Chapter Twenty Two.Wrong Set Right.Mr Carter hurried home about six o’clock. He had spent a busy day in Newcastle, and had gone through a few worries. He took the worries of life hard. He was exacting on all nice points of honour, and one of his clerks had deceived him. His mind, therefore, was especially sore as he sank back in the luxurious carriage which was to convey him back to Court Prospect. Halfway back he also remembered the affair of the sovereign. The loss of the sovereign was a mere nothing, but the fact that one of his dependents could steal from a private purse kept in one of his drawers, meant a great deal.“Of course, it’s that girl,” he thought. “She’s as bad in her way as young Hanson is in his. I am sorry for them both, of course, but as I said to Hanson, if he had told me that he was in money difficulties, I would have helped him out; but instead of that he thought he’d help himself. Well, he has helped himself out of my service for ever; that’s plain, that’s only justice, and that girl, Betty Wren, if she doesn’t confess, she’ll go the same road; I vow it, and I’m a man who never yet broke my word.”But as he got nearer to the house, more pleasurable thoughts succeeded the dismal ones. There was Jim—his eldest son, his pride, his boy. He had had a business letter from Jim that morning which had not arrived at Court Prospect, but had been sent to his father’s big offices in Newcastle, and in that letter it turned out that Jim had done splendidly. He had acted with tact and diplomacy, and would soon be back again.“Won’t I give him a good time for this?” thought the father. “He is a lad to be proud of. Hullo, though, who’s that?”He had turned into the avenue now; the horses were going under the beautiful beech trees at a spanking trot, and a girl was coming slowly to meet him.“Why, if that isn’t my own Pen,” he said.He was so amazed and startled that he pulled the check string, and the carriage stopped.“Hullo, Pen!” he said. “What in the name of wonder are you doing here? What is the matter? Here, jump in, child.”Pen obeyed.“I want you, father,” she spoke in a tremulous voice—“I want you to come into the study the very minute you get home. I have something to say to you.”Mr Carter turned round and gazed at Pen in surprise.“Have you been ill?” he asked. “Why didn’t you go with the others to Whitby?”“I’ll tell you when we get in the study.”He looked at her again, and a frown came between his brows. He did not know why he was suddenly reminded of young Hanson and of Betty Wren, but he was. Oh, of course it was all nonsense, his little Pen—and yet she kept her face averted.Presently they reached the house. Her father helped her out of the carriage.“Now, come along, child,” he said with a sort of gentle roughness. “I guess by your manner that you have got into a bit of a scrape. I cannot make out what it is, but you are right to come to the old father; the old father will help you, if he can. What on earth are you trembling for?”“Oh, come at once to the study, father.”Pen pulled him along. He was tired, he had gone through a hard day; he wanted his customary cup of tea; he wanted to go into the garden and talk to Archer. He loved his garden, he enjoyed counting his peaches and gloating over his fruit trees, and considering how he could make more and more money out of the old place. He was terribly keen about money making. He was interested in money, it was a power, and he meant to have it whatever else he failed in.But there was Pen, why had she not gone with the others to Whitby? Something ailed her; she was his youngest. He was fonder of Penelope than of any of his other children, except Jim. Jim, of course, was altogether on a different platform; there was no one like Jim in the world. It was worth struggling hard to make a fortune for a boy like Jim.So he hurried as fast as Pen could wish, and presently she burst open the door of his study. There, standing by the window, was the white-robed vision which had so startled, so stirred, so moved Pen herself a few hours ago. The white vision came forward slowly, and Mr Carter looked with dazzled eyes at the girl he most wished to know, Angela St. Just. She was in his study, she was coming to meet him.“I must introduce myself,” she said. “You have, of course, met my father in business matters, Mr Carter, but I want to see you on quite a different subject.”“Miss St. Just,” said the startled man.“Yes, I am Angela St. Just, Penelope’s friend.”Mr Carter turned and looked at Pen as though he suddenly loved her passionately.“Penelope’s friend; and I trust I may be able to help her through a rather difficult matter.”“Now, what in the name of fortune does this mean?” said Mr Carter. “You here, Miss St. Just, you here in your old home, when they said that neither you nor your father could abide to come near the place, and yet you are here! What does it mean? I don’t understand.”“Penelope will explain,” said Angela very gently. Then Penelope came forward. She made a valiant struggle, and after a minute or two some words came to her lips.“Clay says that perhaps you will kill me. I don’t think you can forgive me. Father, it was I who took that sovereign out of your purse—the purse you always put money in to pay the men’s wages. I took it in the middle of the week, father.”Mr Carter had forgotten Angela by this time. What was this—what was the matter? He was so absorbed, so stunned by Pen’s words that he could scarcely contain himself. He made one step forward, seized her hand, drew her to the light.“What?” he said. “Say those words again.”“I took your sovereign.”“You—you, my child, stole my money!”Angela now moved slowly across the room and put her hand on Pen’s shoulder.“She is very, very sorry,” said Angela. “She feels heartbroken; she failed just in the one thing, she had not the courage to confess. But because you discovered the theft she would not go to Whitby to-day; she was determined to stay and brave it out.”“And she came,” said Pen, “and she told me that I ought to tell you.”There was no word about Jim. Pen had determined that Jim was to be left out of the matter.But just at that moment there was a noise in the hall, a hurried step, a cheerful tone, and Jim himself burst into the room.“Oh, father! You here, Pen? Oh, my darling, I am ever so sorry! Father, I forgot all about it in the other excitement, but it’s all right, it’s all right. We’re all right, everything is all right, and—and Pen told me. I said I would speak to you, but when you sent me away in such a hurry, I forgot, and Pen, I suppose she was frightened. Pen, can you forgive me?”“Then you never got my letter?” said Pen. “I sent it to the Holroyds’, I knew you were there.”Mr Carter looked troubled. He went up and took Jim’s hand.“I am ever so puzzled,” he said. “I accused that girl, Betty Wren, and it seems—but tell me the whole story, Pen. I must hear it from beginning to end. Then I shall be able to decide.”So Pen told him the story. Angela stood very gravely by. She stood a little bit in the background, and the shadow of the great curtain partly concealed her face, but the light of evening fell across her white dress, so that her whole appearance was like that of a pitying angel, who was waiting for the moment when the sinner was to be forgiven. Mr Carter looked from one of his children to the other, then at Angela.“You have pretty high ideas of honour,” he said. “You know what this sort of thing means. Now, tell me what you would do if you were in my shoes.”“There is no doubt whatever about what you will do,” said Angela.“You think, don’t you—I believe saints always do—that sin ought to be punished.”“We have the Divine Example,” said Angela in a low tone.Mr Carter looked at her.“You said a strange thing a minute ago; you said you were Penelope’s friend,” he remarked.“So I am, from this day forward, as long as we both live.”“You are in rare luck,” said Carter, looking gloomily at Pen, “to have a friend like that.” He walked to the other end of the room and began to stride up and down. He was hurt beyond anything he could have imagined. What was he to do? How was he to endure his own misery? It was bad enough to have a servant in the house who could be dishonest, bad enough to have a clerk who could steal, but here was his own child.“Did I ever deny you anything?” he said.“No, father.”“Couldn’t you come to me and ask me for the money?”“I was so terrified and afraid—oh, I have no excuse.”“That is it,” said Angela. “She has no excuse whatever. It is not a case of excuse, it is a case of a girl having done wrong, and being bitterly sorry, and having confessed her fault. Now you come in, sir.”“I come in, pray?” he said.He forgot that the speaker was Miss St. Just, she was just a girl addressing him. But there was wonderful power in her voice.“Of course you come in. What would God do in such a case?”Carter turned away.“Oh, father, you will, you will forgive me.”“I come in, forsooth!” said the man. “I, who made a fool of myself this morning, and told that poor girl that she certainly had done it, but that if she confessed I would forgive her!”“Then there is a similar case,” said Angela. “Penelope has confessed, so you ought to forgive her.”“I don’t know—I don’t know,” he said.“Oh, father, mayn’t I bring Betty down, and may I tell her that I was the real thief?”“No good in that, child. No good in making it public.”“Of course, father, you’ll have to forgive Pen,” said Jim’s sturdy young voice at that moment.“If you wish it, Jim—if you wish it, of course there is nothing more to be said. What do you feel about it? You have metal in you; you’re made of the right stuff. What do you feel about this matter?”“I feel that I have never loved Pen more than I do at this moment. I never was so proud of her. She has grit in her, she is worth all the rest of us, to my way of thinking.”“No, that is not so; but if you wish it, Jim, and you, Miss St. Just.”“I do wish it,” said Angela.“Then I will say nothing more. Pen, I am disappointed; I am bitterly hurt, but I will say nothing more.”He took the child’s hand, held it for a minute, looked into her face, and said:“Why, I do believe you have suffered, you poor bit of a thing.”Then he abruptly kissed her on her forehead and left the room.
Mr Carter hurried home about six o’clock. He had spent a busy day in Newcastle, and had gone through a few worries. He took the worries of life hard. He was exacting on all nice points of honour, and one of his clerks had deceived him. His mind, therefore, was especially sore as he sank back in the luxurious carriage which was to convey him back to Court Prospect. Halfway back he also remembered the affair of the sovereign. The loss of the sovereign was a mere nothing, but the fact that one of his dependents could steal from a private purse kept in one of his drawers, meant a great deal.
“Of course, it’s that girl,” he thought. “She’s as bad in her way as young Hanson is in his. I am sorry for them both, of course, but as I said to Hanson, if he had told me that he was in money difficulties, I would have helped him out; but instead of that he thought he’d help himself. Well, he has helped himself out of my service for ever; that’s plain, that’s only justice, and that girl, Betty Wren, if she doesn’t confess, she’ll go the same road; I vow it, and I’m a man who never yet broke my word.”
But as he got nearer to the house, more pleasurable thoughts succeeded the dismal ones. There was Jim—his eldest son, his pride, his boy. He had had a business letter from Jim that morning which had not arrived at Court Prospect, but had been sent to his father’s big offices in Newcastle, and in that letter it turned out that Jim had done splendidly. He had acted with tact and diplomacy, and would soon be back again.
“Won’t I give him a good time for this?” thought the father. “He is a lad to be proud of. Hullo, though, who’s that?”
He had turned into the avenue now; the horses were going under the beautiful beech trees at a spanking trot, and a girl was coming slowly to meet him.
“Why, if that isn’t my own Pen,” he said.
He was so amazed and startled that he pulled the check string, and the carriage stopped.
“Hullo, Pen!” he said. “What in the name of wonder are you doing here? What is the matter? Here, jump in, child.”
