Kitabı oku: «A Bevy of Girls», sayfa 5
“Go,” said the weak, querulous voice, and Molly went.
“Is she all right?” asked Ethel when Molly rushed down to the summerhouse.
“Oh, yes,” said Molly in a cheerful tone. “She is going to sleep.”
“To sleep?” said Ethel in astonishment.
“Yes, she didn’t wish me to stay. Dear old mother, she is so unselfish. I made her very comfy and I’ll go back again presently. Now, I can look after you; I’m going to help you. Sit down there, Ethel, and let me pour out the tea. Fie, Ethel, you have not given Jim anything.”
But for some reason Jim had darted a glance into Molly’s eyes, and Molly thought she read disapproval in it. It seemed to her that he did not quite approve of her. But she could not long entertain that feeling, for she was always satisfied with herself. In a few minutes the whole five were laughing and talking, playing games, passing jests backwards and forwards as though there were no invalid mother in the world, no duties in the world to be performed, no naughty Nesta not very far off.
“Now,” said Clara, “we must be trotting home, and you may as well walk back with us.”
“Are you certain you can be spared?” said Jim.
“Yes, I’m positive,” said Molly; “but to make sure I’ll go in and see Susan.”
Molly went into the house; but she did not go to Susan. She would be too much afraid to inquire of Susan, who, with all her good nature, could be cross enough at times, that is, when she thoroughly disapproved of the young ladies’ racketings, as she called them.
What Molly really did was to slip up to her own bedroom, put on her most becoming hat, catch up her white parasol, take up a similar parasol and hat for Ethel, with a pair of gloves for each, and rush swiftly downstairs. No one heard her enter the house, and no one heard her go downstairs again.
“Thanks,” said Ethel, when she saw her hat with its accompanying pins, observed the parasol, and welcomed the gloves. “Is mother all right?” she said.
“Yes, she is having a lovely sleep. Now do let us come along.”
“You may as well stay and have a game of tennis,” said Jim, who after Molly’s return to the house concluded that things must be all right.
“Yes, that would be splendid,” said Clara, “and you could stay to supper if you liked.”
How very nearly had that delightful afternoon been spoiled. This was Molly’s thought; but it was the mother herself who had saved it. The dear little mother who wouldn’t like her children to be put out. And of course she was in such a lovely sleep. That queer attack she had had when Molly was in the room! But Molly would not let herself think of that. Mother was queer now and then, and sometimes the doctor had to be sent for in a hurry; but it was nothing serious. All mother’s attacks were just nervous storms, so the doctor called them. Signs of weakness, was Molly’s explanation. Oh, yes, the attack was nothing, nothing at all, and what a splendid time she and Ethel were having.
Chapter Nine
The Truth about Mrs Aldworth
When Marcia left the train at Hurst Castle station she was greeted by, a tall, very slender girl who was waiting on the platform to receive her. The girl had a sufficiently remarkable face to attract the attention of each person who saw her. It was never known in her short life that any one passed Angela St. Just without turning to look at her. Most people looked again after that first glance, but every one, man, woman, and child, bestowed at least one glance at that most radiant, most lovely face. It was difficult to describe Angela, for hers was not the beauty of mere feature; it was the beauty of a very loving, loyal, and noble soul which seemed, in some sort of way, to have got very close to her body, so close that its rays were always shining out. It shone in her eyes, causing them to have a peculiar limpid light, the sort of light which has been described as “Never seen on land or shore,” and the same spirit caused those smiles round the girl’s beautiful lips, and the kindly words which dropped from her mouth when she spoke, and the sympathy in her manner. For the rest, she was graceful with an abundance of chestnut hair, neatly formed and yet unremarkable features and a creamy white complexion. Her eyebrows were delicately formed, being long and sweeping, and slightly arched. Her eyes were also long, almost almond-shaped, of a soft and yet bright hazel. Her eyelashes were very thick and very dark, making the hazel eyes look almost black at a distance. The girl had all the advantages which a long train of noble ancestors could bestow upon her. Her education had been attended to in the most thorough manner, and now at the age of sixteen and a half, there could scarcely be seen a more perfect young creature than Angela St. Just.
“Oh, Angela,” said Marcia, as she found her hand clasped in that of Angela, “this is good. I have just been longing to see you.”
