A Bevy of Girls

Chapter Four

A Refreshing Tea

The door closed behind Marcia. Mrs Aldworth was so astonished that she had not time to find her breath before the daring culprit had disappeared. She looked now at Molly. Molly, who had quite forgotten her rôle, turned to her mother for sympathy.

“Oh, mother, could you have believed it of her? She is just the meanest old cat in existence.”

“But what is it, Molly? Do you mean to say that Marcia – Marcia – won’t be with me, her mother, this afternoon?”

“Catch her, indeed,” said the angry Molly. “Didn’t you say, mother, and didn’t you hear father say that when Marcia came home, we three girls would have a fine time of freedom? It was always, always like that – ‘Wait till Marcia comes back.’ Now she is back, and she – oh, mother, I couldn’t believe it of her, I couldn’t! I couldn’t!”

Molly sobbed and sobbed. At another moment Mrs Aldworth would have sent Molly from her room, but now she was so thoroughly angry with Marcia that she was inclined to sympathise with her.

“I will tell you everything, mother. It really is too marvellous. It is almost past belief.”

“Sit down, Molly, and try to stop crying. It is so disfiguring to your face. You are wonderfully like what I used to be when I was a girl. That is, before my poor health gave way, and my poor dear nerves failed me. If you cry like that you will suffer in the end, as I am suffering. You will be a helpless, neglected, disliked invalid.”

“Oh, mother,” said Molly, “I should not be at all surprised, and I only eighteen. You know Marcia is two years older, quite old, you know, out of her teens. When a girl gets out of her teens you expect her to be a little bit steady, don’t you, mother?”

“Of course, dear, of course. But stop crying. I can’t hear you when you sob between each word.”

“It’s enough to make anybody sob. We were so happy yesterday, we three. Ethel and I had everything planned – we were going to the Carters’ dance to-night. You know Edward was to be there, and – and – Rob, who is so taken with Ethel, and our dresses were ready and everything.”

“But why cannot you go, my dear child? You must go.”

“It is impossible, mother, and it is all Marcia’s doing. Our only fear was that perhaps Marcia would not come; but when she did enter the house we did feel ourselves safe. Nesta, poor pet, was going to play tennis with the Fortescues, but everything is knocked on the head now.”

“There’s an unpleasant draught over my feet,” said Mrs Aldworth. “Please, Molly, get me a light shawl to throw over them. No, not that one, the light one, the light one with the grey border. Just put it over my feet and tuck it in a little round the edge – not too much. You are not very skilful. Now, Marcia – ”

“Oh, mother, you’ll have to do without much of your precious Marcia. It was an awful mistake to let her go to Frankfort; it has ruined her. She has come back most terribly conceited and most, most selfish.”

“I never did greatly admire her,” said Mrs Aldworth. “As a child she was exceedingly obstinate.”

“Like a mule, I’ve no doubt,” said Molly. “Oh, dear, dear! I know I’ve got a quick temper, but as to being mulish – I wouldn’t make others unhappy, and she has made three girls so wretched.”

“Well, out with it, Molly.”

Mrs Aldworth was so much interested and so much amazed, that now that her feet had just the right degree of heat provided for them by the shawl with the grey border, she was inclined to listen with curiosity.

“It was at breakfast, mother; we had planned our day, and then all of a sudden Marcia turned round and faced us. She said that she was going to look after you one day in the morning and the next day in the afternoon, and that we three girls were to look after you during the alternate times, and she said – ”

“She surely didn’t say anything so monstrous and inhuman in the presence of your father?”

“That’s the worst of it, mother, you wouldn’t believe for a single moment that she could, but she did.”

“I don’t believe you, Molly.”

“Well, mother, I’ll call her back, she will tell you, she has practically said so already before you, now, hasn’t she? She said she didn’t want to leave Frankfort, but that she had come, and she would stay and do her duty; but that we were to do our duty too, and if we refused, she’d go back to Frankfort. She will be of age almost immediately, and father says she cannot be coerced, and the fact is she will go unless we do it. And oh, Mothery, Horace too is on her side. There’s no hope at all, and we are three miserable girls! What is to be done? What is to be done?”

Molly flung herself on her knees by her mother’s side and sobbed against her mother’s thin white hand, and Mrs Aldworth never recognised the selfish nature or perceived the shallow heart of her eldest child. After a time, however, Number One rose paramount in the good lady’s heart.

“Now get up, my dear. Of course this little matter will be put right. You had better stay with me this afternoon, but Marcia must come in and we can talk things, over.”

“She half promised to come in to tea. I don’t believe she will; she’ll be too much afraid.”