Pen obeyed.
“I want you, father,” she spoke in a tremulous voice—“I want you to come into the study the very minute you get home. I have something to say to you.”
Mr Carter turned round and gazed at Pen in surprise.
“Have you been ill?” he asked. “Why didn’t you go with the others to Whitby?”
“I’ll tell you when we get in the study.”
He looked at her again, and a frown came between his brows. He did not know why he was suddenly reminded of young Hanson and of Betty Wren, but he was. Oh, of course it was all nonsense, his little Pen—and yet she kept her face averted.
Presently they reached the house. Her father helped her out of the carriage.
“Now, come along, child,” he said with a sort of gentle roughness. “I guess by your manner that you have got into a bit of a scrape. I cannot make out what it is, but you are right to come to the old father; the old father will help you, if he can. What on earth are you trembling for?”
“Oh, come at once to the study, father.”
Pen pulled him along. He was tired, he had gone through a hard day; he wanted his customary cup of tea; he wanted to go into the garden and talk to Archer. He loved his garden, he enjoyed counting his peaches and gloating over his fruit trees, and considering how he could make more and more money out of the old place. He was terribly keen about money making. He was interested in money, it was a power, and he meant to have it whatever else he failed in.
But there was Pen, why had she not gone with the others to Whitby? Something ailed her; she was his youngest. He was fonder of Penelope than of any of his other children, except Jim. Jim, of course, was altogether on a different platform; there was no one like Jim in the world. It was worth struggling hard to make a fortune for a boy like Jim.
So he hurried as fast as Pen could wish, and presently she burst open the door of his study. There, standing by the window, was the white-robed vision which had so startled, so stirred, so moved Pen herself a few hours ago. The white vision came forward slowly, and Mr Carter looked with dazzled eyes at the girl he most wished to know, Angela St. Just. She was in his study, she was coming to meet him.
“I must introduce myself,” she said. “You have, of course, met my father in business matters, Mr Carter, but I want to see you on quite a different subject.”
“Miss St. Just,” said the startled man.
“Yes, I am Angela St. Just, Penelope’s friend.”
Mr Carter turned and looked at Pen as though he suddenly loved her passionately.
“Penelope’s friend; and I trust I may be able to help her through a rather difficult matter.”
“Now, what in the name of fortune does this mean?” said Mr Carter. “You here, Miss St. Just, you here in your old home, when they said that neither you nor your father could abide to come near the place, and yet you are here! What does it mean? I don’t understand.”
“Penelope will explain,” said Angela very gently. Then Penelope came forward. She made a valiant struggle, and after a minute or two some words came to her lips.
“Clay says that perhaps you will kill me. I don’t think you can forgive me. Father, it was I who took that sovereign out of your purse—the purse you always put money in to pay the men’s wages. I took it in the middle of the week, father.”
Mr Carter had forgotten Angela by this time. What was this—what was the matter? He was so absorbed, so stunned by Pen’s words that he could scarcely contain himself. He made one step forward, seized her hand, drew her to the light.
“What?” he said. “Say those words again.”
“I took your sovereign.”
“You—you, my child, stole my money!”
Angela now moved slowly across the room and put her hand on Pen’s shoulder.
“She is very, very sorry,” said Angela. “She feels heartbroken; she failed just in the one thing, she had not the courage to confess. But because you discovered the theft she would not go to Whitby to-day; she was determined to stay and brave it out.”
“And she came,” said Pen, “and she told me that I ought to tell you.”
There was no word about Jim. Pen had determined that Jim was to be left out of the matter.
But just at that moment there was a noise in the hall, a hurried step, a cheerful tone, and Jim himself burst into the room.
“Oh, father! You here, Pen? Oh, my darling, I am ever so sorry! Father, I forgot all about it in the other excitement, but it’s all right, it’s all right. We’re all right, everything is all right, and—and Pen told me. I said I would speak to you, but when you sent me away in such a hurry, I forgot, and Pen, I suppose she was frightened. Pen, can you forgive me?”
“Then you never got my letter?” said Pen. “I sent it to the Holroyds’, I knew you were there.”
Mr Carter looked troubled. He went up and took Jim’s hand.
“I am ever so puzzled,” he said. “I accused that girl, Betty Wren, and it seems—but tell me the whole story, Pen. I must hear it from beginning to end. Then I shall be able to decide.”
So Pen told him the story. Angela stood very gravely by. She stood a little bit in the background, and the shadow of the great curtain partly concealed her face, but the light of evening fell across her white dress, so that her whole appearance was like that of a pitying angel, who was waiting for the moment when the sinner was to be forgiven. Mr Carter looked from one of his children to the other, then at Angela.
“You have pretty high ideas of honour,” he said. “You know what this sort of thing means. Now, tell me what you would do if you were in my shoes.”
“There is no doubt whatever about what you will do,” said Angela.
“You think, don’t you—I believe saints always do—that sin ought to be punished.”
“We have the Divine Example,” said Angela in a low tone.
Mr Carter looked at her.
“You said a strange thing a minute ago; you said you were Penelope’s friend,” he remarked.
“So I am, from this day forward, as long as we both live.”
“You are in rare luck,” said Carter, looking gloomily at Pen, “to have a friend like that.” He walked to the other end of the room and began to stride up and down. He was hurt beyond anything he could have imagined. What was he to do? How was he to endure his own misery? It was bad enough to have a servant in the house who could be dishonest, bad enough to have a clerk who could steal, but here was his own child.
“Did I ever deny you anything?” he said.
“No, father.”
“Couldn’t you come to me and ask me for the money?”
“I was so terrified and afraid—oh, I have no excuse.”
“That is it,” said Angela. “She has no excuse whatever. It is not a case of excuse, it is a case of a girl having done wrong, and being bitterly sorry, and having confessed her fault. Now you come in, sir.”
“I come in, pray?” he said.
He forgot that the speaker was Miss St. Just, she was just a girl addressing him. But there was wonderful power in her voice.
“Of course you come in. What would God do in such a case?”
Carter turned away.
“Oh, father, you will, you will forgive me.”
“I come in, forsooth!” said the man. “I, who made a fool of myself this morning, and told that poor girl that she certainly had done it, but that if she confessed I would forgive her!”
“Then there is a similar case,” said Angela. “Penelope has confessed, so you ought to forgive her.”
“I don’t know—I don’t know,” he said.
“Oh, father, mayn’t I bring Betty down, and may I tell her that I was the real thief?”
“No good in that, child. No good in making it public.”
“Of course, father, you’ll have to forgive Pen,” said Jim’s sturdy young voice at that moment.
“If you wish it, Jim—if you wish it, of course there is nothing more to be said. What do you feel about it? You have metal in you; you’re made of the right stuff. What do you feel about this matter?”
“I feel that I have never loved Pen more than I do at this moment. I never was so proud of her. She has grit in her, she is worth all the rest of us, to my way of thinking.”
“No, that is not so; but if you wish it, Jim, and you, Miss St. Just.”
“I do wish it,” said Angela.
“Then I will say nothing more. Pen, I am disappointed; I am bitterly hurt, but I will say nothing more.”
He took the child’s hand, held it for a minute, looked into her face, and said:
“Why, I do believe you have suffered, you poor bit of a thing.”
Then he abruptly kissed her on her forehead and left the room.
Chapter Twenty Three.Nesta Lost Again.The Aldworths were in a state of confusion. Mrs Aldworth was anxious; Nurse Davenant was keeping the worst from her, but nevertheless she was anxious. Molly and Ethel were so firmly desired on no account to give themselves away, that they were absolutely excluded from the room. They were loud in their denunciations of Nesta.“Catch old Nesta getting herself into trouble,” they said. “She has just gone off on one of her sprees.”That was their first idea, but when they went to the Griffiths’ house, as the most likely place for the naughty Nesta to have taken herself to, and were greeted by the news that Mr, Mrs, and Miss Griffiths had started for Scarborough that morning, and that certainly no one else had gone with them, their ideas were somewhat shaken; they really did not know what to think. What was to be done? There was Mrs Aldworth wanting Nesta, and asking for her from time to time.“Where is the child?” she said.Now, Mrs Aldworth was herself, with her own delicate fingers, making a new blouse for Nesta. It was a very pretty one, of delicate pink silk, with embroidery trimming it all round the neck and round the pretty fancy sleeves. Mrs Aldworth wanted to try it on, and there was no Nesta to be found. The other girls were slighter than Nesta, who was a very buxom young woman for her years.What was the matter? What was to be done? Still she was not seriously alarmed, for Marcia managed to keep her mind at rest. Nesta was out, she would be in soon.But when lunch time came, and no Nesta appeared, Marcia sent a hurried line to Angela to tell her that she might, after all, not be able to go to Hurst Castle that day. She certainly would not leave the Aldworths while they were in anxiety.Angela had replied that she was coming into Newcastle, and would go and pay the Carters a visit. She would wait for Marcia, and take her back.It was late that evening when Angela did call for Marcia. She drew up her little pony carriage outside the door; she had driven all the way from Hurst Castle, but the ponies were fresh from their long rest in the old Court Prospect stables. Angela waited in the porch.“I won’t come in to-night,” she said to Susan. “Just go up and say that Miss St. Just is waiting.”Marcia came down. Her face was very pale.“Oh, my dear Angela,” she said. “Whatever will you think of me? What is to be done? I have spent such a miserable day. We are all most anxious.”“What?” said Angela, “haven’t you found the truant yet?”“No; we have searched high and low, all over the place. We don’t want to alarm people. We could, of course, send a telegram to father and Horace, but we don’t want to do that.”“She is evidently a very naughty girl,” said Angela.“I am afraid she is; she is terribly self-willed,” said Marcia with a sigh.“I’m not a scrap uneasy about her,” said Angela. “She is quite certain to have taken care of herself. But what frets me is that you are looking so white, dear. You want your holiday so badly.”“I can’t really go with you to-night; I am ever so sorry, Angela, but it is quite impossible.”“Then let me stay and help you.”“Oh, I can’t do that!” but Marcia’s eyes expressed a longing.“Now, why shouldn’t I stay?” said Angela. “I have always longed to see Mrs Aldworth. You might bring me up to her, mightn’t you?”“I wonder if I dare?”“Of course, you can, dear. Have I ever tired or frightened any one in the whole course of my life?”“You have been so shamefully neglected, dear, and what will your father say?”“I’ll send him a wire telling him not to expect us to-night. Or, better still, I’ll send the carriage home with a note. He’ll get it just when he is expecting me, and he will be quite contented in his mind.”“Well, then, if you will, you can share my room.”“Certainly,” said Angela lightly.