you are improved. Flossie, come along here this minute.”
Flossie ran forward.
“What do you think Nesta calls herself now?”
“What?” said Flossie, who was not specially inclined to be friendly.
“Why, she says she was all wrong about that fine-lady sister of hers, and that she herself is Miss Mule Selfish.”
“Very likely,” said Flossie. “I always did think Nesta a remarkably selfish girl, even when she was supposed to be my great friend. Mother, have you told her?”
“No,” said Mrs Griffiths, “I have been asking her about herself. She is going to the German school, and she seems quite pleased.”
“Yes, I am delighted,” said Nesta.
“Well then, you may as well tell her now,” said Flossie.
“It’s this,” said Mrs Griffiths, slightly mincing her words and speaking in a rather affected tone, “that Floss and I are going to London, for father—we always call him father, don’t we, Floss?—that is Mr Griffiths, you know, has got a splendid opening there, and he is taking a very fine house in Bayswater, and we are to live there, and Flossie will have masters for music and dancing, and she will come out presently, and perhaps make a great match, for I am given to understand that the men admire her very much, with her black eyes and her rosy cheeks.”
“Oh, don’t,” said Flossie, flushing, it is true, but at the same time flashing her eyes with a delighted glance from Nesta to Penelope. “We’ll be very rich in the future,” she said, in a modest tone, and then she dropped her eyes.
There was a dead pause for a minute or two.
“Father has been having some luck lately,” said Mrs Griffiths, “and so perhaps he’ll ride over the heads even of the grand Aldworths, and even of you Carters, although you do own a fine place like Court Prospect.”
“We are very glad,” said Nesta.
“I thought, perhaps,” said Flossie, “it would be best to say that seeing the change in my circumstances, I wish to have nothing more to do with you, Nesta Aldworth.”
“It seems unkind,” said Mrs Griffiths. “I didn’t much like coming up here to say it, but Flossie was determined.”
“It was father and I who settled it last night,” said Flossie. “I spoke to him about it, and he said that such a very deceitful girl could have nothing to do with me in the future; so this is good-bye. I wish you well, of course. I would not wish my worst enemy anything but well, but whatever happens in the future I cannot know you.”
“Very well; of course I am sorry. I know I behaved like a perfect horror,” said Nesta.
“You say that!” cried Flossie. There was a queer look in her black eyes. She fully expected that Nesta would make a scene and get, in short, into one of her celebrated tantrums; but Nesta’s eyes kept on being sorry, and Penelope said:
“Oh, don’t let’s talk about disagreeables. If we are all happy in our own way, why should we nag and jar at one another? Do come into the house, Mrs Griffiths, and have some tea, and if father is anywhere round I’ll ask him to have a chat with you. I am sure he will be delighted to hear that Mr Griffiths had made a lot of money.”
“Not so much made, my dear,” said Mrs Griffiths, going on in front with Penelope, “but in the making. That’s it—it’s in the making. We are likely to be richer and richer. Father is so excited you can scarcely hold him in bounds. But there, my dear, there. I am sorry Flossie is so rude, but the child’s head is turned by her fine prospects.”
When they got near the house Nesta turned and looked at Flossie.
“So you are never going to speak to me again, even though—”
“Well?” said Flossie.
“Even though we were such friends always.”
“You never really loved me; I don’t believe it a bit,” was Flossie’s response. “Did you, now?”
“I think I did,” said Nesta; “in a horribly selfish way perhaps.”
“Well, you were fairly generous, that I will say,” continued Flossie, “with regard to your yellow-boy. Anyhow, I’ll try to think kindly of you. Take a kiss and we’ll say no more about it.”
Nesta thought that to kiss Flossie at that moment was one of the hardest things she had to do. But then she was doing a great many hard things just then, and she found as life went on that she had to go on doing hard things, harder and harder each day; a fault to be struggled with each day, a lesson to be learnt, for hers was by no means an easy character. She was not naturally amiable; she was full of self-will, pride, and obstinacy; but nevertheless, that sweet germ of love which Angela had planted in her heart that day down by the river, kept on growing and growing, sometimes, it is true, very nearly nipped by the frosts of that wintry side of her nature, or scorched by the tempests of her violent passions, but nevertheless, the fires of summer, and the frosts of winter could not quite destroy it, for it was watered by something higher than anything Nesta could herself impart to it.
“Nesta is the best of them all,” said Marcia, a long time afterwards to Angela, “and she owes it to you.”
“No,” said Angela, “she owes it to God.”
The End.
|Chapter 1| |Chapter 2| |Chapter 3| |Chapter 4| |Chapter 5| |Chapter 6| |Chapter 7| |Chapter 8| |Chapter 9| |Chapter 10| |Chapter 11| |Chapter 12| |Chapter 13| |Chapter 14| |Chapter 15| |Chapter 16| |Chapter 17| |Chapter 18| |Chapter 19| |Chapter 20| |Chapter 21| |Chapter 22| |Chapter 23| |Chapter 24| |Chapter 25| |Chapter 26| |Chapter 27| |Chapter 28| |Chapter 29| |Chapter 30| |Chapter 31|