Meanwhile matters were not going on quite so comfortably at the
Aldworths' house. They began smoothly enough. Mrs Aldworth had spent
a morning full of perfect happiness, order, and comfort with her eldest
daughter. Marcia had done everything that was possible for the
well-being of the invalid. She had given instructions also with regard
to the food which she was to be supplied with that afternoon, and last,
but not least, had not left her, until she saw her enjoying a delicious
little dinner of roast chicken, fresh green peas, and a basket of
strawberries.
Mrs Aldworth was already beginning to feel the benefit of the change.
Until Marcia arrived on the scene she had been, not nursed, but fussed
over, often left alone for long hours together to fret and bemoan
herself, to make the worst of her trials, and the least of her
blessings. Her girls did not mean to be unkind, but they were very
often all out together, and the one who was in, was always in a state of
grumbling. Now the house seemed suddenly to have the calm and sweet
genius of order and love presiding over it. Mrs Aldworth was conscious
of the agreeable change, without analysing it too closely. She was
glad, yes, quite glad, that dear Marcia should have a happy time with
the St Justs. She knew all about her husband's first marriage. He had
married a penniless girl of very good family, who had been a governess
in a nobleman's house. He had come across her when he was a poor
lawyer, before he rose to his present very comfortable position. He had
married her and she had loved him, and as long as she lived he had been
a very happy man. But Marcia's mother had died, and Mrs Aldworth was
his second wife. She had been jealous of the first wife in a way a
nature like hers would be jealous, jealous of a certain grace and charm
about her, which the neighbours had told her of, and which she herself
had perceived in the beautiful oil portrait which hung in Marcia's room.
She had always hated that portrait, and had longed to turn it with its
face to the wall. But these sort of petty doings had gone out of
fashion, and the neighbours would be angry with her if they knew. Then
her own children had come, and ill health had fallen upon her, and she
had sunk beneath the burden.
Yes, she knew all these things. Her past life seemed to go before her
on this pleasant summer's afternoon like a phantasmagoria. She was not
agitated by any reminiscences that came before her eyes, but she was
conscious of a sense of soothing. Marcia was nice--Marcia was so
clever, and Marcia was wise. She was glad Marcia was out. She too
would vie with her in being unselfish; she too would become wise; she
too would be clever.
She thought of Marcia's promise, that whatever happened she would visit
her for a few moments that evening just to tell her about Angela. Mrs
Aldworth, with all the rest of the inhabitants of the little suburb, had
worshipped the St Justs. She had seen Angela occasionally, and had
craned her neck when the girl passed by in their open carriage with her
aristocratic-looking father by her side. She had felt herself flushing
when she mentioned the name. She had been conscious, very conscious on
a certain day when Angela had spoken to her. On that occasion it was to
inquire for Marcia, and Mrs Aldworth had been wildly proud of the fact
that she was Marcia's stepmother. But Marcia could talk about Angela in
the calmest way in the world, evidently being fond of her, but not
specially elated at the thought of her friendship.
"I suppose that is called breeding," thought the good woman. "Well,
well, I mustn't grumble. My own dear children are far prettier, that is
one thing. Of course, whatever advances Marcia's welfare she will share
with them, for she is really quite unselfish. Now, I wonder why my
little Nesta doesn't come. I am quite longing to kiss my darling girl."
Mrs Aldworth was not angry with Nesta for being a bit late.
"It is her little way," she thought. "The child is so forgetful; she is
certain to have to run out to the garden twenty times, or to stroke
pussie, or to remember that she has not given old Rover his bone, or to
do one hundred and one things which she knows I would be annoyed at if
she forgot."
So for the first half-hour after dinner, Mrs Aldworth was quite happy.
But for the next quarter of an hour she was not quite so calm. The sun
had come round, and it was time to have the blind rearranged. It was
also time for Nesta, who had been given explicit instructions by Marcia,
to wheel her mother on to the balcony. Mrs Aldworth felt hot; she felt
thirsty; she longed to have a drink of that cold water which was
sparkling just beyond her reach. Even the penny paper was nowhere in
sight; her fancy work had dropped to the floor, and she had lost her
thimble. How annoying of naughty little Nesta--why, the child was
already an hour late!
Mrs Aldworth managed in her very peevish way to ring her bell, which
was, of course, within reach. The first ring was not attended to; she
rang twice, with no better result. Then with her finger pressed on the
electric button, with her face very red and her poor hand trembling, she
kept up a continued peal until Susan opened the door.
Susan had been busy rushing backwards and forwards to the garden,
putting everything in order for the advent of the Carters.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am," she said. "I am sorry I kept you waiting;
but isn't Miss Nesta here?"
"No, she is not; why didn't you answer my ring at once?"
"The young ladies, ma'am, are expecting one or two friends in the
garden, and I was helping them. I thought, of course, Miss Nesta was
with you."
"She is not; I have been shamefully neglected. Tell Miss Nesta to come
to me at once."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Before you go, Susan, please pull down that blind."