“You have been a long time at the Carters’,” said Marcia.“Yes, I have had a most interesting time.”“Your first visit to your old home.”“I hadn’t much time to think of that, and I’m glad it is over. I shall go there very often. What nice young people the Carters are.”Marcia opened her eyes.“The two I saw—Jim and Penelope.”“Penelope—yes, there is a good deal in that child.”“I am her friend; I will tell you presently something, but not all, about her. I am truly glad I went to-day. Now, if only I can help you.”“You can, you shall; I think God must have sent you.”Marcia and her friend entered the house. They went into the library, where Marcia ordered a meal for Angela, and then went upstairs. Molly and Ethel were ready to dart upon her in the passage.“What a long time you’ve been. Mother is beginning to cry. She says that Nesta has deserted her shamefully. We daren’t say that she is not in the house. I was thinking,” continued Molly, “of making up a little story, and saying that she was in her bedroom with a headache; mother couldn’t be very anxious about that, could she?”“You mustn’t make up any such story. It wouldn’t be right.”“Marcia, you are so over particular. Of course, you are not going to Hurst Castle to-night.”“I am not.”“Is Miss St. Just very sorry?”“She is rather; but by the way, Molly, you might help me; Miss St. Just is spending the night here.”“Good gracious!” said Ethel, drawing herself up. “Yes; won’t you two go down and have a chat with her? I wish you would. She is going to see mother presently. I think she will do mother a lot of good. Anyhow, she is staying, and I must make up my mind what is to be done about Nesta. If there are no tidings of her within the next hour or so, I must send a telegram to father.”“We must make ourselves smart, first,” said Ethel, turning to Molly.“I suppose so,” answered Molly.They both went into their bedroom, the nice room which Marcia had prepared for them, and considered.“My white dress,” said Molly—“oh, but there’s that horrid stain on it. I got it yesterday.”“Our pink muslins are quite fresh; we look very nice in pink, and two dressed alike have always a good effect,” was Ethel’s suggestion.Accordingly the pink muslins were donned, the raffled but pretty hair was put into immaculate order, and the girls, their hearts beating a little, went downstairs to entertain their distinguished guest. Of course, she was distinguished. But she was going to stay in their house—she was to be with them for a whole long, beautiful night. How lovely! They could look at her and study her, and furtively copy her little ways, her little graciousnesses, her easy manners, her politeness, which never descended to familiarity, and yet put people immediately at their ease. And better still, they could talk to their friends about her and about what had occurred. When those upstart, disagreeable Carters came back, what a crow they would have over them.They were both in good spirits and forgot Nesta. Nesta was nothing but a trouble-the-house. She would turn up when she pleased. She deserved a sound whipping, and an early putting to bed; that was what she deserved.Molly entered the room first; Ethel followed behind. Susan had lit a lamp, and the drawing room looked fairly comfortable. Angela was standing by the open window. She turned when she saw the girls and came forward to meet them.“We’re so pleased and proud to know you,” began Molly.“You are Molly, of course—orareyou Molly?” said Angela, glancing from one girl to the other.“We’re awfully alike, you know,” laughed Molly, “aren’t we, Ethel? Yes, I am Molly, and this is Ethel. We’re not twins, but there’s only about a year between us. We’re very glad to know you. Have you heard much about us?”“Of course I have, from Marcia, my greatest friend.” Molly’s eyes were fixed in fascinated wonder and open admiration on her distinguished guest. There was something intangible about Angela, something quite impossible to define; she was made for adoration; she was made for a sort of worship. Girls could never feel about her in the ordinary way. These girls certainly did not. They looked at one another, and then looked back again at Angela.“Are you tired? Are you really going to stay the night here?” said Molly at last.“I will sit down if you don’t mind. No, I am not tired.”“But you look so pale.”“I am always pale; I never remember having a scrap of colour in my life.”“I think pale people look so interesting,” said Ethel. “I wish Molly and I were pale; but we flush up so when we are excited. I know I shall have scarlet cheeks in a minute or two.”“That is because we are so glad to see you,” said Molly.“That is a very pretty compliment,” laughed Angela. “But although I’m not tired, I shouldn’t mind going up to Marcia’s room just to wash my hands and take my hat off.”“We’ll both take you,” said Molly.They were immensely flattered; they were highly pleased. Angela ran upstairs as though she were another girl Aldworth, and had known the place all her days. Marcia’s room was immaculately neat, but it was shabbily furnished; it was one of the poorest rooms in the house. Molly earnestly wished that she could have introduced her guest into her own room.“I wonder,” she said suddenly, “where you are going to sleep to-night?”“With Marcia; she said so.”“Oh, but her bed is so small, you would not be comfortable. We’d be ever so pleased if you—”“But I prefer to sleep with Marcia, and this room is quite nice.”Molly ran to fetch hot water, and Ethel remembered that she had a silver brush and comb which she always kept for visits which seldom occurred. She rushed away to fetch it. Angela brushed her hair, washed her hands, said that she felt as though she had been living with the Aldworths for years, and ran downstairs again.“How nice you are,” said Molly; “we don’t feel now as though we were afraid of you.”“Afraid of me,” said Angela. “Why should you be that?”“Only, somehow, you belong to a better set.”“Please, don’t talk nonsense,” said Angela, with the first note of wounded dignity in her voice. “I have come here to make myself useful. Can I be useful?”“It is so delightful to have you—”“That’s not the point; can I be useful?”Molly looked puzzled.“We’ll have supper presently,” she said. “I’ll go and speak to Susan. I’ll be back in a minute.”She turned away. Of course, Angela could not be useful—the mere thought was profanation. She had come there to be waited on, to be worshipped, to be looked at, to be adored, Angela St. Just, the most beautiful, the most aristocratic girl in the entire neighbourhood!Ethel drew nearer to Angela.“I have been at Court Prospect to-day,” said Angela.“Why, that was your old place.”“It was.”“Did you find it much changed—bourgeois, and all that?” said Ethel.“Nothing could really change the old place to me; but I would rather not talk of what the Carters have done.”“I am sure it must have given you profound agony,” said Ethel.Angela faintly coloured, and then she said:“Tell me about your little sister, the one about whom you are so anxious.”“Oh, Nesta! Nesta’s all right.”“Then she has come back?”“No; she hasn’t come back; we can’t imagine where she is.”“Then how can you say she is all right?”“She is always all right; she is the sort that turns up when you least expect her. She is not specially good,” continued Ethel, who felt that she might revenge herself on Nesta’s many slights by giving Angela as poor an opinion of her as possible. She did not want Angela to like Nesta better than her. She had dim ideas of possible visits for herself to Hurst Castle. Could she possibly manage the dress part? She was intensely anxious now to lead the conversation away from Nesta to more profitable themes.“You must have a good many people staying at Hurst Castle,” she said.“My uncle has some guests, naturally. But tell me about your sister. When did she go?”“I wish I could tell you. I don’t know.”“You don’t know? But surely you can guess!”Molly came in at that moment. She had made a frantic effort to order a supper which would be proper to set before so distinguished a guest. A fowl had been hastily popped into the oven—that would be something. People in Angela’s class, for all Molly knew to the contrary, lived on fowls.“Molly, when did we see Nesta last?” asked Ethel.“She was here at breakfast. I just saw her when she was rushing out of the room. I was rather late. Why do you ask?”“Miss St. Just was anxious to know.”“We are all troubled about your sister,” said Angela.“Oh, I’m not troubled,” said Molly.“Nor I,” said Ethel.But Ethel was quick to read disapproval in Angela’s soft eyes.“I suppose we ought to be,” she said abruptly. “Do you think there is any danger?”She opened her eyes wide as she spoke.“I hope not; but, of course, she ought to be found. Then there is your mother—the great thing is to keep your mother from fretting.”“We have managed that, for Marcia, old Marcia—I meandearMarcia,—is so clever about mother.”“She is clever about everything. I wonder if you know what a very remarkable sister you have got.” Marcia rose by leaps and bounds in both the girls’ estimation. If she was remarkable, and if Angela, beautiful, bewitching Angela, said so, then indeed there must be something to be proud of, even in old Marcia. Ethel remembered how she had nicknamed her Miss Mule Selfish, and a nervous desire to giggle took possession of her, but she suppressed it.“I wish I could tell you,” said Angela, “all that Marcia has been to me; how she has helped me. And then she is such a wonderful teacher. My aunt, Mrs Silchester, never ceases to lament her having left the school at Frankfort, I understand that she came here to help you girls.”“Oh, no; she didn’t,” said Molly, her face becoming crimson, “she came home to look after mother.”“You mean to help you to look after her, isn’t that so?”“Yes, of course. Oh, dear Miss St. Just, aren’t you very tired? I know you are, even though you say in that pretty way that you are always pale, I know you are weary.”“I’m all right, thank you; I really am.”Just then Marcia entered the room.“Angela,” she said, “we shall have supper presently, and afterwards you shall come up and see mother.”“Oh, Marcia, do you think it well?” said Ethel, who looked very pretty with her flushed cheeks and bright eyes.“I should like to go,” said Angela. “Do you think I should harm her?”No; it would be impossible for such a creature as Angela to harm any one, even if that person were seriously ill; there was repose all over her, sweetness, tenderness, sympathy, where sympathy was possible. But Ethel and Molly, notwithstanding their efforts, did not feel that Angela truly sympathised with them. The moment Marcia came in they began to see this more clearly.“What are you doing about Nesta?” she said immediately.“If we don’t know by nine o’clock, I must wire to father.”It was just at that moment that there came a ring at the front door, a sharp ring. Ethel felt her heart beating; Molly also turned first red and then pale.“That sounds like a telegram,” said Molly, and she rushed into the hall.It was; it was addressed to Marcia Aldworth. She tore it open and read the contents.“I’m all right; expect me when you see me. Nesta.”There was no address; but it was plain that the telegram had been sent from Scarborough. Marcia sank on to the sofa. Molly bent over her; Ethel peered at the telegram from the other side.“There, didn’t I say she was about the—”“Please, Angela, will you come with me into the next room?” said Marcia.She left the telegram for her two sisters to devour between them, and took Angela away. The moment they were alone, Marcia sank down on a chair; tears rose to her eyes—she did not know that they were there—one overflowed and rolled down her cheek. Angela looked at her steadily.“It is quite hopeless,” she said. “Think of her doing that!”“Doing what? Remember I have not seen the telegram.”“She says she is all right, and we are to expect her when we see her. She has gone to Scarborough; she has run away. She is with the Griffiths, of course. What is to be done with a girl of that sort?”