Chapter 9 A Bevy of Girls by L. T. Meade
The Truth about Mrs Aldworth
When Marcia left the train at Hurst Castle station she was greeted by, a tall, very slender girl who was waiting on the platform to receive her. The girl had a sufficiently remarkable face to attract the attention of each person who saw her. It was never known in her short life that any one passed Angela St. Just without turning to look at her. Most people looked again after that first glance, but every one, man, woman, and child, bestowed at least one glance at that most radiant, most lovely face. It was difficult to describe Angela, for hers was not the beauty of mere feature; it was the beauty of a very loving, loyal, and noble soul which seemed, in some sort of way, to have got very close to her body, so close that its rays were always shining out. It shone in her eyes, causing them to have a peculiar limpid light, the sort of light which has been described as “Never seen on land or shore,” and the same spirit caused those smiles round the girl’s beautiful lips, and the kindly words which dropped from her mouth when she spoke, and the sympathy in her manner. For the rest, she was graceful with an abundance of chestnut hair, neatly formed and yet unremarkable features and a creamy white complexion. Her eyebrows were delicately formed, being long and sweeping, and slightly arched. Her eyes were also long, almost almond-shaped, of a soft and yet bright hazel. Her eyelashes were very thick and very dark, making the hazel eyes look almost black at a distance. The girl had all the advantages which a long train of noble ancestors could bestow upon her. Her education had been attended to in the most thorough manner, and now at the age of sixteen and a half, there could scarcely be seen a more perfect young creature than Angela St. Just.
“Oh, Angela,” said Marcia, as she found her hand clasped in that of Angela, “this is good. I have just been longing to see you.”
“And I to see you, Marcia. The carriage is waiting—I don’t mean the ordinary stiff carriage, but the pony trap. Uncle Herbert has lent it to me for the whole afternoon, and there are some delightful woods just a little way out of the town, where we can drive and have a picnic tea. I have brought all the materials for it in a basket in the little pony trap.”
Marcia naturally acceded to this delightful proposition, and the girls were soon driving rapidly over the country roads.
Marcia almost wondered as she leant back in the luxurious little carriage and watched her young companion, whether she were in a dream or not. This morning she had been a member of the Aldworths’ untidy, disorderly house. She herself was the one spirit of order within it. Now she was by Angela’s side, she was close to the most beautiful creature she had ever met, or ever hoped to meet.
Angela was not one to talk very much, but once or twice she glanced at her companion. The sweetest smile just broke the lines of her mouth and then vanished, leaving it grave once more.
They entered the shade of the woods, and presently drew up under a wide-spreading oak tree. The woods near Hurst Castle were celebrated, having once been part of the ancient forest which at one time covered the greater part of England. Here were oaks of matchless size, and of enormous circumference; here were beech trees which looked as though they formed the pillars and the roof of a great cathedral; here were graceful ladies of the forest, with their silvery stems and their slender leaves. Here, also, were the denizens of the woods—birds, rabbits, hares, butterflies innumerable. Marcia gave a sigh.
“What is the matter?” said Angela at once.
“Oh, it is so good, so beautiful, but I can spend such a short time with you.”
“I was determined to come all alone, and I wouldn’t even let Bob drive me. He was quite disappointed; but I managed the ponies splendidly. Here, we will just fasten them to this tree. Now, darlings, you will be as good as gold, won’t you? Jeanette, don’t eat your head off. Oh, yes, you must have a little bit of this tender young furze to nibble. Coquette, behave yourself, dear.” She lightly pressed a kiss on the forehead of both of her pets, and then taking out the tea basket placed it under the tree.
Two other girls were having tea at that moment in another wood not very far away; but Marcia, luckily for her peace of mind, knew nothing of that. When the meal was half over, Angela turned to her companion.
“Now, I want to hear all about it.”
“About what, Angela?”
“Oh, you know—why you suddenly left Aunt Emily; why you gave up the school where you were doing such wonderful things, and influencing the girls so magnificently. What does it all mean? You often told me that you were not wanted at home.”
“And I thought so; God forgive me; I was wrong.”
“Well, tell me.”
“Angela, you know quite well how often you have advocated our direct and instant obedience to the call of duty.”
“I certainly have—I often wish duty would call me. I have such an easy life. I long to do something great.”