“And I to see you, Marcia. The carriage is waiting – I don’t mean the ordinary stiff carriage, but the pony trap. Uncle Herbert has lent it to me for the whole afternoon, and there are some delightful woods just a little way out of the town, where we can drive and have a picnic tea. I have brought all the materials for it in a basket in the little pony trap.”
Marcia naturally acceded to this delightful proposition, and the girls were soon driving rapidly over the country roads.
Marcia almost wondered as she leant back in the luxurious little carriage and watched her young companion, whether she were in a dream or not. This morning she had been a member of the Aldworths’ untidy, disorderly house. She herself was the one spirit of order within it. Now she was by Angela’s side, she was close to the most beautiful creature she had ever met, or ever hoped to meet.
Angela was not one to talk very much, but once or twice she glanced at her companion. The sweetest smile just broke the lines of her mouth and then vanished, leaving it grave once more.
They entered the shade of the woods, and presently drew up under a wide-spreading oak tree. The woods near Hurst Castle were celebrated, having once been part of the ancient forest which at one time covered the greater part of England. Here were oaks of matchless size, and of enormous circumference; here were beech trees which looked as though they formed the pillars and the roof of a great cathedral; here were graceful ladies of the forest, with their silvery stems and their slender leaves. Here, also, were the denizens of the woods – birds, rabbits, hares, butterflies innumerable. Marcia gave a sigh.
“What is the matter?” said Angela at once.
“Oh, it is so good, so beautiful, but I can spend such a short time with you.”
“I was determined to come all alone, and I wouldn’t even let Bob drive me. He was quite disappointed; but I managed the ponies splendidly. Here, we will just fasten them to this tree. Now, darlings, you will be as good as gold, won’t you? Jeanette, don’t eat your head off. Oh, yes, you must have a little bit of this tender young furze to nibble. Coquette, behave yourself, dear.” She lightly pressed a kiss on the forehead of both of her pets, and then taking out the tea basket placed it under the tree.
Two other girls were having tea at that moment in another wood not very far away; but Marcia, luckily for her peace of mind, knew nothing of that. When the meal was half over, Angela turned to her companion.
“Now, I want to hear all about it.”
“About what, Angela?”
“Oh, you know – why you suddenly left Aunt Emily; why you gave up the school where you were doing such wonderful things, and influencing the girls so magnificently. What does it all mean? You often told me that you were not wanted at home.”
“And I thought so; God forgive me; I was wrong.”
“Well, tell me.”
“Angela, you know quite well how often you have advocated our direct and instant obedience to the call of duty.”
“I certainly have – I often wish duty would call me. I have such an easy life. I long to do something great.”
“Well, I will tell you all about myself.”
Marcia did give it résumé of what had just happened.
“The girls are dreadful at present,” she said. “They are – it’s the true word for them, Angela, I cannot help telling you – they are under-bred.”
“It must be dreadful, dear; but is it their fault?”
“I fear in a certain measure that this state of things belongs to their natures.”
“But natures can be altered,” said Angela. “At least I believe so.”
She gave a queer little twitch to her brows, looking up as she did so for a moment at Marcia.
“I know,” said Marcia, “up to a certain point they can; and people can be made to see their duty and all that; but I think there are certain natures which cannot rise beyond certain heights, at least in this world; don’t you agree with me, Angela?”
“I have not thought about it. I have always thought that ‘The best for the highest’ ought to be our motto – it ought to be the motto of every one – the best for the highest, don’t you understand?”
“It is yours,” said Marcia.
“Well, anyhow,” continued Angela, “I am so interested. I’ll come and see you all some day.”
“They’d be ever so proud, and so would my stepmother. They think a great deal about you.”
Angela did not reply.
“I am going to stay here for a little,” she said, after a pause. “Father is quite happy to be with Uncle Herbert, and it is good for him not to have too much of his roaming life. I will ask him if I may not come and see you some day. He wouldn’t come – he can’t bear to go near Newcastle since dear old Court Prospect was sold.”
“I can quite understand that.”
“And will you come to see us – are you quite sure you will come during the summer?”
“I hope so.”
“Do you think those girls will keep their compact?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you mean to keep yours if they break it? that the point,” said Angela, and now she leant back against the great clump of fern, and looked at her companion from under the shade of her black hat. Marcia glanced at her.
“I shall do it,” she said.
“It would be somewhat painful for you. Your – your mother has got accustomed to you.”
“She is not my real mother.”