“Marcia, you are wearing yourself out for them.”“I am, and it is hopeless. What am I to say to mother? How am I to put it to her?”“You must tell her that Nesta will not be back until the morning; that she is quite safe. In the morning you must tell her the truth.”“How can I possibly tell her the truth?”“You must.”“Oh, Angela! it is hopeless; those girls seem to have no hearts. I did think after mother was so ill that they had turned over a new leaf; I was full of hope, and Nesta seemed the most impressed; but see what this means. She has gone away; she has left us all in misery. What a day we have had! and now, at the eleventh hour, when she thought we could not possibly send for her, she sends this. What am I to do?”“You must just go on hoping and praying, and trusting and believing,” said Angela. “My dear Marcia, twenty things ought not to shake a faith like yours.”“Well, at any rate, she is not in bodily danger; but what a terrible revelation of her character! She must have planned all this. She knew that father was away, and that Horace was away, and she fully expected that I should also be away. She had a kind of vague hope that the girls would not open the telegram. You see how she has laid her plans. She knows in the end she must be recalled, but she is determined to have as much pleasure as she can.”“Marcia,” said Molly, putting in her head at that moment, “supper is ready. Shall we go in?”They went into the dining-room. Angela ate little; she did not perceive the efforts the two younger Aldworths had made in her honour; the presence of the best dinner service, the best glass, the fact that the coffee—real Mocha coffee—was served in real Sèvres china. She ate little, thinking all the time of Marcia, who was as unobservant of external things as her friend.“Now, you will come up to see mother,” said Marcia, when the meal was over.“Yes; let me. I will tell her about Nesta—I mean as much as she need know to-night.”Marcia took her friend upstairs. Mrs Aldworth was tired. Her day had not been satisfactory, and she still wanted that one thing which she could not get—the presence of her round, fair, apparently good-natured youngest daughter. When Marcia opened the door, she called out to her:“Dear me, Marcia! I thought you were going?”“No, mother; I am not going to-night.”“Has Nesta come back? We should have plenty of time, if you light that pretty lamp and put it near me, to try the effect of the new blouse. I am so anxious to see if it will fit.”“I have just got an account of Nesta; she is all right, mother; she will be back to-morrow,” said Marcia. “So I am going to stay with you; and, mother, may I introduce you to my friend, Angela St. Just? Angela, this way, please. Mother, this is Angela, my great friend.” Mrs Aldworth had been on the eve of crying; on the eve of a fit of nervous anxiety with regard to Nesta; but the appearance of Angela seemed to swallow up every other thought. She flushed, then turned pale, then held out her hand.“I am glad to see you,” she said.Angela dropped into a chair.“Just run away, Marcia,” she said. “Leave me with Mrs Aldworth. Oh, Mrs Aldworth, I’m so glad Marcia let me come in. I have been longing to come to you—often and often. I have been so sorry for you; I have been thinking what a weary time you must have; I hope you will let me come often as long as I am near; I should like it so much.”The sweet eyes looked down into the faded face of the elder woman. They seemed somehow to have a magical power to arrest the finger of time, to erase the wrinkles, to smooth out some of the constant pain. Mrs Aldworth smiled quite gladly.“How nice you are,” she said, “and not a bit—not a bit stuck-up. I am so glad to make your acquaintance. Sit there and talk to me.”Angela took a chair and she did talk—all about nothings,perhapsabout nothings; but she still talked and Mrs Aldworth listened.
The Aldworths were in a state of confusion. Mrs Aldworth was anxious; Nurse Davenant was keeping the worst from her, but nevertheless she was anxious. Molly and Ethel were so firmly desired on no account to give themselves away, that they were absolutely excluded from the room. They were loud in their denunciations of Nesta.
“Catch old Nesta getting herself into trouble,” they said. “She has just gone off on one of her sprees.”
That was their first idea, but when they went to the Griffiths’ house, as the most likely place for the naughty Nesta to have taken herself to, and were greeted by the news that Mr, Mrs, and Miss Griffiths had started for Scarborough that morning, and that certainly no one else had gone with them, their ideas were somewhat shaken; they really did not know what to think. What was to be done? There was Mrs Aldworth wanting Nesta, and asking for her from time to time.
“Where is the child?” she said.
Now, Mrs Aldworth was herself, with her own delicate fingers, making a new blouse for Nesta. It was a very pretty one, of delicate pink silk, with embroidery trimming it all round the neck and round the pretty fancy sleeves. Mrs Aldworth wanted to try it on, and there was no Nesta to be found. The other girls were slighter than Nesta, who was a very buxom young woman for her years.
What was the matter? What was to be done? Still she was not seriously alarmed, for Marcia managed to keep her mind at rest. Nesta was out, she would be in soon.
But when lunch time came, and no Nesta appeared, Marcia sent a hurried line to Angela to tell her that she might, after all, not be able to go to Hurst Castle that day. She certainly would not leave the Aldworths while they were in anxiety.
Angela had replied that she was coming into Newcastle, and would go and pay the Carters a visit. She would wait for Marcia, and take her back.
It was late that evening when Angela did call for Marcia. She drew up her little pony carriage outside the door; she had driven all the way from Hurst Castle, but the ponies were fresh from their long rest in the old Court Prospect stables. Angela waited in the porch.
“I won’t come in to-night,” she said to Susan. “Just go up and say that Miss St. Just is waiting.”
Marcia came down. Her face was very pale.
“Oh, my dear Angela,” she said. “Whatever will you think of me? What is to be done? I have spent such a miserable day. We are all most anxious.”
“What?” said Angela, “haven’t you found the truant yet?”
“No; we have searched high and low, all over the place. We don’t want to alarm people. We could, of course, send a telegram to father and Horace, but we don’t want to do that.”
“She is evidently a very naughty girl,” said Angela.
“I am afraid she is; she is terribly self-willed,” said Marcia with a sigh.
“I’m not a scrap uneasy about her,” said Angela. “She is quite certain to have taken care of herself. But what frets me is that you are looking so white, dear. You want your holiday so badly.”
“I can’t really go with you to-night; I am ever so sorry, Angela, but it is quite impossible.”
“Then let me stay and help you.”
“Oh, I can’t do that!” but Marcia’s eyes expressed a longing.
“Now, why shouldn’t I stay?” said Angela. “I have always longed to see Mrs Aldworth. You might bring me up to her, mightn’t you?”
“I wonder if I dare?”
“Of course, you can, dear. Have I ever tired or frightened any one in the whole course of my life?”
“You have been so shamefully neglected, dear, and what will your father say?”
“I’ll send him a wire telling him not to expect us to-night. Or, better still, I’ll send the carriage home with a note. He’ll get it just when he is expecting me, and he will be quite contented in his mind.”
“Well, then, if you will, you can share my room.”
“Certainly,” said Angela lightly.
“You have been a long time at the Carters’,” said Marcia.
“Yes, I have had a most interesting time.”
“Your first visit to your old home.”
“I hadn’t much time to think of that, and I’m glad it is over. I shall go there very often. What nice young people the Carters are.”
Marcia opened her eyes.
“The two I saw—Jim and Penelope.”
“Penelope—yes, there is a good deal in that child.”
“I am her friend; I will tell you presently something, but not all, about her. I am truly glad I went to-day. Now, if only I can help you.”
“You can, you shall; I think God must have sent you.”
Marcia and her friend entered the house. They went into the library, where Marcia ordered a meal for Angela, and then went upstairs. Molly and Ethel were ready to dart upon her in the passage.
“What a long time you’ve been. Mother is beginning to cry. She says that Nesta has deserted her shamefully. We daren’t say that she is not in the house. I was thinking,” continued Molly, “of making up a little story, and saying that she was in her bedroom with a headache; mother couldn’t be very anxious about that, could she?”
“You mustn’t make up any such story. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Marcia, you are so over particular. Of course, you are not going to Hurst Castle to-night.”
“I am not.”
“Is Miss St. Just very sorry?”
“She is rather; but by the way, Molly, you might help me; Miss St. Just is spending the night here.”
“Good gracious!” said Ethel, drawing herself up. “Yes; won’t you two go down and have a chat with her? I wish you would. She is going to see mother presently. I think she will do mother a lot of good. Anyhow, she is staying, and I must make up my mind what is to be done about Nesta. If there are no tidings of her within the next hour or so, I must send a telegram to father.”
“We must make ourselves smart, first,” said Ethel, turning to Molly.
“I suppose so,” answered Molly.
They both went into their bedroom, the nice room which Marcia had prepared for them, and considered.
“My white dress,” said Molly—“oh, but there’s that horrid stain on it. I got it yesterday.”
“Our pink muslins are quite fresh; we look very nice in pink, and two dressed alike have always a good effect,” was Ethel’s suggestion.
Accordingly the pink muslins were donned, the raffled but pretty hair was put into immaculate order, and the girls, their hearts beating a little, went downstairs to entertain their distinguished guest. Of course, she was distinguished. But she was going to stay in their house—she was to be with them for a whole long, beautiful night. How lovely! They could look at her and study her, and furtively copy her little ways, her little graciousnesses, her easy manners, her politeness, which never descended to familiarity, and yet put people immediately at their ease. And better still, they could talk to their friends about her and about what had occurred. When those upstart, disagreeable Carters came back, what a crow they would have over them.
They were both in good spirits and forgot Nesta. Nesta was nothing but a trouble-the-house. She would turn up when she pleased. She deserved a sound whipping, and an early putting to bed; that was what she deserved.
Molly entered the room first; Ethel followed behind. Susan had lit a lamp, and the drawing room looked fairly comfortable. Angela was standing by the open window. She turned when she saw the girls and came forward to meet them.
“We’re so pleased and proud to know you,” began Molly.
“You are Molly, of course—orareyou Molly?” said Angela, glancing from one girl to the other.
“We’re awfully alike, you know,” laughed Molly, “aren’t we, Ethel? Yes, I am Molly, and this is Ethel. We’re not twins, but there’s only about a year between us. We’re very glad to know you. Have you heard much about us?”
“Of course I have, from Marcia, my greatest friend.” Molly’s eyes were fixed in fascinated wonder and open admiration on her distinguished guest. There was something intangible about Angela, something quite impossible to define; she was made for adoration; she was made for a sort of worship. Girls could never feel about her in the ordinary way. These girls certainly did not. They looked at one another, and then looked back again at Angela.
“Are you tired? Are you really going to stay the night here?” said Molly at last.
“I will sit down if you don’t mind. No, I am not tired.”
“But you look so pale.”