“Well, I will tell you all about myself.”
Marcia did give it résumé of what had just happened.
“The girls are dreadful at present,” she said. “They are—it’s the true word for them, Angela, I cannot help telling you—they are under-bred.”
“It must be dreadful, dear; but is it their fault?”
“I fear in a certain measure that this state of things belongs to their natures.”
“But natures can be altered,” said Angela. “At least I believe so.”
She gave a queer little twitch to her brows, looking up as she did so for a moment at Marcia.
“I know,” said Marcia, “up to a certain point they can; and people can be made to see their duty and all that; but I think there are certain natures which cannot rise beyond certain heights, at least in this world; don’t you agree with me, Angela?”
“I have not thought about it. I have always thought that ‘The best for the highest’ ought to be our motto—it ought to be the motto of every one—the best for the highest, don’t you understand?”
“It is yours,” said Marcia.
“Well, anyhow,” continued Angela, “I am so interested. I’ll come and see you all some day.”
“They’d be ever so proud, and so would my stepmother. They think a great deal about you.”
Angela did not reply.
“I am going to stay here for a little,” she said, after a pause. “Father is quite happy to be with Uncle Herbert, and it is good for him not to have too much of his roaming life. I will ask him if I may not come and see you some day. He wouldn’t come—he can’t bear to go near Newcastle since dear old Court Prospect was sold.”
“I can quite understand that.”
“And will you come to see us—are you quite sure you will come during the summer?”
“I hope so.”
“Do you think those girls will keep their compact?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you mean to keep yours if they break it? that the point,” said Angela, and now she leant back against the great clump of fern, and looked at her companion from under the shade of her black hat. Marcia glanced at her.
“I shall do it,” she said.
“It would be somewhat painful for you. Your—your mother has got accustomed to you.”
“She is not my real mother.”
“Ought you to think of that, Marcia? Your real mother doesn’t want you; this mother does.”
“Yes, I know what you mean, but I will not change; I am determined; I will help the girls to do their duty; I will not take their burden from them.”
“But ought they to consider the care of a mother a burden?” said Angela. “I think if I could find my own mother anywhere—”
“Angela, you and they are not made out of the same materials.”
“Oh, yes, we are. I should like to talk to them.”
“You would have no effect. They would only look at you, and wonder why your hat looked different on you from their hats on them, and why you spoke with such a good accent, and why you are so graceful, and they would be, without knowing it, a little bit jealous.”
“You are not talking very kindly of them, are you, Marcia?”
“I don’t believe I am; shall we change the subject?”
“Yes, certainly, if you like. What is your plan for the future, Marcia?”
“I will tell you. I have some hopes; I think I have won my stepmother round very much to my views. She is the sort of woman who can be very easily managed, if you only know how to take her. If I had my stepmother altogether to myself and there was no one to interfere, I should not be at all afraid. But you see the thing is this—that while I influence her one day, the others undo all that I have said and done the next, and this, I fear, will go on for some time. Still, I think I have some influence, and I have no doubt when I get back to-night that I shall find Nesta has not transgressed any very open rules.”
“Poor Nesta,” said Angela, “I understand her point of view a little bit—at least, I think I do.”
“I don’t,” said Marcia. “A life without discipline is worth nothing, but we have been very differently trained. Anyhow, I believe that in three months’ time my stepmother will be so much better that she will be able to go downstairs and take her part in the household. Beyond doubt her illness is largely fanciful, and when that is the case, and when the girls have come to recognise the fact that they must devote a portion of their time to her, things will go well, and I shall be able to return to Frankfort for another year.”
“Oh, delightful,” said Angela. “Think of the opera, and the music. Perhaps we might go to Dresden, or to Leipsic. I do want to see those places and the pictures, and to hear the music, and to do all that is to be done.”
Marcia smiled; she allowed Angela to talk on. By-and-by it was time for them to return to the railway station. The train was a little late, and Marcia and Angela paced up and down the little platform, and talked as girls will talk, until at last the local train drew up, and Marcia took her seat.
She found herself alone with one man. At first she did not recognise him, then she gave a start. It was Dr Anstruther, the medical man who attended her mother. He came at once towards her, holding out his hand.
“How do you do, Miss Marcia? I am very glad to see you, and to have the pleasure of travelling with you as far as Newcastle.”