“Ought you to think of that, Marcia? Your real mother doesn’t want you; this mother does.”
“Yes, I know what you mean, but I will not change; I am determined; I will help the girls to do their duty; I will not take their burden from them.”
“But ought they to consider the care of a mother a burden?” said Angela. “I think if I could find my own mother anywhere – ”
“Angela, you and they are not made out of the same materials.”
“Oh, yes, we are. I should like to talk to them.”
“You would have no effect. They would only look at you, and wonder why your hat looked different on you from their hats on them, and why you spoke with such a good accent, and why you are so graceful, and they would be, without knowing it, a little bit jealous.”
“You are not talking very kindly of them, are you, Marcia?”
“I don’t believe I am; shall we change the subject?”
“Yes, certainly, if you like. What is your plan for the future, Marcia?”
“I will tell you. I have some hopes; I think I have won my stepmother round very much to my views. She is the sort of woman who can be very easily managed, if you only know how to take her. If I had my stepmother altogether to myself and there was no one to interfere, I should not be at all afraid. But you see the thing is this – that while I influence her one day, the others undo all that I have said and done the next, and this, I fear, will go on for some time. Still, I think I have some influence, and I have no doubt when I get back to-night that I shall find Nesta has not transgressed any very open rules.”
“Poor Nesta,” said Angela, “I understand her point of view a little bit – at least, I think I do.”
“I don’t,” said Marcia. “A life without discipline is worth nothing, but we have been very differently trained. Anyhow, I believe that in three months’ time my stepmother will be so much better that she will be able to go downstairs and take her part in the household. Beyond doubt her illness is largely fanciful, and when that is the case, and when the girls have come to recognise the fact that they must devote a portion of their time to her, things will go well, and I shall be able to return to Frankfort for another year.”
“Oh, delightful,” said Angela. “Think of the opera, and the music. Perhaps we might go to Dresden, or to Leipsic. I do want to see those places and the pictures, and to hear the music, and to do all that is to be done.”
Marcia smiled; she allowed Angela to talk on. By-and-by it was time for them to return to the railway station. The train was a little late, and Marcia and Angela paced up and down the little platform, and talked as girls will talk, until at last the local train drew up, and Marcia took her seat.
She found herself alone with one man. At first she did not recognise him, then she gave a start. It was Dr Anstruther, the medical man who attended her mother. He came at once towards her, holding out his hand.
“How do you do, Miss Marcia? I am very glad to see you, and to have the pleasure of travelling with you as far as Newcastle.”
Marcia replied that the pleasure was also hers, and then she began to ask him one or two questions with regard to her stepmother.
“I cannot tell you how thankful I am,” he said, “that you have returned; her case perplexes me a good deal.”
“Her case perplexes you, doctor?”
“Well, yes. Things are going from bad to worse.”
“But surely,” said Marcia, with a little gasp and a tightening at her heart, “you are not seriously alarmed about my stepmother.”
“Not seriously alarmed at present, but I soon should be if the present state of things went on.”
“I always thought,” said Marcia, “and I gathered that opinion partly from your words, that her case was not at all serious, and that you believed most of her symptoms to be purely imaginary.”
“On purpose I always encouraged her to think so, and a good many of her symptoms are imaginary, or rather they are only the consequence of weakened nerves; her nerves are very weak.”
“But that kind of thing is never dangerous, is it?” said Marcia, who with her twenty years on her shoulders, and her buoyant strength and youth, had a rooted contempt for what people called nerves.
“Nervous diseases in themselves are scarcely dangerous, but in your mother’s case there is a serious heart affection, which requires and must always require, an immensity of care. She has not the slightest idea of that herself, and I should be very sorry to enlighten her on the point. I could not tell your sisters, who would not comprehend me if I did, but I have often been on the point of mentioning the fact to your father, or to your brother.”
“How long,” said Marcia, in a low, strained voice, “how long have you known this?”
“I have suspected it for a year, but I have been positively certain only within the last three months. I was then called in to attend on your mother when she had had a very serious collapse. She was quite unconscious when I got to the house and for a short time I despaired of her life. She came to, however, and I made as lightly as I could of the attack; but it was then that I told your father I thought he ought to have somebody more capable of looking after his wife than his young daughters. The next day I examined my patient’s heart very carefully, and I found that the mischief which would cause such an attack did exist to a larger extent than I had the least idea of before.”
