Loe raamatut: «A Bevy of Girls», lehekülg 12
Chapter Twenty Two
Wrong Set Right
Mr Carter hurried home about six o’clock. He had spent a busy day in Newcastle, and had gone through a few worries. He took the worries of life hard. He was exacting on all nice points of honour, and one of his clerks had deceived him. His mind, therefore, was especially sore as he sank back in the luxurious carriage which was to convey him back to Court Prospect. Halfway back he also remembered the affair of the sovereign. The loss of the sovereign was a mere nothing, but the fact that one of his dependents could steal from a private purse kept in one of his drawers, meant a great deal.
“Of course, it’s that girl,” he thought. “She’s as bad in her way as young Hanson is in his. I am sorry for them both, of course, but as I said to Hanson, if he had told me that he was in money difficulties, I would have helped him out; but instead of that he thought he’d help himself. Well, he has helped himself out of my service for ever; that’s plain, that’s only justice, and that girl, Betty Wren, if she doesn’t confess, she’ll go the same road; I vow it, and I’m a man who never yet broke my word.”
But as he got nearer to the house, more pleasurable thoughts succeeded the dismal ones. There was Jim – his eldest son, his pride, his boy. He had had a business letter from Jim that morning which had not arrived at Court Prospect, but had been sent to his father’s big offices in Newcastle, and in that letter it turned out that Jim had done splendidly. He had acted with tact and diplomacy, and would soon be back again.
“Won’t I give him a good time for this?” thought the father. “He is a lad to be proud of. Hullo, though, who’s that?”
He had turned into the avenue now; the horses were going under the beautiful beech trees at a spanking trot, and a girl was coming slowly to meet him.
“Why, if that isn’t my own Pen,” he said.
He was so amazed and startled that he pulled the check string, and the carriage stopped.
“Hullo, Pen!” he said. “What in the name of wonder are you doing here? What is the matter? Here, jump in, child.”
Pen obeyed.
“I want you, father,” she spoke in a tremulous voice – “I want you to come into the study the very minute you get home. I have something to say to you.”
Mr Carter turned round and gazed at Pen in surprise.
“Have you been ill?” he asked. “Why didn’t you go with the others to Whitby?”
“I’ll tell you when we get in the study.”
He looked at her again, and a frown came between his brows. He did not know why he was suddenly reminded of young Hanson and of Betty Wren, but he was. Oh, of course it was all nonsense, his little Pen – and yet she kept her face averted.
Presently they reached the house. Her father helped her out of the carriage.
“Now, come along, child,” he said with a sort of gentle roughness. “I guess by your manner that you have got into a bit of a scrape. I cannot make out what it is, but you are right to come to the old father; the old father will help you, if he can. What on earth are you trembling for?”
“Oh, come at once to the study, father.”
Pen pulled him along. He was tired, he had gone through a hard day; he wanted his customary cup of tea; he wanted to go into the garden and talk to Archer. He loved his garden, he enjoyed counting his peaches and gloating over his fruit trees, and considering how he could make more and more money out of the old place. He was terribly keen about money making. He was interested in money, it was a power, and he meant to have it whatever else he failed in.
But there was Pen, why had she not gone with the others to Whitby? Something ailed her; she was his youngest. He was fonder of Penelope than of any of his other children, except Jim. Jim, of course, was altogether on a different platform; there was no one like Jim in the world. It was worth struggling hard to make a fortune for a boy like Jim.
So he hurried as fast as Pen could wish, and presently she burst open the door of his study. There, standing by the window, was the white-robed vision which had so startled, so stirred, so moved Pen herself a few hours ago. The white vision came forward slowly, and Mr Carter looked with dazzled eyes at the girl he most wished to know, Angela St. Just. She was in his study, she was coming to meet him.
“I must introduce myself,” she said. “You have, of course, met my father in business matters, Mr Carter, but I want to see you on quite a different subject.”
“Miss St. Just,” said the startled man.