Marcia replied that the pleasure was also hers, and then she began to ask him one or two questions with regard to her stepmother.
“I cannot tell you how thankful I am,” he said, “that you have returned; her case perplexes me a good deal.”
“Her case perplexes you, doctor?”
“Well, yes. Things are going from bad to worse.”
“But surely,” said Marcia, with a little gasp and a tightening at her heart, “you are not seriously alarmed about my stepmother.”
“Not seriously alarmed at present, but I soon should be if the present state of things went on.”
“I always thought,” said Marcia, “and I gathered that opinion partly from your words, that her case was not at all serious, and that you believed most of her symptoms to be purely imaginary.”
“On purpose I always encouraged her to think so, and a good many of her symptoms are imaginary, or rather they are only the consequence of weakened nerves; her nerves are very weak.”
“But that kind of thing is never dangerous, is it?” said Marcia, who with her twenty years on her shoulders, and her buoyant strength and youth, had a rooted contempt for what people called nerves.
“Nervous diseases in themselves are scarcely dangerous, but in your mother’s case there is a serious heart affection, which requires and must always require, an immensity of care. She has not the slightest idea of that herself, and I should be very sorry to enlighten her on the point. I could not tell your sisters, who would not comprehend me if I did, but I have often been on the point of mentioning the fact to your father, or to your brother.”
“How long,” said Marcia, in a low, strained voice, “how long have you known this?”
“I have suspected it for a year, but I have been positively certain only within the last three months. I was then called in to attend on your mother when she had had a very serious collapse. She was quite unconscious when I got to the house and for a short time I despaired of her life. She came to, however, and I made as lightly as I could of the attack; but it was then that I told your father I thought he ought to have somebody more capable of looking after his wife than his young daughters. The next day I examined my patient’s heart very carefully, and I found that the mischief which would cause such an attack did exist to a larger extent than I had the least idea of before.”
“When you asked my father to get a more competent nurse for her, what did he say?”
“He said he would not have a hired nurse in the house on any terms, and immediately mentioned you.”
“Dr Anstruther, I will also speak plainly to you. There is time enough, may I?”
“Certainly, Miss Aldworth.”
“I am not her real daughter.”
“Does that count? She came to you when you were a very little child.”
“That is true, and had she no daughter of her own, I should never mention the fact. I would attend to her as I would my real mother, and be glad to do so; but she has three daughters of her own; two grown-up and the other quite old enough to be useful.”
“That is true.”
“They should have taken care of her.”
“They do not know how to, Miss Aldworth. I cannot express to you the neglect that poor woman suffered. She is not very strong-minded herself, and she never knew how to command, how to order, how to force those girls to do their duty. They need some one with a head on her shoulders to guide them. The poor thing drifted and let them drift, and the state of things was disgraceful. It could not have gone on. Had you failed to come, you would soon have had no stepmother to trouble you.”
“I am glad I came,” said Marcia, and the tears started to her eyes.
“I knew you would be.”
“And yet,” continued the girl, “it means a great deal of self-sacrifice on my part.”
“I thought you were a teacher in a school.”
“In one sense you are right, in another wrong. I am a teacher, or I was a teacher, in Mrs Silchester’s school at Frankfort. Mrs Silchester is Miss St. Just’s aunt, and Angela St. Just has been my dearest friend for some years.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes.”
“I saw you together just now.”
“I was happy at the school. I was paid nothing, for I have sufficient money of my own. I did what teaching I could, and received instruction in return. No girl could have been happier. I had many friends about me; my life was full. To be with Mrs Silchester alone was a happiness unspeakable, and Angela was, and is to be again, a member of the school. Think what I have lost.”
“I am sorry for you, but the path of duty.”
“I will walk on it, Dr Anstruther; but the girls must help me.”
“Ah, that is quite right, if only you will superintend them and make them do their duty. Oh, here we are slowing into Newcastle. You go on, of course, to the West Station. I get out here. You won’t mention a word of what I have said.”
“Not even to my father?”
“To no one at present. The fewer who know, the better for her. She is so weak, poor soul; so nervous, that even if she guessed at her true condition, she would have a very serious attack. Good-night, for the present. Be assured of my sympathy. I am glad we have had this talk.”