“When you asked my father to get a more competent nurse for her, what did he say?”
“He said he would not have a hired nurse in the house on any terms, and immediately mentioned you.”
“Dr Anstruther, I will also speak plainly to you. There is time enough, may I?”
“Certainly, Miss Aldworth.”
“I am not her real daughter.”
“Does that count? She came to you when you were a very little child.”
“That is true, and had she no daughter of her own, I should never mention the fact. I would attend to her as I would my real mother, and be glad to do so; but she has three daughters of her own; two grown-up and the other quite old enough to be useful.”
“That is true.”
“They should have taken care of her.”
“They do not know how to, Miss Aldworth. I cannot express to you the neglect that poor woman suffered. She is not very strong-minded herself, and she never knew how to command, how to order, how to force those girls to do their duty. They need some one with a head on her shoulders to guide them. The poor thing drifted and let them drift, and the state of things was disgraceful. It could not have gone on. Had you failed to come, you would soon have had no stepmother to trouble you.”
“I am glad I came,” said Marcia, and the tears started to her eyes.
“I knew you would be.”
“And yet,” continued the girl, “it means a great deal of self-sacrifice on my part.”
“I thought you were a teacher in a school.”
“In one sense you are right, in another wrong. I am a teacher, or I was a teacher, in Mrs Silchester’s school at Frankfort. Mrs Silchester is Miss St. Just’s aunt, and Angela St. Just has been my dearest friend for some years.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes.”
“I saw you together just now.”
“I was happy at the school. I was paid nothing, for I have sufficient money of my own. I did what teaching I could, and received instruction in return. No girl could have been happier. I had many friends about me; my life was full. To be with Mrs Silchester alone was a happiness unspeakable, and Angela was, and is to be again, a member of the school. Think what I have lost.”
“I am sorry for you, but the path of duty.”
“I will walk on it, Dr Anstruther; but the girls must help me.”
“Ah, that is quite right, if only you will superintend them and make them do their duty. Oh, here we are slowing into Newcastle. You go on, of course, to the West Station. I get out here. You won’t mention a word of what I have said.”
“Not even to my father?”
“To no one at present. The fewer who know, the better for her. She is so weak, poor soul; so nervous, that even if she guessed at her true condition, she would have a very serious attack. Good-night, for the present. Be assured of my sympathy. I am glad we have had this talk.”
Chapter Ten
An Alarming Attack
Marcia did not know why her heart felt like lead as she walked back the short distance between the railway station and her father’s house; why all the joy seemed to have gone out of her, when there was no apparent reason. It was a glorious summer evening, the sky was studded with innumerable stars, which would shine more brightly in an hour or so, as soon as the rays of the sun had quite departed from the western horizon. There was not a cloud anywhere. Nevertheless, a very dense cloud rested over the girl’s heart.
She went into the house, and the first thing she noticed was the fact that there were no lights burning anywhere. She glanced up at the invalid’s room; there was no light in the window, no brightness. What could be wrong? Oh, nothing, of course. Nesta might not be a good nurse, but she could not be so careless as that.
She let herself in with her latch key, and was met by Susan in the hall. Susan had her hat on.
“What is it, Susan?”
“I beg your pardon, Miss? I have only just come in. It was my evening out. I came back a whole hour before my time because I was anxious about Missis. I suppose cook has seen to her.”
“Cook? But where are the young ladies? Where is Miss Nesta?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? And where are the other young ladies?”
“I don’t know either. Oh, yes, though, they had tea in the garden with the Misses Carter and young Mr Carter, and then they went a bit of the way home with them. I ran down the garden and brought in the best china, they would have it from the drawing room, and then I slipped out, for I didn’t want to lose any of my time. It was such a good opportunity, you see, Miss, for master and Mr Horace were both dining out at the Club this evening, and I thought the young ladies could manage to light up for themselves.”
“They don’t seem to have done so. How is my mother? How long has she been alone?”
“I don’t know, Miss. Shall I run up and see?”
“No, light up as quickly as you can, please. Get cook to help you if necessary. Don’t be out of the way. I will go to my mother.”
Marcia had called Mrs Aldworth mother on many occasions; but there was a new tone in the way in which she said “my mother,” which fell upon the servant’s ears with a feeling of reproach.