“I am always pale; I never remember having a scrap of colour in my life.”
“I think pale people look so interesting,” said Ethel. “I wish Molly and I were pale; but we flush up so when we are excited. I know I shall have scarlet cheeks in a minute or two.”
“That is because we are so glad to see you,” said Molly.
“That is a very pretty compliment,” laughed Angela. “But although I’m not tired, I shouldn’t mind going up to Marcia’s room just to wash my hands and take my hat off.”
“We’ll both take you,” said Molly.
They were immensely flattered; they were highly pleased. Angela ran upstairs as though she were another girl Aldworth, and had known the place all her days. Marcia’s room was immaculately neat, but it was shabbily furnished; it was one of the poorest rooms in the house. Molly earnestly wished that she could have introduced her guest into her own room.
“I wonder,” she said suddenly, “where you are going to sleep to-night?”
“With Marcia; she said so.”
“Oh, but her bed is so small, you would not be comfortable. We’d be ever so pleased if you—”
“But I prefer to sleep with Marcia, and this room is quite nice.”
Molly ran to fetch hot water, and Ethel remembered that she had a silver brush and comb which she always kept for visits which seldom occurred. She rushed away to fetch it. Angela brushed her hair, washed her hands, said that she felt as though she had been living with the Aldworths for years, and ran downstairs again.
“How nice you are,” said Molly; “we don’t feel now as though we were afraid of you.”
“Afraid of me,” said Angela. “Why should you be that?”
“Only, somehow, you belong to a better set.”
“Please, don’t talk nonsense,” said Angela, with the first note of wounded dignity in her voice. “I have come here to make myself useful. Can I be useful?”
“It is so delightful to have you—”
“That’s not the point; can I be useful?”
Molly looked puzzled.
“We’ll have supper presently,” she said. “I’ll go and speak to Susan. I’ll be back in a minute.”
She turned away. Of course, Angela could not be useful—the mere thought was profanation. She had come there to be waited on, to be worshipped, to be looked at, to be adored, Angela St. Just, the most beautiful, the most aristocratic girl in the entire neighbourhood!
Ethel drew nearer to Angela.
“I have been at Court Prospect to-day,” said Angela.
“Why, that was your old place.”
“It was.”
“Did you find it much changed—bourgeois, and all that?” said Ethel.
“Nothing could really change the old place to me; but I would rather not talk of what the Carters have done.”
“I am sure it must have given you profound agony,” said Ethel.
Angela faintly coloured, and then she said:
“Tell me about your little sister, the one about whom you are so anxious.”
“Oh, Nesta! Nesta’s all right.”
“Then she has come back?”
“No; she hasn’t come back; we can’t imagine where she is.”
“Then how can you say she is all right?”
“She is always all right; she is the sort that turns up when you least expect her. She is not specially good,” continued Ethel, who felt that she might revenge herself on Nesta’s many slights by giving Angela as poor an opinion of her as possible. She did not want Angela to like Nesta better than her. She had dim ideas of possible visits for herself to Hurst Castle. Could she possibly manage the dress part? She was intensely anxious now to lead the conversation away from Nesta to more profitable themes.
“You must have a good many people staying at Hurst Castle,” she said.
“My uncle has some guests, naturally. But tell me about your sister. When did she go?”
“I wish I could tell you. I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? But surely you can guess!”
Molly came in at that moment. She had made a frantic effort to order a supper which would be proper to set before so distinguished a guest. A fowl had been hastily popped into the oven—that would be something. People in Angela’s class, for all Molly knew to the contrary, lived on fowls.
“Molly, when did we see Nesta last?” asked Ethel.
“She was here at breakfast. I just saw her when she was rushing out of the room. I was rather late. Why do you ask?”
“Miss St. Just was anxious to know.”
“We are all troubled about your sister,” said Angela.
“Oh, I’m not troubled,” said Molly.
“Nor I,” said Ethel.
But Ethel was quick to read disapproval in Angela’s soft eyes.
“I suppose we ought to be,” she said abruptly. “Do you think there is any danger?”
She opened her eyes wide as she spoke.
“I hope not; but, of course, she ought to be found. Then there is your mother—the great thing is to keep your mother from fretting.”
“We have managed that, for Marcia, old Marcia—I meandearMarcia,—is so clever about mother.”
“She is clever about everything. I wonder if you know what a very remarkable sister you have got.” Marcia rose by leaps and bounds in both the girls’ estimation. If she was remarkable, and if Angela, beautiful, bewitching Angela, said so, then indeed there must be something to be proud of, even in old Marcia. Ethel remembered how she had nicknamed her Miss Mule Selfish, and a nervous desire to giggle took possession of her, but she suppressed it.
“I wish I could tell you,” said Angela, “all that Marcia has been to me; how she has helped me. And then she is such a wonderful teacher. My aunt, Mrs Silchester, never ceases to lament her having left the school at Frankfort, I understand that she came here to help you girls.”
“Oh, no; she didn’t,” said Molly, her face becoming crimson, “she came home to look after mother.”
“You mean to help you to look after her, isn’t that so?”
“Yes, of course. Oh, dear Miss St. Just, aren’t you very tired? I know you are, even though you say in that pretty way that you are always pale, I know you are weary.”
“I’m all right, thank you; I really am.”
Just then Marcia entered the room.
“Angela,” she said, “we shall have supper presently, and afterwards you shall come up and see mother.”
“Oh, Marcia, do you think it well?” said Ethel, who looked very pretty with her flushed cheeks and bright eyes.
“I should like to go,” said Angela. “Do you think I should harm her?”
No; it would be impossible for such a creature as Angela to harm any one, even if that person were seriously ill; there was repose all over her, sweetness, tenderness, sympathy, where sympathy was possible. But Ethel and Molly, notwithstanding their efforts, did not feel that Angela truly sympathised with them. The moment Marcia came in they began to see this more clearly.
“What are you doing about Nesta?” she said immediately.
“If we don’t know by nine o’clock, I must wire to father.”
It was just at that moment that there came a ring at the front door, a sharp ring. Ethel felt her heart beating; Molly also turned first red and then pale.
“That sounds like a telegram,” said Molly, and she rushed into the hall.
It was; it was addressed to Marcia Aldworth. She tore it open and read the contents.
“I’m all right; expect me when you see me. Nesta.”
There was no address; but it was plain that the telegram had been sent from Scarborough. Marcia sank on to the sofa. Molly bent over her; Ethel peered at the telegram from the other side.
“There, didn’t I say she was about the—”
“Please, Angela, will you come with me into the next room?” said Marcia.
She left the telegram for her two sisters to devour between them, and took Angela away. The moment they were alone, Marcia sank down on a chair; tears rose to her eyes—she did not know that they were there—one overflowed and rolled down her cheek. Angela looked at her steadily.
“It is quite hopeless,” she said. “Think of her doing that!”
“Doing what? Remember I have not seen the telegram.”
“She says she is all right, and we are to expect her when we see her. She has gone to Scarborough; she has run away. She is with the Griffiths, of course. What is to be done with a girl of that sort?”
“Marcia, you are wearing yourself out for them.”
“I am, and it is hopeless. What am I to say to mother? How am I to put it to her?”
“You must tell her that Nesta will not be back until the morning; that she is quite safe. In the morning you must tell her the truth.”
“How can I possibly tell her the truth?”
“You must.”
“Oh, Angela! it is hopeless; those girls seem to have no hearts. I did think after mother was so ill that they had turned over a new leaf; I was full of hope, and Nesta seemed the most impressed; but see what this means. She has gone away; she has left us all in misery. What a day we have had! and now, at the eleventh hour, when she thought we could not possibly send for her, she sends this. What am I to do?”
“You must just go on hoping and praying, and trusting and believing,” said Angela. “My dear Marcia, twenty things ought not to shake a faith like yours.”
“Well, at any rate, she is not in bodily danger; but what a terrible revelation of her character! She must have planned all this. She knew that father was away, and that Horace was away, and she fully expected that I should also be away. She had a kind of vague hope that the girls would not open the telegram. You see how she has laid her plans. She knows in the end she must be recalled, but she is determined to have as much pleasure as she can.”
“Marcia,” said Molly, putting in her head at that moment, “supper is ready. Shall we go in?”
They went into the dining-room. Angela ate little; she did not perceive the efforts the two younger Aldworths had made in her honour; the presence of the best dinner service, the best glass, the fact that the coffee—real Mocha coffee—was served in real Sèvres china. She ate little, thinking all the time of Marcia, who was as unobservant of external things as her friend.
“Now, you will come up to see mother,” said Marcia, when the meal was over.
“Yes; let me. I will tell her about Nesta—I mean as much as she need know to-night.”
Marcia took her friend upstairs. Mrs Aldworth was tired. Her day had not been satisfactory, and she still wanted that one thing which she could not get—the presence of her round, fair, apparently good-natured youngest daughter. When Marcia opened the door, she called out to her:
“Dear me, Marcia! I thought you were going?”
“No, mother; I am not going to-night.”
“Has Nesta come back? We should have plenty of time, if you light that pretty lamp and put it near me, to try the effect of the new blouse. I am so anxious to see if it will fit.”
“I have just got an account of Nesta; she is all right, mother; she will be back to-morrow,” said Marcia. “So I am going to stay with you; and, mother, may I introduce you to my friend, Angela St. Just? Angela, this way, please. Mother, this is Angela, my great friend.” Mrs Aldworth had been on the eve of crying; on the eve of a fit of nervous anxiety with regard to Nesta; but the appearance of Angela seemed to swallow up every other thought. She flushed, then turned pale, then held out her hand.
“I am glad to see you,” she said.
Angela dropped into a chair.
“Just run away, Marcia,” she said. “Leave me with Mrs Aldworth. Oh, Mrs Aldworth, I’m so glad Marcia let me come in. I have been longing to come to you—often and often. I have been so sorry for you; I have been thinking what a weary time you must have; I hope you will let me come often as long as I am near; I should like it so much.”
The sweet eyes looked down into the faded face of the elder woman. They seemed somehow to have a magical power to arrest the finger of time, to erase the wrinkles, to smooth out some of the constant pain. Mrs Aldworth smiled quite gladly.
“How nice you are,” she said, “and not a bit—not a bit stuck-up. I am so glad to make your acquaintance. Sit there and talk to me.”
Angela took a chair and she did talk—all about nothings,perhapsabout nothings; but she still talked and Mrs Aldworth listened.
