A Bevy of Girls

“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 mean dear Marcia, – 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, perhaps about 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 her very best, 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.