L. Meade - A Bevy of Girls

Mrs Aldworth looked up. After all, with a captious, fretful, irritable invalid, a woman with so vacillating a nature as Mrs Aldworth’s, there was nothing so effective as firmness. She succumbed. In a minute she had flung her arms round Marcia’s neck.

“My darling,” she said, “I do see what you mean. And you are right; you will train them, you will be, in my absence, a mother to them.”

“Not a mother, for I, like them, am young; but I will be to them an elder sister, and I will teach them – not in words, but by precept and by sympathy and by love, what I should like them to learn. They want a great deal of looking after; and, first of all, they want a complete change in their method of living.”

“I am afraid even for them, and for you, I cannot quite ignore my pain, my constant suffering, my weary nights, my long, long, fatiguing days.”

“Of course you cannot, and I have said enough for the present. Now, let us have a jolly time. See, I am going to have a particularly nice tea for you this afternoon. I have told Susan to bring it up when it is ready. We’ll have it on that balcony.”

“Oh, but I shall catch cold.”

“Indeed you won’t. Do you see that shady corner, and how the scent-laden air is pervading the whole place, and the sun will be shining across the other half, and you can see a long way down the garden? I’ll sit near you and read to you when you like, out of such a funny book.”

“My taste and yours don’t agree with regard to reading,” said Mrs Aldworth, always glad to hail any interruption. “I suppose I have degenerated; I am certainly not an intellectual woman; I don’t pretend that I am. I like the stories that are in the penny papers. We get two or three of them, and we always enjoy them. Will you read me one of those?”

“No, mother.”

“Oh, how cross you are!”

“I am very sorry, mother, but I will read you something just as amusing. Did you ever hear of ‘The Reminiscences of an Irish R.M.’?”

“No, it sounds very dull.”

“Wait till you hear it. It will make you laugh a great deal more than the stories in the penny papers.”

“They make me cry a great deal. Molly reads rather badly, but yesterday I found myself weeping in the middle of the night over the woes of the poor little heroine. I am sure the next number of the paper has come in, and I am so anxious to know if she is really married to the Earl of Dorchester.”

“It will be Nesta’s turn to-morrow, and she can read to you. Now for the balcony and a pleasant time.” They had a pleasant time, and the hours flew by on wings. Marcia told stories; she laughed, she chatted, and she read a little from “The Reminiscences of an Irish R.M.” Mrs Aldworth laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks.

“Oh, rich! rich!” she exclaimed. “That scene with the dog is inimitable. How funny, how truly funny! But, Marcia, isn’t it bad for my nerves to laugh so much?”

“It’s the best thing for them in all the world.”

“Marcia, you are wonderful!”

“Now for the new fancy work,” said Marcia.

She taught the invalid a different sort of stitch from any which she had before learned. She gave her bright-coloured silks, and a piece of art cloth to embroider upon, and soon her stepmother was so fascinated that she allowed her young companion to work in silence, often raising her eyes to look across the distant garden.

The girls were spending the afternoon in the garden; but presently they went out, all three of them gaudily and badly dressed. They walked through the garden, gathered some roses, and then disappeared through a little wicket gate at the further end.

Marcia felt quite sure that they did this for the purpose of showing her how they were enjoying themselves, while she was in prison. She smiled to herself.

“Poor little things,” she thought. “I wonder how soon I shall win their hearts.”

She had marked out a plan of action for herself. She had practically secured Mrs Aldworth – not for long, of course, for Nesta would turn her round the next day, and Molly the day after. It would be a constant repetition of the battle; but in the end she would win her. The girls, of course, were different. Unselfishness must be born within them before they really did what Marcia wanted them to do. Unselfishness, brave hearts, pure spirits, noble ways.

“Two, three months should do it,” thought the girl; “then I can go back with Angela St. Just in the autumn; for she is returning to Frankfort, I know, just to be with Mrs Silchester, and I can take her back. Oh, little Angela!”

Marcia recalled the soft touch of Angela’s blooming cheek; the look in her lovely eyes; the refinement in all her bearing.

Mrs Aldworth indulged in a nap; but now tea appeared and there was again bustle and movement, and when Mr Aldworth entered the room presently, he was so surprised at the improvement in his wife that he scarcely knew her.

“Marcia, you are a magician,” he said.

“You must uphold me with regard to the girls,” said Marcia.

“Of course, dear, you must uphold her. She has been explaining things to me,” said the wife. “She says that my children are exceedingly selfish.”

“I have always known that,” replied Mr Aldworth, looking at his daughter.

Mrs Aldworth began to frown. “I must say I think it is very unkind of you to say so; but of course you stick up for Marcia, and you abuse my poor children. That is always the way. I suppose just because Marcia’s mother thought herself a fine county lady and I – my people only in common trade, that – ”

“Oh, hush, Amelia,” said her husband.

“Mother – dear mother!” said Marcia.

Mr Aldworth backed out of the room as quickly as he could. He met his son on the stairs.

“Don’t go in,” he said. “She’s as jealous as ever she can be. Like a bear with a sore head. The girls are all out enjoying themselves and Marcia is keeping guard. I must say that she makes an excellent nurse. I believe your mother will be ever so much better in a short time. She has her out on the balcony, prettily dressed, surrounded by coloured silks and all that sort of thing, and Marcia herself is looking like a picture.”

“She is very handsome,” interrupted Horace. “I’ll go in and have a peep. I don’t often visit mother.”

If there was a person in the whole world whom Mrs Aldworth respected, it was her stepson. She was, of course, a little bit afraid of him; she was not in the least afraid of her husband. She had led him a sorry sort of life, poor man, since he had brought her home, an exceedingly pretty, self-willed, rather vulgar little bride. Horace and Marcia had a bad time during those early days, but Marcia had a worse time than Horace, for Horace never submitted, never brooked injustice, and managed before she was a year his stepmother to turn that same little stepmother round his fingers. Marcia, luckily for herself, was sent to school when she was old enough, but Horace lived on in the house. He took up his father’s business and did well in it, and was his father’s prop and right hand.

“Horace, dear,” exclaimed Marcia, when she saw her brother.

Horace came out through the open window, bending his tall head to do so.

“Upon my word,” he said, “this is very pleasant. How nice you look, mother, and how well. Marcia, I congratulate you.”

“Horace, she has been reading me such a lecture – your poor old mother. She says that my children are so selfish.”

“A most self-evident fact,” replied Horace.

“Horace! You too?”

“Come, mother, you must acknowledge it.”

“Marcia is going to take them in hand.”

“Good girl, capital!” said Horace, giving his sister a glance of approval.