"Yes, ma'am, of course. I am sorry--the room is much too 'ot. Whatever
would Miss Marcia say?"
Susan, who was exceedingly good-natured, did all in her power for her
mistress; picked up her fancy work, found the thimble, moved the sofa a
little out of the sun's rays, and then saying she would find Nesta in a
jiffy and bring her to her mother in double haste, she left the room.
But the jiffy, if that should be a measurement of time, proved to be a
long one. When Susan did come back it was with a face full of concern.
"I'm ever so sorry, ma'am, but Miss Nesta ain't anywhere in the house.
I've been all over the house and all over the garden, and there ain't a
sign of her anywhere. Shall I call Miss Marcia, ma'am?"
"Nonsense, Susan, you know quite well that Miss Marcia has gone to Hurst
Castle. She has gone to see the St Justs."
Susan was not impressed by this fact.
"Whatever is to be done?" she said.
"Send one of the other young ladies to me. Send Miss Molly, it is her
turn, I think, but send one of them."
Now this was exactly what naughty Nesta had prophesied would happen,
Molly, dressed in a pale blue muslin, which she had made herself, a pale
blue muslin with little bows of forget-me-not ribbon all down the front
of the bodice, her hair becomingly dressed, her hands clean and white,
with a little old-fashioned ring of her mother's on one finger, was
waiting to greet the Carters. The Carters were to come in by the lower
gate; they were to come right through the garden and straight along the
path to the summerhouse. Ethel was in the summerhouse. She was in
white; she was giving the final touches to the feast. It was a feast to
delight the eyes of any tired guest, such strawberries, so large, so
ripe, so luscious; a great jug of cream, white, soft sugar, a pile of
hot cakes, jam sandwiches, fragrant tea, the best Sevres china having
been purloined from the cupboard in the drawing room for the occasion.
"They haven't china like that at the Carters', rich as they are," said
Molly.
Oh, it was a time to think over afterwards with delight; a time to enjoy
to the full measure of bliss in the present. And they were coming--
already just above the garden wall Molly could see Clara's hat with its
pink bow and white bird-of-paradise feather, and Mabel's hat with its
blue bow and seagull's wings. And beside them was somebody else, some
one in a straw hat with a band of black ribbon round it. Why, it was
Jim! This was just too much; the cup of bliss began to overflow!
Molly rushed on tiptoe into the summerhouse.
"They're coming!" she whispered, "and Jim is with them! Have we got
enough cups and saucers? Oh, yes, good Susan! Now I am going to stand
at the gate."
The gate was opened and the three visitors appeared. Molly shook hands
most gracefully; Jim gave her an admiring glance.
It was just then that Susan, distracted, her face crimson, hurried out.
"Miss Molly," she said, "Miss Molly!"
"Bring the tea, please," said Molly, in a manner which seemed to
say--"Keep yourself at a distance, if you please."
"Miss Molly, you must go to the missus at once."
"Why?" said Molly.
"She's that flustered she's a'most in hysterics. That naughty Miss
Nesta has gone and run away. She ain't been with her at all. Missus
has been alone the whole blessed afternoon."
"I can't go now," said Molly, "and I won't."
"Miss Molly, you must."
"Go away, Susan. Clara, dear, I'm sorry that the day should be such a
hot one, but you will it so refreshing in the summerhouse."
"You have quite a nice garden," said Clara, in a patronising voice, but
Mabel turned and looked full at Molly.
"Did your servant say your mother wanted you?"
"Oh, there's no hurry," said Molly, who felt all her calm forsaking her,
and crimson spots rising to her cheeks.
"Oh, do go, please," said Clara. "Here's Ethel; she will look after us.
Oh, what good strawberries; I'm ever so thirsty! Run along, Molly, you
must go if your mother wants you."
"Of course you must," said Jim.
"You must go at once, please," said Clara. "Do go. I heard what the
servant said, she was in quite a state, poor thing."
Thus adjured Molly went away. It is true she kept her temper until she
got out of sight of her guests; but once in the house her fury broke
bounds. She was really scarcely accountable for her actions for a
minute or two. Then she went upstairs and entered her mother's room
with anything but a soothing manner to the poor invalid.
"Is that you, Nesta?" said Mrs Aldworth, who from her position, on the
sofa could not see who had entered the room.
"No," said Molly, "it's not Nesta, it is I, Molly, and it is not my day
to be with you, mother. We have friends in the garden. Please, what is
the matter? I can't stay now, really; I can't possibly stay."
"Oh, Molly, oh, I am ill, I am ill," said Mrs Aldworth. "Oh, this is
too much. Oh, my head, my head! The salts, Molly, the salts! I am
going to faint; my heart is stopping! Oh, let some one go for the
doctor--my heart is stopping!"
Molly knelt by her parent; for a minute or two she was really alarmed,
for the flush had died from Mrs Aldworth's face, and she lay panting
and breathless on her sofa. But when Molly bent over her and kissed
her, and said: "Poor little mother, here are the salts; now you are
better, are you not? Poor mother!" Mrs Aldworth revived; tears rose
to her eyes, she looked full at her child.