“I wonder now – ” she thought. “I wouldn’t have gone out, but she was in such a beautiful sleep; I just crept in on tiptoe and there she was smiling in her sleep and looking as happy as happy could be. So I said to myself – ‘Miss Nesta’ll be in in no time, and if not there are the other young ladies.’ So I went to cook and said – ‘Cook, be sure you run up to Missis when she rings her bell.’”
Susan had now returned to the kitchen.
“You didn’t hear Missis ring by any chance, did you, Fanny?” she said to her fellow servant.
“No, I said I’d go up to her if she did ring.”
“Then it’s all right,” said Susan.
“Why, what’s the matter? How white you are.”
“I – I don’t quite know. But Miss Marcia came back and seemed in no end of a taking, at the house not being lit up.”
“Let Miss Marcia mind her own business,” said Fanny, in a temper.
“Don’t you say anything against her, Fanny. Oh, my word, there’s the bell, now. I hope to goodness there’s nothing wrong.”
Susan rushed upstairs; her knees, as she expressed it, trembling under her. She burst open the door.
“Send Fanny for the doctor at once. Get me some hot water and some brandy. Be quick; don’t wait a moment. Above all things, send Fanny for the doctor. Tell her to take a cab and drive to Dr Anstruther’s house. Be as quick as ever you can.”
Marcia had turned on the gas in her mother’s room and lit it, and now she was bending over that mother and holding her hand. The poor woman was alive, but icy cold and apparently quite unconscious. The girl felt herself trembling violently.
“They have neglected her; I can see that by the look of the room,” she thought. “The window still open, the blinds still up, the position of this sofa – all show that she was neglected. And I, too, left her. Why did I go? Oh, poor mother; poor mother.”
Tears streamed from Marcia’s eyes; they fell upon the cold hand. Marcia put her fingers on the pulse; it was still beating, but very feebly.
Susan hurried up with a great jug of hot water, and the brandy bottle.
“Mix some brandy quickly for me, Susan; make it strong. Now, then, give it to me.”
With some difficulty Marcia managed to put a few drops between the blue lips, and the next minute the invalid opened her eyes. She fixed them on Marcia, smiled, shuddered, and closed them again, collapsing once more into unconsciousness.
It was in this condition that Dr Anstruther found her when he entered the house a quarter of an hour later.
“I feared it,” he paid, just glancing at Marcia.
“No, it is not death,” he added, seeing the look of appeal and self-reproach in the girl’s eyes; “but it might have been. Had you been a few minutes later we could have done nothing. Now, then, we will get her into bed.”
He managed very skilfully, with Marcia’s help and with that of the repentant and miserable Susan, to convey the poor invalid to a bed, which had already been warmed for her. She then sat by her, administering brandy and water at short intervals, and holding her wrist between his fingers and thumb.
“That’s better,” he said, after a time. “Now, then, Miss Marcia, will you go downstairs and prepare a nice cup of bread and milk and bring it up to me? she must manage to eat it. She has been absolutely starved; she has had nothing at all since her early dinner.”
Marcia flew out of the room.
“Susan,” she said, “Susan, what is the meaning of this?”
“Don’t ask me, Miss; ’tain’t my fault. When young ladies themselves are born without natural affection, what can a poor servant gel do? Do you think I’d leave my mother? No, that I wouldn’t. Poor lady, and she that devoted to them. To be sure she have her little fads and fancies, and her little crotchets, as what invalid but wouldn’t have? But, oh, Miss, to think of their unkindness.”
“Don’t think of it now; they will be sorry enough by-and-by,” said Marcia. “Help me to get some bread and milk ready.”
She brought it up a few minutes later, steaming hot and tempting looking. The invalid was conscious again now, and her cheeks were flushed with the amount of brandy she had taken. She began to talk in a weak, excited manner.
“I had such a long sleep and got so dreadfully cold,” she said. “I thought I was climbing up and up a hill, and I could never get to the top. It was a horrid dream. Marcia, dear, is that you? How nice you look in your grey dress, so quiet looking.”
“Hush, Mrs Aldworth,” said the doctor, in a cheerful voice, “you must not talk too much just now. You must lie quiet.”
“Oh, doctor, I’ve been lying quiet so long, so many hours. Oh, yes, I remember – it was Molly. She had on a blue dress, a blue muslin and forget-me-not bows, and she looked so sweet, and she said the Carters were here – the Carters and – and – she was very anxious to go down to them. It was natural, wasn’t it, doctor?”