“Yes, I am Angela St. Just, Penelope’s friend.”
Mr Carter turned and looked at Pen as though he suddenly loved her passionately.
“Penelope’s friend; and I trust I may be able to help her through a rather difficult matter.”
“Now, what in the name of fortune does this mean?” said Mr Carter. “You here, Miss St. Just, you here in your old home, when they said that neither you nor your father could abide to come near the place, and yet you are here! What does it mean? I don’t understand.”
“Penelope will explain,” said Angela very gently. Then Penelope came forward. She made a valiant struggle, and after a minute or two some words came to her lips.
“Clay says that perhaps you will kill me. I don’t think you can forgive me. Father, it was I who took that sovereign out of your purse – the purse you always put money in to pay the men’s wages. I took it in the middle of the week, father.”
Mr Carter had forgotten Angela by this time. What was this – what was the matter? He was so absorbed, so stunned by Pen’s words that he could scarcely contain himself. He made one step forward, seized her hand, drew her to the light.
“What?” he said. “Say those words again.”
“I took your sovereign.”
“You —you, my child, stole my money!”
Angela now moved slowly across the room and put her hand on Pen’s shoulder.
“She is very, very sorry,” said Angela. “She feels heartbroken; she failed just in the one thing, she had not the courage to confess. But because you discovered the theft she would not go to Whitby to-day; she was determined to stay and brave it out.”
“And she came,” said Pen, “and she told me that I ought to tell you.”
There was no word about Jim. Pen had determined that Jim was to be left out of the matter.
But just at that moment there was a noise in the hall, a hurried step, a cheerful tone, and Jim himself burst into the room.
“Oh, father! You here, Pen? Oh, my darling, I am ever so sorry! Father, I forgot all about it in the other excitement, but it’s all right, it’s all right. We’re all right, everything is all right, and – and Pen told me. I said I would speak to you, but when you sent me away in such a hurry, I forgot, and Pen, I suppose she was frightened. Pen, can you forgive me?”
“Then you never got my letter?” said Pen. “I sent it to the Holroyds’, I knew you were there.”
Mr Carter looked troubled. He went up and took Jim’s hand.
“I am ever so puzzled,” he said. “I accused that girl, Betty Wren, and it seems – but tell me the whole story, Pen. I must hear it from beginning to end. Then I shall be able to decide.”
So Pen told him the story. Angela stood very gravely by. She stood a little bit in the background, and the shadow of the great curtain partly concealed her face, but the light of evening fell across her white dress, so that her whole appearance was like that of a pitying angel, who was waiting for the moment when the sinner was to be forgiven. Mr Carter looked from one of his children to the other, then at Angela.
“You have pretty high ideas of honour,” he said. “You know what this sort of thing means. Now, tell me what you would do if you were in my shoes.”
“There is no doubt whatever about what you will do,” said Angela.
“You think, don’t you – I believe saints always do – that sin ought to be punished.”
“We have the Divine Example,” said Angela in a low tone.
Mr Carter looked at her.
“You said a strange thing a minute ago; you said you were Penelope’s friend,” he remarked.
“So I am, from this day forward, as long as we both live.”
“You are in rare luck,” said Carter, looking gloomily at Pen, “to have a friend like that.” He walked to the other end of the room and began to stride up and down. He was hurt beyond anything he could have imagined. What was he to do? How was he to endure his own misery? It was bad enough to have a servant in the house who could be dishonest, bad enough to have a clerk who could steal, but here was his own child.
“Did I ever deny you anything?” he said.
“No, father.”
“Couldn’t you come to me and ask me for the money?”
“I was so terrified and afraid – oh, I have no excuse.”
“That is it,” said Angela. “She has no excuse whatever. It is not a case of excuse, it is a case of a girl having done wrong, and being bitterly sorry, and having confessed her fault. Now you come in, sir.”
“I come in, pray?” he said.
He forgot that the speaker was Miss St. Just, she was just a girl addressing him. But there was wonderful power in her voice.