“Oh, my dear, she won’t defy me long. She’ll do what I wish; you leave it in my hands. I don’t say for a single moment that you may not have to give up this one dance, but that is all. Marcia has returned to look after me, to be with me morning, noon, and night, to read to me, and amuse me, and alter my dresses and do everything that I require, and you, my three little girls, are to have your pleasure. But you must come to visit your poor old mother daily, won’t you, Molly?”

“Oh, darling, of course we will. We just love to come.”

“And you must tell me all about your parties and your fun generally, won’t you, Molly?”

“Oh, yes, yes, mother.”

“And whisper, Molly. Marcia has very good taste; she is an exceedingly clever girl.”

“Hardly a girl, mother; she will be twenty-one, soon.”

“Anyhow, dear, she is young, I must admit that, and she has very good taste, and perhaps she’ll help me to make some little extra finery for you. Now, dear child, get up and go on with that novel. I am so anxious to hear if Miss Melville really did accept Lord Dorchester or not.”

Mrs Aldworth’s taste in reading had degenerated very much since the days when she had won a first prize for literature at the second-rate school which had had the honour of educating her. She now preferred stories which appeared in penny papers to any others, and was deeply interested in the fate of Miss Melville at that moment.

Molly read badly, in a most slovenly style. Mrs Aldworth snapped her up every minute or two.

“Don’t drop your voice so, Molly; I didn’t hear what you said. Sit nearer, and don’t fidget. Oh, don’t you know how you torture my poor nerves?”

This sort of thing went on for a couple of hours. Molly grew sleepier and sleepier, and her face crosser and crosser. The room was no longer comfortable; the sun was pouring hotly in, the blinds were up, and neither Mrs Aldworth nor her daughter had the least idea how to mend matters.

But by-and-by – oh, welcome sound – there came a step in the corridor, and Marcia entered, bearing a beautifully arranged tea tray. She carried it herself, and there was a smile on her sweet face. She was all in white, and she looked most charming.

“I thought I’d give you both a surprise,” she said, “Shall I make tea for you this afternoon?”

Molly glanced at her mother. Was the culprit to be received with the coldness she deserved, or on the other hand, was this most welcome interruption to be hailed with delight. Molly flung down her paper and Mrs Aldworth roused herself.

“This room is too hot,” said Marcia. “Molly, allow me. Another day, dear, when you are taking charge of mother, draw this Venetian blind down at this hour, and move mother’s sofa a little into the shade. See how hot her cheeks are. Please run for a little warm water, Molly, I want to bathe your mother’s face and hands. You will feel so refreshed, dear, before you take your tea.” Molly skipped out of the room.

“Oh, if only I might run away and not go back,” she thought; but she did not dare.

When she brought the water Mrs Aldworth was lying with cool, freshly arranged pillows under her head, her hair combed smoothly back from her discontented fare, and Marcia now having mixed a little aromatic vinegar with the warm water, proceeded to bathe her hot cheeks and to cool her white hands.

The tea itself was a surprise and a delight. There were hot cakes which Marcia had made in the kitchen; fragrant tea, real cream, thin bread and butter. Mrs Aldworth admitted that it was a treat.

“You’re a wonderful girl, Marcia,” she said, “and notwithstanding the fact that you have behaved in a very cruel and unnatural way, I forgive you. Yes, I forgive you, and I shall thoroughly forgive you and let bygones be bygones if you will give Molly her freedom for the rest of this afternoon, and sit with me yourself. I can explain a few little things to you then, which will cause the hearts of my three dear girls to leap for joy.”

“Oh, mother, can you?”

Molly’s blue eyes danced. She looked with a sense of triumph, half amusement and half daring, from her mother to Marcia. But, alas, Marcia’s face showed not the slightest sign of yielding.

“I think, mother,” she said, “that you and I must wait for our conversation until to-morrow afternoon. I am exceedingly busy just now, and Molly knows our compact. Have you finished your tea, Molly? If so, I will take away the tray. Good-bye, mother, for the present. Good-bye, Molly.”

As quickly as she had come so did the angel of order and comfort retire. Mrs Aldworth was now in a fury.

“Really, Molly,” she said, “this is insufferable. I would much rather she went altogether. To think of her daring to go against my wishes in my own house.” But bad as things were at present, Molly knew that if Marcia went they would be worse. A certain amount of freedom could now be safely claimed, but if Marcia went things would go on in their slovenly, slipshod, good-for-nothing style; the invalid’s bell always ringing, the girls never at liberty, the house always in disorder.

“Oh, mother,” said Molly, “don’t rouse her; she is capable of anything, I assure you. She has given us just a month to be on our trial, and she says that if we don’t do our part in that time she will return to Frankfort. That horrid Miss Silchester has turned her head, and that’s a fact. She has praised her and petted her and made much of her, and would you believe it, mother, she has absolutely offered to keep the post open for Marcia for a whole month. Mother, dear, do be careful what you say to her, for, I assure you, she has no heart. She would actually allow us three girls – ” Molly stopped to gulp down a sob – “to wear ourselves to death, rather than to do one little thing to help us. It’s awfully cruel, I call it. Oh, mother, it is cruel.”