Chapter Twenty Four.An Uneasy Conscience.Nesta’s first day at Scarborough had been full of intense enjoyment. She had managed her escapade with great cleverness. The Griffiths were quite sure that she was going away with the consent of her parents. Mr Griffiths was kind, and pleased to have her; Mrs Griffiths was motherly; Flossie was all delight. First had come the journey; what a delicious sensation of excitement had she felt whenever the train stopped; with what more than a delicious sensation of importance she had owned to a thrill through her being at the thought that the others were anxious about her. That her own people would be trying to get her back as soon as possible but added to the sense of enjoyment.The day was a brilliant one; the sea breezes were exhilarating, and Nesta’s conscience did not awaken. She enjoyed the lodgings, and the room she was to share with Flossie, and the shrimps for tea, and the wading when the tide was down. She enjoyed listening to the band; in short, she enjoyed everything. Her constant smiles were always wreathing her lips; Mr and Mrs Griffiths thought her quite a delightful girl.So passed the first day. Nesta had even managed, with Flossie’s aid, to send a telegram without either Mr or Mrs Griffiths knowing anything about it. Those magical shillings, which had been produced by her yellow-boy, were so useful. She went to bed that night without any unpleasant telegram, or any unpleasant person coming from Newcastle to disturb her pleasure.But the next morning she woke with a sigh. It would be all over to-day; she could not expect it to last longer than the middle of the day. Pleasure would be followed by retribution. She had made up her mind to this. She thought, however, that she would have a good morning. Immediately after breakfast she got away with Flossie.“Floss, it will be all up to-day; they are quite certain to send for me. Even if Molly and Ethel did not open the telegram last night, they will at least send it on to old Marcia, and do you suppose that Miss Mule Selfish will not use every bit of her influence to get me back, and to have me well punished? There’s no doubt on that point whatever.”“I know all that,” said Flossie. “But, perhaps, they won’t want you back.”“Not want me back?” said Nesta.This comment, delightful as it sounded, was scarcely flattering.“Mothery will want me,” said Nesta.“If you thought that, I wonder you came.”“Oh, don’t begin to reproach me,” said Nesta. “Let us go and have a long, long morning all by ourselves.”“But I want to bathe. Mother is going to bathe, and she said we two could go with her. You didn’t, of course, bring a bathing dress, but we can hire them here.”Nesta was not inclined to bathe. It would, she protested, take up too much time. She wanted to go for a long walk alone with her friend. She suggested that they should go first of all to a pastrycook’s, supply themselves with a good, large bag of edibles, and then wander away on the cliffs. Flossie; after due consideration, was nothing loath.“That horrid telegram is sure to come, and then the fat will be in the fire,” said Nesta.“That’s true enough,” replied Flossie, “and I expect I’ll be scolded too. You’ll have to stand the blame—you’ll have to tell them that it was more your fault than mine.”“Oh, I like that!” said Nesta. “You mean to tell me that you won’t take my part, when I get into a beastly row all on account of you?”The girls had a little tiff, as was their way; but their real affection for each other soon smoothed it over. Mrs Griffiths was talked round to see the expediency of Nesta and Flossie putting off their bathe until the next day, and accordingly the two girls started off for their walk.There was no doubt whatever in Nesta’s mind that retribution must come that day. It was the right day for Nemesis. She had enjoyed Saturday, but she had not enjoyed Sunday quite so much, for there was the possibility that somebody would come to fetch her back. On Sunday the girls might have sent the telegram to Marcia by special messenger, but on the other hand, Molly and Ethel were very careless; they did not care whether Nesta was in the house or not. They had probably not sent it on. But of course, there was not the least doubt that Marcia would receive it on Monday morning. What was to be done? She resolved to enjoy her walk even if it was the last. She spent a shilling of her precious money, secured a most unwholesome meal, which the two girls ate on the high cliffs just outside Scarborough, and then returned home in time for lunch.“I’m not a bit hungry,” said Nesta, “and I know there’ll be a fearful row when we go upstairs. Do go first, Flossie; I’ll wait here. If there’s anything awful, I’ll run down by the shore until it has blown over. Do go, Floss.”Flossie was cajoled into doing what Nesta wished. She went upstairs. Her father and mother were both waiting for them. They looked tranquil, as tranquil could be.“Where’s Nesta!” called out Mrs Griffiths from the landing. “Tell her to take off her hat and come in at once. Our dinner is getting cold.”Flossie flew downstairs.“You needn’t be a bit uneasy. Father and mother look as contented as though they never had a trouble in the world.”Wondering somewhat, Nesta did go upstairs. She ate her dinner, but all the time she was watching the door. Any minute either Marcia herself, stern, uncompromising, unyielding, unforgiving, might appear, or a horrible telegram addressed to Mrs Griffiths might be thrust into her hand. In any case her disgrace must be near at hand.But strange as it may seem, the whole day passed, and there was no sort of telegram for Nesta. She wondered and wondered.“This is quite lucky,” she said to Flossie, as she was undressing for the night. “I really can’t understand it. Of course, it’s those girls; they never sent my telegram on to Marcia.”“Well, you know, you didn’t send any address,” said Flossie.“Of course I didn’t; but don’t you suppose that they’d immediately rush off to your house, and get your address from your servants?”“I never thought of that,” said Flossie.“They could find me if they wished. It’s all that Miss Mule Selfish; she’s so absorbed in her own pleasure she has forgotten all about me.”The next day passed without any notice being taken of Nesta, and the next, and the next. Nesta was quite bewildered. At first she was delighted, then she began to consider herself a slightly aggrieved person, particularly when Flossie taunted her with the fact that she did not seem to be missed much at home.This was gall and wormwood to the little girl.On the fifth day of her visit, Mr Griffiths, who had received some letters, said to Nesta:“You don’t seem to be hearing from your people—at least I have not seen any letters addressed to you. I hope they are all right.”“Oh, of course they are, no news is good news,” said Nesta.He took no notice of her remark, being absorbed in his own affairs. When he had read one of his letters he looked at his wife.“I must go back to Newcastle this afternoon, but I’ll return to-morrow,” he said. “I’ll call in, if you like, Nesta, and find out how your mother is.”“Oh, please don’t—I mean you really needn’t,” said Nesta.He raised his brows in some surprise.“I should think,” he said slowly, “that a girl who has an invalid mother, would like to know how she is.”Nesta coloured. She did not dare to say any more. She and Flossie had been having what she called a ripping time, that is, Nesta could enjoy herself in spite of her anxiety. But now things were changing. The yellow-boy had his limits; he was reduced in bulk until he had come down to a few pence. Between Nesta and that which made her so valuable in Flossie’s eyes there was now but eleven-pence halfpenny. Nearly a shilling, a whole beautiful silver shilling, but not quite. When that was spent—and it would be spent that very day—Nesta would be of no special importance to Flossie Griffiths.Flossie was making friends, too, on her own account. There was a family of young people also staying at Scarborough, whom the Griffiths used to know. They boasted of the name of Brown. They were all good-natured, hearty, friendly young folks. But in the beginning Nesta had chosen to turn up her nose at them. In consequence they devoted themselves to Flossie, and left Nesta very much out in the cold.On the very day that Nesta was forced to spend her last pence on a feast for Flossie, Flossie calmly informed her that she was going early the next morning on a picnic with the Browns.“They haven’t invited you—I’m sorry,” said Flossie. “They might have done it, but I said you were going away. This is Friday, you know. You will have been with us a week to-morrow. I know father and mother will want you to stay until the middle of next week, at any rate, but, of course, you and I—knowing what we do—” Flossie giggled—“thought you would be gone long ago.”“Well, I’m here,” said Nesta, “and I wish I weren’t.”“Why do you say that? I’m sure we have done all we could to give you a real good time.”“I think you hate me,” said Nesta, in a passion.“Well, Nesta, I do call that ungrateful! But there, you’re in the sulks, poor old girl. You thought you’d be awfully missed at home, and you see you are not one little bit.”“I’m anxious about mother,” said Nesta. “It’s so queer none of them writing.”She burst into tears. Flossie was soft-hearted enough, and she comforted her friend, and said that she would not hurt her for the world, and would do her very best to get her an invitation to the picnic the next day. At this intimation Nesta immediately wiped her eyes.“I’d like it,” she said; “it would be horrid to be left at home with only your old mother.”“You needn’t call mother old—she’s no older than yours.”“Well, anyhow, mine’s the prettiest,” said Nesta.“And my mother is the strongest,” retorted Flossie. “Oh, there, don’t let us quarrel,” said Nesta. “If I hadn’t you for my friend now, Floss, I’d be the most miserable girl in the world. To tell the truth, I’m rather terrified at the way they’re taking things at home—not a word—not a line, nothing whatever. It does seem odd, doesn’t it?”Flossie made no remark. Just then Henrietta Brown was seen passing the window. Flossie put out her head and called to Henrietta to stop, and then dashed downstairs.“Oh, Henny,” she gasped, “I’m ever so sorry, but Nesta Aldworth, my friend, she is still with us. I wonder—”“We really couldn’t,” said Henny, who was downright, and not quite as refined as even the Griffiths themselves. “We haven’t a seat left. Either you must come, or your friend. We can’t fit in the two of you. It’s impossible. We might have done so at the beginning, but you said your stuck-up Miss Aldworth would be gone away.”“Well, she has not gone,” said Flossie. “Of course, if you like I can give up my seat if you are sure you couldn’t squeeze us both in.”“I’m certain, positive on the subject. And, Flossie, you mustn’t give up your seat,” said Henny, linking her arm inside Flossie’s arm, “for we don’t like her one little bit. She’s not pretty like von, and she has no go in her. You must come. Why, Tom and Jack and Robert—they’d be just mad if you weren’t there.”Flossie was pleased to hear that the Brown boys—Tom, Jack, and Robert—wished for her society.“Well, of course, it’s her own fault,” she said aloud, and then she went back to Nesta.“It’s no go,” she said. “You must stay with mother—or—or do anything you like. Ah, there’s father—he’s off. Good-bye, Dad.”Flossie’s voice sounded on the summer breeze. Mr Griffiths looked up and kissed his hand to her.“Good-bye to you both,” he said. “I’ll be back to-morrow, and if I can, Nesta, I’ll look in and see how your mother is getting on. Are you sure you have no message?”