“Yes, yes. Aren’t you going to eat your bread and milk?”
“I’ll feed you, mother,” said Marcia.
She knelt by her and put the nourishment between the blue lips.
“You are such a good girl, Marcia; so kind to me.”
“Everybody ought to be kind to you,” said Marcia, “and everybody will be,” she murmured under her breath.
“Marcia is an excellent girl; you have never said a truer word, Mrs Aldworth,” remarked the doctor.
“It was very disagreeable – that dream,” continued the invalid, her thoughts drifting into another quarter. “I thought – I thought I was climbing up and up, and it was very cold as I climbed, and I thought I was amongst the ice, and the great snows, and Molly was there, but a long way down, and I was falling, and Molly would not come to help me. Then it was Nesta, and she would not help me either, Nesta only laughed, and said something about Flossie – Flossie Griffiths. Marcia, have you seen Flossie Griffiths? You know I don’t like her much, do you?”
“I have not seen her, dear. Don’t talk too much. It weakens you.”
“But I’m not really ill, am I?”
“Oh, no, Mrs Aldworth,” said the doctor. “You have just had an attack of weakness, but you are better; it is passing off now, and you have a grand pulse. I wish I had as good a one.”
He smiled at her in his cheery way, and by-and-by he went out of the room. Marcia followed him.
“Some one must sit up with her all night,” said the doctor, “and I will stay in the house.”
“Oh, doctor,” said Marcia, “is it as bad as all that?”
“It is so bad that if she has another attack we cannot possibly pull her through. If she survives until the morning, I will call in Dr Benson, the first authority in Newcastle. The thing is to prevent a recurrence of the attack. The longer it is stared off the greater probability there is that there will be no repetition.”
“I will sit up with her, of course,” said Marcia. “She would rather have me than any hired nurse.”
“I know that. I am glad. But some one must see your sisters when they come in.”
It was just at that moment that a girl, somewhat fagged, somewhat shabby looking, with a face a good deal torn, for she had got amongst briars and thorns and underwood on her way home, crept up the narrow path towards the house. This girl was her mother’s darling, Nesta, the youngest of the family, the baby, as she was called. Her time with Flossie had, after all, been the reverse of agreeable. They had begun their tea with every prospect of having a good time; but soon the mob of rough people who had come to witness the donkey races discovered them, and so terrified both little girls that they ran away and hid, leaving all Flossie’s property behind them.
This was thought excellent fun by the roughs of Newcastle; they scoured the woods, looking for the children, and as a matter of fact, poor Nesta had never got a greater fright than when she crouched down in the brambles, devoutly hoping that some of the rough boys would not pull her out of her lair.
Eventually she and Flossie had escaped with only a few scratches and some torn clothes, but she was miserably tired and longing for comfort when she approached the house. So absorbed was she with her own adventures that she absolutely forgot the fact that she had run away and left her mother to the care of the others. As she entered the house, however, it flashed upon her what might be thought of her conduct.
“Dear, dear!” she thought, “I shall have a time of it with Molly to-night; but I don’t care. I’m not going to be bullied or browbeaten. I’ll just let Miss Molly see that I’m going to have my fun as well as another. I wish though, I didn’t sleep in the room with them; they’ll be as cross and cantankerous as two tabby cats.”
Nesta entered the house. Somehow the house did not seem to be quite as usual; the drawing room was not lit up; it had not been used that evening. She poked her head round the dining-room door. There was no appetising and hearty meal ready for tired people when they returned home. What was the matter? Why, her father must be back by this time. She went into the kitchen.
“Cook!” she said.
“Keep out of my way, Miss Nesta,” said the cook.
“What do you mean? Where is my supper? I want my supper. Where are all the others? Where’s Molly? Where’s Ethel? I suppose that stupid old Marcia is back now? Where are they all?”
“That’s more than I can tell you,” said cook, and now he turned round and faced the girl. “I only know that it’s ten o’clock, and that you have been out when you ought to be in, and as to Miss Molly and Miss Ethel, I don’t want to have anything to do with them in the future. Here’s Susan – she’ll tell you why there ain’t no supper for you – she’ll speak a bit of her mind. Susan, here’s Miss Nesta, come in as gay as you please, and asks for her supper. And where are the others, says she, and where’s Marcia, says she. And is she back, says she. Miss Marcia is back, thank the Lord; that’s about the only thing we have to be thankful for in this house to-night.”