Now all this was from Molly’s point of view, and so it happened that Mrs Aldworth, for the time being, took her child’s part; she did not think of herself. Besides, Marcia had dared to defy her authority, and a sensation of fury visited her.

“You had better call the others,” she said. “We must have a conclave over this. We really must. I will not submit to insurrection in my house. We must arrange with the girls what we shall do, and then call your father in. His must be the casting vote.”

Molly flew out of the room. She found Nesta presently, enjoying herself in the swing. She jumped lightly from it when she saw Molly.

“Well,” she said, “what has happened! Whatever did mother say?”

“Mother is in the most awful rage. Marcia has openly defied her. I wouldn’t be in Marcia’s shoes for a good deal. Mother thoroughly sympathises with us; she feels that we are most badly used, and she wants you, Nesta, you and Ethel. Wherever is Ethel?”

“Ethel has gone over to the Carters’ to explain about to-night. Poor Ethel, her head was banging; I expect the heat of the sun will give her sunstroke. But Marcia wouldn’t care. Not she.”

“Well, you had better come along, Nesta,” said Molly. “Mother will be awfully annoyed at Ethel being out. What a pity she went. It’s very important for our future.”

The two sisters went up together to their mother’s room, arm in arm. As a rule they often quarrelled, but on this occasion they were unanimous against their common fate. Mrs Aldworth, however, had changed her mood during Molly’s absence. She had begun to think what all this was about, and what all the agony of Molly’s tears really represented. The great trial in the minds of her daughters, was having to nurse her. She was their mother.

“Am I such a nuisance, so terribly in every one’s way?” she thought, and she began to sob feebly. She wished herself, as she was fond of saying, out of the way. “If only I might die!” she moaned. “They would be very sorry then. They would think a great deal of what their poor mother was to them in life. But they’re all selfish, every one of them.”

It was in this changed mood that the two girls, Molly and Nesta, entered Mrs Aldworth’s room. She greeted them when they appeared in the doorway.

“Don’t walk arm in arm in that ridiculous fashion. You know you are always quarrelling, you two. You are just in league against poor Marcia.”

“Poor Marcia!” cried Molly.

“Yes, poor Marcia. But where’s Ethel; why doesn’t she come when her mother sends for her? Am I indeed openly defied in my own house?”

“Oh, mother,” said Molly, in some trepidation, “it isn’t us, it is Marcia.”

“It’s much more you, you are my children – Marcia isn’t. I am your mother. Live as long as you may you will never be able to get a second mother.”

Here Mrs Aldworth burst into sobs herself. But Nesta was an adept at knowing how to manage the invalid when such scenes came on.

“As though we wanted to,” she said. “Darling little mother; sweet, pretty little mother.”

She knelt by the sofa, she put her soft arms round her mother’s poor tired neck, she laid her soft, cool cheek against the hot one, she looked with her blue eyes into the eyes from which tears were streaming.

“You know, mother, that we just worship you.”

“But, of course, mother, it’s only natural,” said Molly, “that we should sometimes want to have a little fresh air.”

“It is just as true,” continued Nesta, “that one cannot be young twice, as that one cannot have a real ownest mother over again.”

“Of course it is,” said Mrs Aldworth, whose emotions were like the weathercock, and changed instant by instant. “I quite sympathise with you, my darlings. You adore me, don’t you?”

“We live for you,” said Molly. “You are our first thought morning, noon, and night.”

“Then where is Ethel? Why doesn’t she come?”

“She has gone to the Carters to explain that we cannot possibly be present at the dance this evening.”

“Poor darling,” said Nesta, “she’ll have sunstroke on the way, her head was so bad.”

“Sunstroke?” said Mrs Aldworth, who was now seriously alarmed, “and the afternoon is so very hot. Why did you let her go out with a bad headache?”

“She had to go, mother,” said Nesta. “The Carters would be so offended.”

“Of course they would,” said Molly. “She simply had to go. But for Marcia it would have been all right.”

“Certainly that girl does bring discord and misery into the house,” said Mrs Aldworth.

“But she won’t long, mother; not when you manage her.”

“You can manage anybody, you know, mother,” said Nesta.

Mrs Aldworth allowed herself to smile. She mopped the tears from her eyes and sat up a little higher on her sofa.

“Now, darling,” she said, “draw up that blind. Marcia has made the room too dark.”

“Catch her doing anything right!” said Nesta.

She pulled up the Venetian blind with a bang. Alas, one of the cords snapped. Immediately the rods of wood became crooked, and the light darted on to Mrs Aldworth’s face.