“None; please, don’t trouble,” said Nesta.She was feeling now most frantically wretched. That last feast with Flossie was scarcely a success. She did not know how she was to live through the next day. If she had money enough she would return home. She would boldly declare that she had a right to her own home, the home that no longer seemed to want her. There was no telegram that day—no letter, no message of any sort.The next morning rose bright and glorious. Flossie, dressed in herverybest, went off for the picnic with the Browns. They had two waggonettes packed full of people, and Flossie squeezed herself in amid peals of laughter. Nesta watched her from behind the curtain of the drawing room window; Mrs Griffiths was well to the front, bowing and smiling, and kissing her hand.“There,” she said, when the waggonettes passed out of sight, “I’m glad my Floss is going to have a good time. Sorry for you, Nesta, but then you gave us to understand that you’d be sent for so soon.”“I thought so,” said Nesta.“Well, dear, it’s all the better for you, you have the advantage of the sea. You must put up with an old woman for once. I’m going for a dip in the briny this morning. What do you say to coming with me?”Nesta acquiesced. She might as well do that as anything else. She didn’t care about it, of course.Mrs Griffiths was energetic when she was at the seaside, and she took her dip and then a long walk, and then she waded for a time, and Nesta had to wade with her. They were both tired when they returned to the house in the middle of the day.And now, at last, there was a telegram. It lay on the table in its little yellow envelope. Nesta felt suddenly sick and faint. Mrs Griffiths took it up.“It’s for me,” she said. “It’s to say that my man is coming back this evening—or maybe not until to-morrow, or Monday.”She read the telegram. Nesta watched her with parted lips, as Mrs Griffiths slowly acquainted herself with the contents. She was a quick, energetic woman, but as regarded matters relating to the mind she slow. The telegram puzzled her.“It’s queer,” she said. “Can you make anything of it?”She handed it to Nesta. Nesta road the contents.”‘Coming back sooner than I expected. Have been to the Aldworths’—a very queer business; will tell you when we meet.’”“I wonder if your mother is worse,” said Mrs Griffiths, looking with her kind eyes at the girl. “Why, Nesta, you are as white as a sheet! Is anything wrong?”“No,” said Nesta. She let the telegram flutter to the floor; it was Mrs Griffiths who picked it up. Nemesis had come—Nemesis with a vengeance.“I don’t expect it is anything. Your father—I mean Flossie’s father, is always fond of making mountains out of molehills. It is nothing special, it really isn’t; you may be sure on that point,” said the good woman. “Anyhow, he will tell us when he comes, and not all the guessing in the world will spoil our appetites, will it, Nesta? See this pigeon pie, the very best that could be got; I ordered it from the pastrycook’s, for I don’t much like some of our landlady’s cooking.”Nesta could have enjoyed that pigeon pie, but the telegram, Nemesis, in short, had crushed what appetite she possessed out of her. She fiddled with her food, then sprang up.“I am so anxious,” she said.“Why, what is it, child?”Mrs Griffiths looked at her; Nesta looked full at Mrs Griffiths.“I must tell you something; I know you will hate me; I know you will, but if you would be kind just for once—”“Goodness me, child! Of course I’ll be kind. What is troubling you? Anything wrong with the mother?”“It isn’t that—it is that when I came with you I ran away.”“You did what?” said Mrs Griffiths.Nesta mumbled out her miserable story. She told it dismally. Mrs Griffiths had, as she averred afterwards, to drag the words from the child. At last the ugly facts were made plain to her. Nesta had deliberately left her home without saying one word to anybody. She had been aided and abetted by Flossie, Mrs Griffiths’ good, honourable, open-hearted Flossie—at least that is what Mrs Griffiths had considered her child. Yes, Flossie had helped her friend, and her friend had gone; she had not said a word to any one at home; she had only sent off a telegram. The telegram, of course, must bear the Scarborough mark, but they had taken no notice.“Of course, Mr Griffiths went to see them, and of course they told him, and of course—of course, he will be just mad,” said Mrs Griffiths. “He will be in a towering rage; I don’t know what he won’t do. There’ll be a split between us; he’ll never let our Flossie speak to you again, that’s plain.”“Oh, Mrs Griffiths, if you would be good, if you would but just lend me enough money to get home before—before he comes.”“Well, now, that wouldn’t be a bad idea,” said Mrs Griffiths. “You can make off, I will see you into the tram; you don’t mind travelling third-class, do you?”“I’d travel on the top of the train—I’d travel in the guard’s van—I’d travel anywhere only to get away,” said Nesta.“Well, child, I’ll just look up the trains, and put you into one myself—or no, perhaps I’d better not. You might give us the slip, as it were. If he thought that I’d let you go home before he came, he’d give me a piece of his mind, and there’d be the mischief to pay again. You can find your own way to the station.”“I can. I can.”“I’ll look out the very next train, the very next.”“Oh, do, please do. And please lend me some money.”Mrs Griffiths produced half a sovereign, which she put into Nesta’s palm. Nesta hardly waited to thank her.“Good-bye. Oh, I am grateful—I will write. Explain to Flossie. Try to forgive me—it was so dull at home, only Miss Mule Selfish, you know, and Molly and Ethel.”“And your mother,” said Mrs Griffiths, a little severely, for it was the thought of the anxiety that Nesta had given her mother which touched Mrs Griffiths’ heart most nearly.“Mothery wouldn’t be cross, that is certain sure,” said poor Nesta.She was putting on her hat as she uttered the words, and a few minutes later she was toiling through the hot sun and blinding dust, for the day was a windy one, to the railway stationen routefor Newcastle.
Nesta’s first day at Scarborough had been full of intense enjoyment. She had managed her escapade with great cleverness. The Griffiths were quite sure that she was going away with the consent of her parents. Mr Griffiths was kind, and pleased to have her; Mrs Griffiths was motherly; Flossie was all delight. First had come the journey; what a delicious sensation of excitement had she felt whenever the train stopped; with what more than a delicious sensation of importance she had owned to a thrill through her being at the thought that the others were anxious about her. That her own people would be trying to get her back as soon as possible but added to the sense of enjoyment.
The day was a brilliant one; the sea breezes were exhilarating, and Nesta’s conscience did not awaken. She enjoyed the lodgings, and the room she was to share with Flossie, and the shrimps for tea, and the wading when the tide was down. She enjoyed listening to the band; in short, she enjoyed everything. Her constant smiles were always wreathing her lips; Mr and Mrs Griffiths thought her quite a delightful girl.
So passed the first day. Nesta had even managed, with Flossie’s aid, to send a telegram without either Mr or Mrs Griffiths knowing anything about it. Those magical shillings, which had been produced by her yellow-boy, were so useful. She went to bed that night without any unpleasant telegram, or any unpleasant person coming from Newcastle to disturb her pleasure.
But the next morning she woke with a sigh. It would be all over to-day; she could not expect it to last longer than the middle of the day. Pleasure would be followed by retribution. She had made up her mind to this. She thought, however, that she would have a good morning. Immediately after breakfast she got away with Flossie.
“Floss, it will be all up to-day; they are quite certain to send for me. Even if Molly and Ethel did not open the telegram last night, they will at least send it on to old Marcia, and do you suppose that Miss Mule Selfish will not use every bit of her influence to get me back, and to have me well punished? There’s no doubt on that point whatever.”
“I know all that,” said Flossie. “But, perhaps, they won’t want you back.”
“Not want me back?” said Nesta.
This comment, delightful as it sounded, was scarcely flattering.
“Mothery will want me,” said Nesta.
“If you thought that, I wonder you came.”
“Oh, don’t begin to reproach me,” said Nesta. “Let us go and have a long, long morning all by ourselves.”
“But I want to bathe. Mother is going to bathe, and she said we two could go with her. You didn’t, of course, bring a bathing dress, but we can hire them here.”
Nesta was not inclined to bathe. It would, she protested, take up too much time. She wanted to go for a long walk alone with her friend. She suggested that they should go first of all to a pastrycook’s, supply themselves with a good, large bag of edibles, and then wander away on the cliffs. Flossie; after due consideration, was nothing loath.
“That horrid telegram is sure to come, and then the fat will be in the fire,” said Nesta.
“That’s true enough,” replied Flossie, “and I expect I’ll be scolded too. You’ll have to stand the blame—you’ll have to tell them that it was more your fault than mine.”
“Oh, I like that!” said Nesta. “You mean to tell me that you won’t take my part, when I get into a beastly row all on account of you?”
The girls had a little tiff, as was their way; but their real affection for each other soon smoothed it over. Mrs Griffiths was talked round to see the expediency of Nesta and Flossie putting off their bathe until the next day, and accordingly the two girls started off for their walk.
There was no doubt whatever in Nesta’s mind that retribution must come that day. It was the right day for Nemesis. She had enjoyed Saturday, but she had not enjoyed Sunday quite so much, for there was the possibility that somebody would come to fetch her back. On Sunday the girls might have sent the telegram to Marcia by special messenger, but on the other hand, Molly and Ethel were very careless; they did not care whether Nesta was in the house or not. They had probably not sent it on. But of course, there was not the least doubt that Marcia would receive it on Monday morning. What was to be done? She resolved to enjoy her walk even if it was the last. She spent a shilling of her precious money, secured a most unwholesome meal, which the two girls ate on the high cliffs just outside Scarborough, and then returned home in time for lunch.
“I’m not a bit hungry,” said Nesta, “and I know there’ll be a fearful row when we go upstairs. Do go first, Flossie; I’ll wait here. If there’s anything awful, I’ll run down by the shore until it has blown over. Do go, Floss.”
Flossie was cajoled into doing what Nesta wished. She went upstairs. Her father and mother were both waiting for them. They looked tranquil, as tranquil could be.
“Where’s Nesta!” called out Mrs Griffiths from the landing. “Tell her to take off her hat and come in at once. Our dinner is getting cold.”
Flossie flew downstairs.
“You needn’t be a bit uneasy. Father and mother look as contented as though they never had a trouble in the world.”
Wondering somewhat, Nesta did go upstairs. She ate her dinner, but all the time she was watching the door. Any minute either Marcia herself, stern, uncompromising, unyielding, unforgiving, might appear, or a horrible telegram addressed to Mrs Griffiths might be thrust into her hand. In any case her disgrace must be near at hand.
But strange as it may seem, the whole day passed, and there was no sort of telegram for Nesta. She wondered and wondered.
“This is quite lucky,” she said to Flossie, as she was undressing for the night. “I really can’t understand it. Of course, it’s those girls; they never sent my telegram on to Marcia.”
“Well, you know, you didn’t send any address,” said Flossie.
“Of course I didn’t; but don’t you suppose that they’d immediately rush off to your house, and get your address from your servants?”
“I never thought of that,” said Flossie.
“They could find me if they wished. It’s all that Miss Mule Selfish; she’s so absorbed in her own pleasure she has forgotten all about me.”
