L. Meade - A Bevy of Girls

One of the boys shouted across to ask Clara when she would be finished and ready to make up a set.

“I really cannot stay,” said Clara. “Oh, you aren’t a bit sympathising. I thought you would be; but I don’t suppose any one will be. Well, she came, and she absolutely refused to give more than a little bit of her time to mother. We’re to be tied as much as usual, and we cannot come to-night. You know Molly and I never do anything apart, and Molly won’t be free, for mother is never settled till between nine and ten o’clock, and it would be much, much too late. We’ll never be able to go anywhere. Marcia will manage that we’re to be tied and bound as much as ever we were, and Marcia will have all the honour and glory. Oh dear, we can only be young once. I think Marcia might have remembered that – Marcia, whose youth is quite over. I do think she might – I do!”

“Poor Ethel,” said Clara, with more sympathy. “It does seem hard. Well, we’ll try and get some fun for you on your free days. After all she is your mother. Coming, Jim, coming. Sorry you can’t be here to-night, Ethel; but we’ll get up some fun again in a hurry. Now, cheer up, old girl, cheer up.”

The next morning passed somehow. The girls had decided that they would send Marcia to Coventry. They had made up their minds in a solemn conclave late the night before.

“We daren’t oppose her for the present,” said Ethel, who had thought of this daring plan, “but we’ll make her life so miserable that she just won’t be able to bear it.”

“She used to be so affectionate; I remember that,” said Molly. “She was very good to me when I had the measles. She used to sit in the room and never think of herself at all.”

“She caught them afterwards, don’t you remember, horrid things?” said Nesta.

“And I don’t think I went to sit with her at all,” said Molly.

“It was rather piggish of you, wasn’t it?” said Ethel.

“Well, well; don’t rake up my old faults now. Am I not sad enough? Do you really think, Nesta and Ethel, that we had best send her to Coventry? Do you mean really to Coventry?”

“Yes; don’t let’s speak to her. We’ll try the effect for a week. We’ll do our duty, of course. We’ll go into mother’s room in turn, and we’ll give up everything for our mother’s sake, and we’ll deny ourselves, and we’ll never speak to Marcia at all. When we are at meals, if she forces us to speak, we’ll say yes and no, but that’s all, unless Horace or father is present. We’ll leave her quite to herself; she shall have her free hours, and her time for writing, and we wish her joy of it.”

This plan of action being determined on, the girls went to bed with a certain sense of consolation.

It was Ethel’s turn to spend the morning with the invalid on the following day, and she determinedly went there without a word. The effect of the Coventry system seemed at first to be but small. During breakfast that morning Marcia was absorbed in some letters she had received. She asked her father the best way to get to Hurst Castle.

“Why do you want to go there?” asked her parent.

“I have had a letter from Angela St. Just. She is most anxious to see me.”

Ethel very nearly dropped the cup of tea which she was raising to her lips.

“Angela St. Just?” she murmured under her breath. Even Mr Aldworth looked interested.

“Do you know her?” he asked.

“Of course I do; she was one of Mrs Silchester’s pupils. She wants me to go and see her, and, if I can be spared, to spend a little time there in the summer. I have had a long letter from her.”

“She was a remarkably handsome girl; I remember that,” said Mr Aldworth. “Well, to be sure, and so she was at that school.”

“You forget, father,” said Marcia, “that Mrs Silchester is Sir Edward St. Just’s sister-in-law.”

“Indeed? That is news.”

Horace made one or two remarks.

“I am glad you know her so well, Marcia, and I hope you will have a pleasant time when you go to Hurst Castle. You say Sir Edward is staying there at present?”

“Yes, with some relatives.”

“And Angela?”

“Yes, they’re going to spend some months there this summer.”

Marcia then calmly read her remaining letters and then, just nodding towards Ethel, she said:

“I think it is your turn to look after mother, dear,” and she left the room.

But just as she reached the door she came back.

“Be very careful, dear Ethel, not to allow her to sit in the sun. It is such a beautiful day that I think you might wheel her on to the balcony, where she can get some fresh air. Just do your best to make her happy. I shall be so pleased if I see her looking bright and comfortable this afternoon.”

To these remarks Ethel proudly withheld any comment Marcia, not in the least disturbed, hurried away.

“Well,” said Nesta, when her father and brother and elder sister had made themselves scarce, “she doesn’t seem to be much put out by the beginning of Coventry; does she, Molly?”

“She’s so eaten up with pride,” said Molly, “talking about her Angela St. Just and her Hurst Castle – snobbish, I call it, don’t you, Ethel?”

“I don’t know that I shouldn’t like a little bit of it myself,” replied Ethel. “You should hear how the people talk of her in the town. They don’t think anything at all of the Carters, I can tell you.”

“You have never explained what happened during your visit yesterday,” said Molly.

Marcia was passing the window. She looked in.

“It’s time you went to mother, Ethel,” she said.

Ethel rose with a crimson face.

“Hateful old prig!” she said.

“There, girls, I can’t tell you now. I’m in for a jolly time, and you’ll be amusing yourselves in the garden, and she’ll amuse herself.”

“Well, you can think of me to-morrow,” said Nesta, “giving up my walk with Florrie Griffiths. That’s what I call hard, and you and Ethel will have a jolly afternoon all to yourselves, and a jolly morning to-morrow. It’s I who am to be pitied. I don’t think I can stand it. I think I’ll run away.”

“Don’t be a goose, Netty. You know you’ll have to bear the burden as well as Miss Mule Selfish.”

“Oh, what a funny name,” said Nesta, laughing.

“Do let us call her Mule Selfish. It does sound so funny.”

Ethel, having propounded this remarkable specimen of wit, went upstairs, considerably satisfied with herself. Her post that morning was no sinecure. Mrs Aldworth was in a terrible temper, and she was really weak and ill, too. It was one of her worst days. Ethel, always clumsy, was more so than usual. The sun poured in through the open window, and when the doctor arrived he was not pleased with the appearance of the room, and told Ethel so sharply.

“You are a very bad nurse,” he said, “for all the training you’ve had. Now don’t allow that blind to be in such a condition a moment longer. Get one of the servants to come and mend it. I am exceedingly annoyed to see your mother in such an uncomfortable condition.”

Ethel was forced to go off in search of a servant. The blind was mended after a fashion; the invalid was pitied by the doctor, who ordered a fresh tonic for her. So the weary hours flew by, and at last Ethel’s task was over. She rushed downstairs. The load was lifted from her mind; she was free for a bit. She immediately asked Molly how they might spend the afternoon.

Lunch was on the table and Marcia appeared. Marcia spoke to the young lady.

“How is mother?”

“I don’t know,” said Ethel.

“You don’t know? But you have been with her all the morning.”