“You tiresome, clumsy child,” said the mother. “Now what is to be done?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. I’m very sorry,” said Nesta. “I’m all thumbs – I have always said so. I suppose it’s because I’m so ridiculously young.”

Mrs Aldworth scolded in the fretful way in which she could scold; the girls between them managed to move the sofa, and after a time peace was restored; but the room was disorderly, and the crooked blind wobbling in a most disreputable manner against the partly opened window, did not improve its appearance.

“What will you do, mother?” said Nesta. “Do tell us what you will do?”

“Well,” said Mrs Aldworth, “I shall insist firmly on obedience.”

“There’s no use coercing her too roughly, mother; there really isn’t,” said Molly. “She will simply do what she said.”

“You leave her to me, dears. When does her so-called duty recommence?”

“To-morrow afternoon, mother, Ethel will look after you to-morrow morning,” said Nesta, in some terror for fear the unwelcome task should devolve on herself.

“Yes, of course, Ethel will take her turn,” said Molly, then she added, glancing at Nesta, “and it will be your turn on the following afternoon.”

“Oh, but I cannot possibly come then, for I have promised to go for a walk with Flossie Griffiths. It has been such a looked-forward-to treat. Mother, you couldn’t deprive me of the pleasure.”

“I tell you it will be all right by then,” said Mrs Aldworth. “Now, go away, Nesta, your voice is much too loud, and remember, that after all it is a great privilege for you to have a mother to attend to when she is so devoted to you.”

“Yes, yes, darling; yes, yes,” said Nesta.

She kissed the hot cheek again and went slowly out of the room. In the passage, however, she uttered a low whoop of rejoicing at her recovered liberty, and a minute later she flew down the garden path to enjoy herself in the swing.

Chapter Five

Seeking Sympathy

The Carters were a numerous family. They lived about a mile away from the Aldworths. The Aldworths lived in a small house in the town and the Carters in a large country place with spacious grounds and every imaginable luxury. Mr Carter had suddenly made a great pile of money in iron, had retired to private life, and had given his six children everything that money could buy. The Carters conducted themselves always according to their special will; they had no mother to look after them, their mother having died when Penelope, the youngest girl, was a baby. There were two sons in the family and four daughters. The sons were called Jim and Harry, the girls were Clara, Mabel, Annie, and Penelope. They were ordinary, good-natured, good-humoured sort of girls; they took life easily. Clara, the eldest, believed herself to be the mistress of the house, and a very sorry mistress she would have made but for the fact that there was an invaluable old nurse, a servant, who had lived with Mrs Carter before she died, and who really held the household reins. This kind-hearted, motherly body kept the young people in check, although she never appeared to cross them. They consulted her without knowing that they did so. She superintended the servants; she saw to the linen press; she arranged the food; she kept all the supplies with a liberal hand, and gave Clara and the other girls carte blanche with regard to what they might do with their time, and when they might entertain their friends.

The old house, Court Prospect by name, on account of its extensive view, was very suitable for entertainments. Once it had been the property of a gracious and noble family; but hard times had come upon them and Sir John St. Just had been glad to receive the money which the rich Mr Carter was prepared to offer. In consequence, the St. Justs had disappeared from the neighbourhood. Beautiful Angela St. Just no longer delighted the people when she walked down the aisle of the little village church. She no longer sang with a voice which seemed to the parishioners like that of an angel, in the choir. She went away with her father, and the Carters, it must be owned, had a bad time of it during the first year of their residence at Court Prospect.

But money can effect wonders. The place was according to the Carters’ ideas completely renovated. The hideous, ugly out-of-date furniture was replaced by maple with plush and gilt and modern taste. The gardens were laid out according to the ideas of a landscape gardener who had certainly never consulted the true ideas of Nature. Some of the old timber had been cut down to enlarge the view, as Clara expressed it.

This young lady was now exactly eighteen years of age. She was out, and so was her twin sister, Mabel. Annie, who was only seventeen, was still supposed to be in the school-room, but she was very much en évidence at all the parties and entertainments; but Penelope, who was only fourteen, was obliged to be to a certain extent under tutelage.

The Carters’ ball, or rather, as they expressed it themselves, their little impromptu dance, had been the talk of all the girls and young men who were lucky enough to be invited to it. It was a great honour to be intimate with the Carters; they were jolly, good-natured girls, and certainly without a trace of snobbishness in their compositions. They were so rich that they did not want to be bothered, as they expressed it, with monied people; they liked to choose their own friends. Molly and Ethel and Nesta had attracted Clara and Mabel some time ago, and their brothers, too, had considered the girls very pretty; for the young Aldworths were of the laughing, joking, gay sort of girls, who could talk in a pert, frank fashion; who were not troubled with an overplus of brains, and, in consequence, were exceedingly popular with certain individuals.