"You do look pretty," she said, "very, very pretty. I never saw you in
that dress before."
"Oh, mothery, it is too bad," said Molly, her own grievances returning
the moment she perceived that her mother was better. "It's that wicked
little Nesta. Oh, mother, what punishment shall we give her?"
"But tell me," said Mrs Aldworth earnestly, "what is the matter? What
are you doing?"
"Mother, you won't be angry--you know you are so fond of us, and we are
so devoted to you. Oh, if you would excuse me, and let me go down and
pour out tea for them. They are, my dear darling, Clay and Mabel
Carter, and we have tea in the summerhouse, and it's so nice."
"Dear me," said Mrs Aldworth, "tea in the summerhouse, and you never
told me?"
"It was our own little private tea, mother. We thought it was our day
off, and that you wouldn't want us."
"And you didn't want me," said Mrs Aldworth.
"Oh, mother, it isn't that we don't want you, but we do want to have our
fun. We can't be young twice, you know."
"Nesta said that--Nesta is tired of me, too."
"We are none of us tired of you."
"Yes, you are," said Mrs Aldworth. "You know you are, you are all
tired of me; Marcia is right. You may go, Molly."
At that strange new tone, that look on the invalid's white face, a girl
with a better heart, with any sort of real comprehension of character,
with any sort of unselfishness, would immediately have yielded; but
Molly was shallow, frothy, selfish, unreliable.
"If you really mean it," she said--"we could quite well spare Susan."
"It doesn't matter; you can go."
"I'll send Ethel up presently, mother. It seems so rude just when they
have come from such a long way off, in the burning sun and by special
invitation. And there is Jim--you know, you always like us to chat with
Jim."
"You can go," said Mrs Aldworth. "I would not stand in your way for
anything. It's all right."
The sun was pouring in at the window. Mrs Aldworth's head was hot, her
feet were cold; her fancy work had fallen to the ground; all her working
materials were scattered here, there and everywhere, but she rather
hugged her own sense of discomfort.
"Go, dear, go," she said, speaking as gently as she could, and closing
her eyes.
"You'd like to have a nap, wouldn't you?" said Molly, her face
brightening. "I'll put this shawl over your feet."
"No, thank you, I'm too hot."
The shawl was wrenched with some force from Molly's hand.
"Oh, mothery, don't get into a temper. You are not really vexed with
your Molly, are you? I'll be up again soon. I will, really."
"Go," said the weak, querulous voice, and Molly went.
"Is she all right?" asked Ethel when Molly rushed down to the
summerhouse.
"Oh, yes," said Molly in a cheerful tone. "She is going to sleep."
"To sleep?" said Ethel in astonishment.
"Yes, she didn't wish me to stay. Dear old mother, she is so unselfish.
I made her very comfy and I'll go back again presently. Now, I can
look after you; I'm going to help you. Sit down there, Ethel, and let
me pour out the tea. Fie, Ethel, you have not given Jim anything."
But for some reason Jim had darted a glance into Molly's eyes, and Molly
thought she read disapproval in it. It seemed to her that he did not
quite approve of her. But she could not long entertain that feeling,
for she was always satisfied with herself. In a few minutes the whole
five were laughing and talking, playing games, passing jests backwards
and forwards as though there were no invalid mother in the world, no
duties in the world to be performed, no naughty Nesta not very far off.
"Now," said Clara, "we must be trotting home, and you may as well walk
back with us."
"Are you certain you can be spared?" said Jim.
"Yes, I'm positive," said Molly; "but to make sure I'll go in and see
Susan."
Molly went into the house; but she did not go to Susan. She would be
too much afraid to inquire of Susan, who, with all her good nature,
could be cross enough at times, that is, when she thoroughly disapproved
of the young ladies' racketings, as she called them.
What Molly really did was to slip up to her own bedroom, put on her most
becoming hat, catch up her white parasol, take up a similar parasol and
hat for Ethel, with a pair of gloves for each, and rush swiftly
downstairs. No one heard her enter the house, and no one heard her go
downstairs again.
"Thanks," said Ethel, when she saw her hat with its accompanying pins,
observed the parasol, and welcomed the gloves. "Is mother all right?"
she said.
"Yes, she is having a lovely sleep. Now do let us come along."
"You may as well stay and have a game of tennis," said Jim, who after
Molly's return to the house concluded that things must be all right.
"Yes, that would be splendid," said Clara, "and you could stay to supper
if you liked."
How very nearly had that delightful afternoon been spoiled. This was
Molly's thought; but it was the mother herself who had saved it. The
dear little mother who wouldn't like her children to be put out. And of
course she was in such a lovely sleep. That queer attack she had had
when Molly was in the room! But Molly would not let herself think of
that. Mother was queer now and then, and sometimes the doctor had to be
sent for in a hurry; but it was nothing serious. All mother's attacks
were just nervous storms, so the doctor called them. Signs of weakness,
was Molly's explanation. Oh, yes, the attack was nothing, nothing at
all, and what a splendid time she and Ethel were having.