The next day passed without any notice being taken of Nesta, and the next, and the next. Nesta was quite bewildered. At first she was delighted, then she began to consider herself a slightly aggrieved person, particularly when Flossie taunted her with the fact that she did not seem to be missed much at home.
This was gall and wormwood to the little girl.
On the fifth day of her visit, Mr Griffiths, who had received some letters, said to Nesta:
“You don’t seem to be hearing from your people—at least I have not seen any letters addressed to you. I hope they are all right.”
“Oh, of course they are, no news is good news,” said Nesta.
He took no notice of her remark, being absorbed in his own affairs. When he had read one of his letters he looked at his wife.
“I must go back to Newcastle this afternoon, but I’ll return to-morrow,” he said. “I’ll call in, if you like, Nesta, and find out how your mother is.”
“Oh, please don’t—I mean you really needn’t,” said Nesta.
He raised his brows in some surprise.
“I should think,” he said slowly, “that a girl who has an invalid mother, would like to know how she is.”
Nesta coloured. She did not dare to say any more. She and Flossie had been having what she called a ripping time, that is, Nesta could enjoy herself in spite of her anxiety. But now things were changing. The yellow-boy had his limits; he was reduced in bulk until he had come down to a few pence. Between Nesta and that which made her so valuable in Flossie’s eyes there was now but eleven-pence halfpenny. Nearly a shilling, a whole beautiful silver shilling, but not quite. When that was spent—and it would be spent that very day—Nesta would be of no special importance to Flossie Griffiths.
Flossie was making friends, too, on her own account. There was a family of young people also staying at Scarborough, whom the Griffiths used to know. They boasted of the name of Brown. They were all good-natured, hearty, friendly young folks. But in the beginning Nesta had chosen to turn up her nose at them. In consequence they devoted themselves to Flossie, and left Nesta very much out in the cold.
On the very day that Nesta was forced to spend her last pence on a feast for Flossie, Flossie calmly informed her that she was going early the next morning on a picnic with the Browns.
“They haven’t invited you—I’m sorry,” said Flossie. “They might have done it, but I said you were going away. This is Friday, you know. You will have been with us a week to-morrow. I know father and mother will want you to stay until the middle of next week, at any rate, but, of course, you and I—knowing what we do—” Flossie giggled—“thought you would be gone long ago.”
“Well, I’m here,” said Nesta, “and I wish I weren’t.”
“Why do you say that? I’m sure we have done all we could to give you a real good time.”
“I think you hate me,” said Nesta, in a passion.
“Well, Nesta, I do call that ungrateful! But there, you’re in the sulks, poor old girl. You thought you’d be awfully missed at home, and you see you are not one little bit.”
“I’m anxious about mother,” said Nesta. “It’s so queer none of them writing.”
She burst into tears. Flossie was soft-hearted enough, and she comforted her friend, and said that she would not hurt her for the world, and would do her very best to get her an invitation to the picnic the next day. At this intimation Nesta immediately wiped her eyes.
“I’d like it,” she said; “it would be horrid to be left at home with only your old mother.”
“You needn’t call mother old—she’s no older than yours.”
“Well, anyhow, mine’s the prettiest,” said Nesta.
“And my mother is the strongest,” retorted Flossie. “Oh, there, don’t let us quarrel,” said Nesta. “If I hadn’t you for my friend now, Floss, I’d be the most miserable girl in the world. To tell the truth, I’m rather terrified at the way they’re taking things at home—not a word—not a line, nothing whatever. It does seem odd, doesn’t it?”
Flossie made no remark. Just then Henrietta Brown was seen passing the window. Flossie put out her head and called to Henrietta to stop, and then dashed downstairs.
“Oh, Henny,” she gasped, “I’m ever so sorry, but Nesta Aldworth, my friend, she is still with us. I wonder—”
“We really couldn’t,” said Henny, who was downright, and not quite as refined as even the Griffiths themselves. “We haven’t a seat left. Either you must come, or your friend. We can’t fit in the two of you. It’s impossible. We might have done so at the beginning, but you said your stuck-up Miss Aldworth would be gone away.”
“Well, she has not gone,” said Flossie. “Of course, if you like I can give up my seat if you are sure you couldn’t squeeze us both in.”
“I’m certain, positive on the subject. And, Flossie, you mustn’t give up your seat,” said Henny, linking her arm inside Flossie’s arm, “for we don’t like her one little bit. She’s not pretty like von, and she has no go in her. You must come. Why, Tom and Jack and Robert—they’d be just mad if you weren’t there.”
Flossie was pleased to hear that the Brown boys—Tom, Jack, and Robert—wished for her society.
“Well, of course, it’s her own fault,” she said aloud, and then she went back to Nesta.
“It’s no go,” she said. “You must stay with mother—or—or do anything you like. Ah, there’s father—he’s off. Good-bye, Dad.”
Flossie’s voice sounded on the summer breeze. Mr Griffiths looked up and kissed his hand to her.
“Good-bye to you both,” he said. “I’ll be back to-morrow, and if I can, Nesta, I’ll look in and see how your mother is getting on. Are you sure you have no message?”
“None; please, don’t trouble,” said Nesta.
She was feeling now most frantically wretched. That last feast with Flossie was scarcely a success. She did not know how she was to live through the next day. If she had money enough she would return home. She would boldly declare that she had a right to her own home, the home that no longer seemed to want her. There was no telegram that day—no letter, no message of any sort.
The next morning rose bright and glorious. Flossie, dressed in herverybest, went off for the picnic with the Browns. They had two waggonettes packed full of people, and Flossie squeezed herself in amid peals of laughter. Nesta watched her from behind the curtain of the drawing room window; Mrs Griffiths was well to the front, bowing and smiling, and kissing her hand.
“There,” she said, when the waggonettes passed out of sight, “I’m glad my Floss is going to have a good time. Sorry for you, Nesta, but then you gave us to understand that you’d be sent for so soon.”
“I thought so,” said Nesta.
“Well, dear, it’s all the better for you, you have the advantage of the sea. You must put up with an old woman for once. I’m going for a dip in the briny this morning. What do you say to coming with me?”
Nesta acquiesced. She might as well do that as anything else. She didn’t care about it, of course.
Mrs Griffiths was energetic when she was at the seaside, and she took her dip and then a long walk, and then she waded for a time, and Nesta had to wade with her. They were both tired when they returned to the house in the middle of the day.
And now, at last, there was a telegram. It lay on the table in its little yellow envelope. Nesta felt suddenly sick and faint. Mrs Griffiths took it up.
“It’s for me,” she said. “It’s to say that my man is coming back this evening—or maybe not until to-morrow, or Monday.”
She read the telegram. Nesta watched her with parted lips, as Mrs Griffiths slowly acquainted herself with the contents. She was a quick, energetic woman, but as regarded matters relating to the mind she slow. The telegram puzzled her.
“It’s queer,” she said. “Can you make anything of it?”
She handed it to Nesta. Nesta road the contents.
”‘Coming back sooner than I expected. Have been to the Aldworths’—a very queer business; will tell you when we meet.’”
“I wonder if your mother is worse,” said Mrs Griffiths, looking with her kind eyes at the girl. “Why, Nesta, you are as white as a sheet! Is anything wrong?”
“No,” said Nesta. She let the telegram flutter to the floor; it was Mrs Griffiths who picked it up. Nemesis had come—Nemesis with a vengeance.
“I don’t expect it is anything. Your father—I mean Flossie’s father, is always fond of making mountains out of molehills. It is nothing special, it really isn’t; you may be sure on that point,” said the good woman. “Anyhow, he will tell us when he comes, and not all the guessing in the world will spoil our appetites, will it, Nesta? See this pigeon pie, the very best that could be got; I ordered it from the pastrycook’s, for I don’t much like some of our landlady’s cooking.”
Nesta could have enjoyed that pigeon pie, but the telegram, Nemesis, in short, had crushed what appetite she possessed out of her. She fiddled with her food, then sprang up.
“I am so anxious,” she said.
“Why, what is it, child?”
Mrs Griffiths looked at her; Nesta looked full at Mrs Griffiths.
“I must tell you something; I know you will hate me; I know you will, but if you would be kind just for once—”
“Goodness me, child! Of course I’ll be kind. What is troubling you? Anything wrong with the mother?”
“It isn’t that—it is that when I came with you I ran away.”
“You did what?” said Mrs Griffiths.
Nesta mumbled out her miserable story. She told it dismally. Mrs Griffiths had, as she averred afterwards, to drag the words from the child. At last the ugly facts were made plain to her. Nesta had deliberately left her home without saying one word to anybody. She had been aided and abetted by Flossie, Mrs Griffiths’ good, honourable, open-hearted Flossie—at least that is what Mrs Griffiths had considered her child. Yes, Flossie had helped her friend, and her friend had gone; she had not said a word to any one at home; she had only sent off a telegram. The telegram, of course, must bear the Scarborough mark, but they had taken no notice.
“Of course, Mr Griffiths went to see them, and of course they told him, and of course—of course, he will be just mad,” said Mrs Griffiths. “He will be in a towering rage; I don’t know what he won’t do. There’ll be a split between us; he’ll never let our Flossie speak to you again, that’s plain.”
“Oh, Mrs Griffiths, if you would be good, if you would but just lend me enough money to get home before—before he comes.”
“Well, now, that wouldn’t be a bad idea,” said Mrs Griffiths. “You can make off, I will see you into the tram; you don’t mind travelling third-class, do you?”
“I’d travel on the top of the train—I’d travel in the guard’s van—I’d travel anywhere only to get away,” said Nesta.
“Well, child, I’ll just look up the trains, and put you into one myself—or no, perhaps I’d better not. You might give us the slip, as it were. If he thought that I’d let you go home before he came, he’d give me a piece of his mind, and there’d be the mischief to pay again. You can find your own way to the station.”
“I can. I can.”
“I’ll look out the very next train, the very next.”
“Oh, do, please do. And please lend me some money.”
Mrs Griffiths produced half a sovereign, which she put into Nesta’s palm. Nesta hardly waited to thank her.
“Good-bye. Oh, I am grateful—I will write. Explain to Flossie. Try to forgive me—it was so dull at home, only Miss Mule Selfish, you know, and Molly and Ethel.”
“And your mother,” said Mrs Griffiths, a little severely, for it was the thought of the anxiety that Nesta had given her mother which touched Mrs Griffiths’ heart most nearly.
“Mothery wouldn’t be cross, that is certain sure,” said poor Nesta.
She was putting on her hat as she uttered the words, and a few minutes later she was toiling through the hot sun and blinding dust, for the day was a windy one, to the railway stationen routefor Newcastle.