“Of course you come in. What would God do in such a case?”
Carter turned away.
“Oh, father, you will, you will forgive me.”
“I come in, forsooth!” said the man. “I, who made a fool of myself this morning, and told that poor girl that she certainly had done it, but that if she confessed I would forgive her!”
“Then there is a similar case,” said Angela. “Penelope has confessed, so you ought to forgive her.”
“I don’t know – I don’t know,” he said.
“Oh, father, mayn’t I bring Betty down, and may I tell her that I was the real thief?”
“No good in that, child. No good in making it public.”
“Of course, father, you’ll have to forgive Pen,” said Jim’s sturdy young voice at that moment.
“If you wish it, Jim – if you wish it, of course there is nothing more to be said. What do you feel about it? You have metal in you; you’re made of the right stuff. What do you feel about this matter?”
“I feel that I have never loved Pen more than I do at this moment. I never was so proud of her. She has grit in her, she is worth all the rest of us, to my way of thinking.”
“No, that is not so; but if you wish it, Jim, and you, Miss St. Just.”
“I do wish it,” said Angela.
“Then I will say nothing more. Pen, I am disappointed; I am bitterly hurt, but I will say nothing more.”
He took the child’s hand, held it for a minute, looked into her face, and said:
“Why, I do believe you have suffered, you poor bit of a thing.”
Then he abruptly kissed her on her forehead and left the room.
Chapter Twenty Three
Nesta Lost Again
The Aldworths were in a state of confusion. Mrs Aldworth was anxious; Nurse Davenant was keeping the worst from her, but nevertheless she was anxious. Molly and Ethel were so firmly desired on no account to give themselves away, that they were absolutely excluded from the room. They were loud in their denunciations of Nesta.
“Catch old Nesta getting herself into trouble,” they said. “She has just gone off on one of her sprees.”
That was their first idea, but when they went to the Griffiths’ house, as the most likely place for the naughty Nesta to have taken herself to, and were greeted by the news that Mr, Mrs, and Miss Griffiths had started for Scarborough that morning, and that certainly no one else had gone with them, their ideas were somewhat shaken; they really did not know what to think. What was to be done? There was Mrs Aldworth wanting Nesta, and asking for her from time to time.
“Where is the child?” she said.
Now, Mrs Aldworth was herself, with her own delicate fingers, making a new blouse for Nesta. It was a very pretty one, of delicate pink silk, with embroidery trimming it all round the neck and round the pretty fancy sleeves. Mrs Aldworth wanted to try it on, and there was no Nesta to be found. The other girls were slighter than Nesta, who was a very buxom young woman for her years.
What was the matter? What was to be done? Still she was not seriously alarmed, for Marcia managed to keep her mind at rest. Nesta was out, she would be in soon.
But when lunch time came, and no Nesta appeared, Marcia sent a hurried line to Angela to tell her that she might, after all, not be able to go to Hurst Castle that day. She certainly would not leave the Aldworths while they were in anxiety.
Angela had replied that she was coming into Newcastle, and would go and pay the Carters a visit. She would wait for Marcia, and take her back.
It was late that evening when Angela did call for Marcia. She drew up her little pony carriage outside the door; she had driven all the way from Hurst Castle, but the ponies were fresh from their long rest in the old Court Prospect stables. Angela waited in the porch.
“I won’t come in to-night,” she said to Susan. “Just go up and say that Miss St. Just is waiting.”
Marcia came down. Her face was very pale.
“Oh, my dear Angela,” she said. “Whatever will you think of me? What is to be done? I have spent such a miserable day. We are all most anxious.”
“What?” said Angela, “haven’t you found the truant yet?”
“No; we have searched high and low, all over the place. We don’t want to alarm people. We could, of course, send a telegram to father and Horace, but we don’t want to do that.”
“She is evidently a very naughty girl,” said Angela.
“I am afraid she is; she is terribly self-willed,” said Marcia with a sigh.
