Chapter 8 A Bevy of Girls by L. T. Meade
A Feast to Delight the Eyes
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 Sèvres 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.