“I’m not a scrap uneasy about her,” said Angela. “She is quite certain to have taken care of herself. But what frets me is that you are looking so white, dear. You want your holiday so badly.”
“I can’t really go with you to-night; I am ever so sorry, Angela, but it is quite impossible.”
“Then let me stay and help you.”
“Oh, I can’t do that!” but Marcia’s eyes expressed a longing.
“Now, why shouldn’t I stay?” said Angela. “I have always longed to see Mrs Aldworth. You might bring me up to her, mightn’t you?”
“I wonder if I dare?”
“Of course, you can, dear. Have I ever tired or frightened any one in the whole course of my life?”
“You have been so shamefully neglected, dear, and what will your father say?”
“I’ll send him a wire telling him not to expect us to-night. Or, better still, I’ll send the carriage home with a note. He’ll get it just when he is expecting me, and he will be quite contented in his mind.”
“Well, then, if you will, you can share my room.”
“Certainly,” said Angela lightly.
“You have been a long time at the Carters’,” said Marcia.
“Yes, I have had a most interesting time.”
“Your first visit to your old home.”
“I hadn’t much time to think of that, and I’m glad it is over. I shall go there very often. What nice young people the Carters are.”
Marcia opened her eyes.
“The two I saw – Jim and Penelope.”
“Penelope – yes, there is a good deal in that child.”
“I am her friend; I will tell you presently something, but not all, about her. I am truly glad I went to-day. Now, if only I can help you.”
“You can, you shall; I think God must have sent you.”
Marcia and her friend entered the house. They went into the library, where Marcia ordered a meal for Angela, and then went upstairs. Molly and Ethel were ready to dart upon her in the passage.
“What a long time you’ve been. Mother is beginning to cry. She says that Nesta has deserted her shamefully. We daren’t say that she is not in the house. I was thinking,” continued Molly, “of making up a little story, and saying that she was in her bedroom with a headache; mother couldn’t be very anxious about that, could she?”
“You mustn’t make up any such story. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Marcia, you are so over particular. Of course, you are not going to Hurst Castle to-night.”
“I am not.”
“Is Miss St. Just very sorry?”
“She is rather; but by the way, Molly, you might help me; Miss St. Just is spending the night here.”
“Good gracious!” said Ethel, drawing herself up. “Yes; won’t you two go down and have a chat with her? I wish you would. She is going to see mother presently. I think she will do mother a lot of good. Anyhow, she is staying, and I must make up my mind what is to be done about Nesta. If there are no tidings of her within the next hour or so, I must send a telegram to father.”
“We must make ourselves smart, first,” said Ethel, turning to Molly.
“I suppose so,” answered Molly.
They both went into their bedroom, the nice room which Marcia had prepared for them, and considered.
“My white dress,” said Molly – “oh, but there’s that horrid stain on it. I got it yesterday.”
“Our pink muslins are quite fresh; we look very nice in pink, and two dressed alike have always a good effect,” was Ethel’s suggestion.
Accordingly the pink muslins were donned, the raffled but pretty hair was put into immaculate order, and the girls, their hearts beating a little, went downstairs to entertain their distinguished guest. Of course, she was distinguished. But she was going to stay in their house – she was to be with them for a whole long, beautiful night. How lovely! They could look at her and study her, and furtively copy her little ways, her little graciousnesses, her easy manners, her politeness, which never descended to familiarity, and yet put people immediately at their ease. And better still, they could talk to their friends about her and about what had occurred. When those upstart, disagreeable Carters came back, what a crow they would have over them.
They were both in good spirits and forgot Nesta. Nesta was nothing but a trouble-the-house. She would turn up when she pleased. She deserved a sound whipping, and an early putting to bed; that was what she deserved.
Molly entered the room first; Ethel followed behind. Susan had lit a lamp, and the drawing room looked fairly comfortable. Angela was standing by the open window. She turned when she saw the girls and came forward to meet them.
“We’re so pleased and proud to know you,” began Molly.
“You are Molly, of course – or are you Molly?” said Angela, glancing from one girl to the other.
“We’re awfully alike, you know,” laughed Molly, “aren’t we, Ethel? Yes, I am Molly, and this is Ethel. We’re not twins, but there’s only about a year between us. We’re very glad to know you. Have you heard much about us?”
“Of course I have, from Marcia, my greatest friend.” Molly’s eyes were fixed in fascinated wonder and open admiration on her distinguished guest. There was something intangible about Angela, something quite impossible to define; she was made for adoration; she was made for a sort of worship. Girls could never feel about her in the ordinary way. These girls certainly did not. They looked at one another, and then looked back again at Angela.
“Are you tired? Are you really going to stay the night here?” said Molly at last.
“I will sit down if you don’t mind. No, I am not tired.”
“But you look so pale.”
“I am always pale; I never remember having a scrap of colour in my life.”
“I think pale people look so interesting,” said Ethel. “I wish Molly and I were pale; but we flush up so when we are excited. I know I shall have scarlet cheeks in a minute or two.”
“That is because we are so glad to see you,” said Molly.
“That is a very pretty compliment,” laughed Angela. “But although I’m not tired, I shouldn’t mind going up to Marcia’s room just to wash my hands and take my hat off.”
“We’ll both take you,” said Molly.
They were immensely flattered; they were highly pleased. Angela ran upstairs as though she were another girl Aldworth, and had known the place all her days. Marcia’s room was immaculately neat, but it was shabbily furnished; it was one of the poorest rooms in the house. Molly earnestly wished that she could have introduced her guest into her own room.
“I wonder,” she said suddenly, “where you are going to sleep to-night?”
“With Marcia; she said so.”
“Oh, but her bed is so small, you would not be comfortable. We’d be ever so pleased if you – ”
“But I prefer to sleep with Marcia, and this room is quite nice.”
Molly ran to fetch hot water, and Ethel remembered that she had a silver brush and comb which she always kept for visits which seldom occurred. She rushed away to fetch it. Angela brushed her hair, washed her hands, said that she felt as though she had been living with the Aldworths for years, and ran downstairs again.
“How nice you are,” said Molly; “we don’t feel now as though we were afraid of you.”
“Afraid of me,” said Angela. “Why should you be that?”
“Only, somehow, you belong to a better set.”
“Please, don’t talk nonsense,” said Angela, with the first note of wounded dignity in her voice. “I have come here to make myself useful. Can I be useful?”
“It is so delightful to have you – ”
“That’s not the point; can I be useful?”
Molly looked puzzled.
“We’ll have supper presently,” she said. “I’ll go and speak to Susan. I’ll be back in a minute.”
She turned away. Of course, Angela could not be useful – the mere thought was profanation. She had come there to be waited on, to be worshipped, to be looked at, to be adored, Angela St. Just, the most beautiful, the most aristocratic girl in the entire neighbourhood!
Ethel drew nearer to Angela.
“I have been at Court Prospect to-day,” said Angela.
“Why, that was your old place.”
“It was.”
“Did you find it much changed —bourgeois, and all that?” said Ethel.
“Nothing could really change the old place to me; but I would rather not talk of what the Carters have done.”
“I am sure it must have given you profound agony,” said Ethel.
Angela faintly coloured, and then she said:
“Tell me about your little sister, the one about whom you are so anxious.”
“Oh, Nesta! Nesta’s all right.”
“Then she has come back?”
“No; she hasn’t come back; we can’t imagine where she is.”
“Then how can you say she is all right?”
“She is always all right; she is the sort that turns up when you least expect her. She is not specially good,” continued Ethel, who felt that she might revenge herself on Nesta’s many slights by giving Angela as poor an opinion of her as possible. She did not want Angela to like Nesta better than her. She had dim ideas of possible visits for herself to Hurst Castle. Could she possibly manage the dress part? She was intensely anxious now to lead the conversation away from Nesta to more profitable themes.
“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.
