The great trial in the minds of her daughters, was having to nurse her. She was their mother.
“Am I such a nuisance, so terribly in every one’s way?” she thought, and she began to sob feebly. She wished herself, as she was fond of saying, out of the way. “If only I might die!” she moaned. “They would be very sorry then. They would think a great deal of what their poor mother was to them in life. But they’re all selfish, every one of them.”
It was in this changed mood that the two girls, Molly and Nesta, entered Mrs Aldworth’s room. She greeted them when they appeared in the doorway.
“Don’t walk arm in arm in that ridiculous fashion. You know you are always quarrelling, you two. You are just in league against poor Marcia.”
“Poor Marcia!” cried Molly.
“Yes, poor Marcia. But where’s Ethel; why doesn’t she come when her mother sends for her? Am I indeed openly defied in my own house?”
“Oh, mother,” said Molly, in some trepidation, “it isn’t us, it is Marcia.”
“It’s much more you, you are my children – Marcia isn’t. I am your mother. Live as long as you may you will never be able to get a second mother.”
Here Mrs Aldworth burst into sobs herself. But Nesta was an adept at knowing how to manage the invalid when such scenes came on.
“As though we wanted to,” she said. “Darling little mother; sweet, pretty little mother.”
She knelt by the sofa, she put her soft arms round her mother’s poor tired neck, she laid her soft, cool cheek against the hot one, she looked with her blue eyes into the eyes from which tears were streaming.
“You know, mother, that we just worship you.”
“But, of course, mother, it’s only natural,” said Molly, “that we should sometimes want to have a little fresh air.”
“It is just as true,” continued Nesta, “that one cannot be young twice, as that one cannot have a real ownest mother over again.”
“Of course it is,” said Mrs Aldworth, whose emotions were like the weathercock, and changed instant by instant. “I quite sympathise with you, my darlings. You adore me, don’t you?”
“We live for you,” said Molly. “You are our first thought morning, noon, and night.”
“Then where is Ethel? Why doesn’t she come?”
“She has gone to the Carters to explain that we cannot possibly be present at the dance this evening.”
“Poor darling,” said Nesta, “she’ll have sunstroke on the way, her head was so bad.”
“Sunstroke?” said Mrs Aldworth, who was now seriously alarmed, “and the afternoon is so very hot. Why did you let her go out with a bad headache?”
“She had to go, mother,” said Nesta. “The Carters would be so offended.”
“Of course they would,” said Molly. “She simply had to go. But for Marcia it would have been all right.”
“Certainly that girl does bring discord and misery into the house,” said Mrs Aldworth.
“But she won’t long, mother; not when you manage her.”
“You can manage anybody, you know, mother,” said Nesta.
Mrs Aldworth allowed herself to smile. She mopped the tears from her eyes and sat up a little higher on her sofa.
“Now, darling,” she said, “draw up that blind. Marcia has made the room too dark.”
“Catch her doing anything right!” said Nesta.
She pulled up the Venetian blind with a bang. Alas, one of the cords snapped. Immediately the rods of wood became crooked, and the light darted on to Mrs Aldworth’s face.
“You tiresome, clumsy child,” said the mother. “Now what is to be done?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. I’m very sorry,” said Nesta. “I’m all thumbs – I have always said so. I suppose it’s because I’m so ridiculously young.”
Mrs Aldworth scolded in the fretful way in which she could scold; the girls between them managed to move the sofa, and after a time peace was restored; but the room was disorderly, and the crooked blind wobbling in a most disreputable manner against the partly opened window, did not improve its appearance.
“What will you do, mother?” said Nesta. “Do tell us what you will do?”
“Well,” said Mrs Aldworth, “I shall insist firmly on obedience.”
“There’s no use coercing her too roughly, mother; there really isn’t,” said Molly. “She will simply do what she said.”
“You leave her to me, dears. When does her so-called duty recommence?”
“To-morrow afternoon, mother, Ethel will look after you to-morrow morning,” said Nesta, in some terror for fear the unwelcome task should devolve on herself.
“Yes, of course, Ethel will take her turn,” said Molly, then she added, glancing at Nesta, “and it will be your turn on the following afternoon.”
“Oh, but I cannot possibly come then, for I have promised to go for a walk with Flossie Griffiths. It has been such a looked-forward-to treat. Mother, you couldn’t deprive me of the pleasure.”
“I tell you it will be all right by then,” said Mrs Aldworth. “Now, go away, Nesta, your voice is much too loud, and remember, that after all it is a great privilege for you to have a mother to attend to when she is so devoted to you.”
“Yes, yes, darling; yes, yes,” said Nesta.
She kissed the hot cheek again and went slowly out of the room. In the passage, however, she uttered a low whoop of rejoicing at her recovered liberty, and a minute later she flew down the garden path to enjoy herself in the swing.
Chapter Five
Seeking Sympathy
The Carters were a numerous family. They lived about a mile away from the Aldworths. The Aldworths lived in a small house in the town and the Carters in a large country place with spacious grounds and every imaginable luxury. Mr Carter had suddenly made a great pile of money in iron, had retired to private life, and had given his six children everything that money could buy. The Carters conducted themselves always according to their special will; they had no mother to look after them, their mother having died when Penelope, the youngest girl, was a baby. There were two sons in the family and four daughters. The sons were called Jim and Harry, the girls were Clara, Mabel, Annie, and Penelope. They were ordinary, good-natured, good-humoured sort of girls; they took life easily. Clara, the eldest, believed herself to be the mistress of the house, and a very sorry mistress she would have made but for the fact that there was an invaluable old nurse, a servant, who had lived with Mrs Carter before she died, and who really held the household reins. This kind-hearted, motherly body kept the young people in check, although she never appeared to cross them. They consulted her without knowing that they did so. She superintended the servants; she saw to the linen press; she arranged the food; she kept all the supplies with a liberal hand, and gave Clara and the other girls carte blanche with regard to what they might do with their time, and when they might entertain their friends.
The old house, Court Prospect by name, on account of its extensive view, was very suitable for entertainments. Once it had been the property of a gracious and noble family; but hard times had come upon them and Sir John St. Just had been glad to receive the money which the rich Mr Carter was prepared to offer. In consequence, the St. Justs had disappeared from the neighbourhood. Beautiful Angela St. Just no longer delighted the people when she walked down the aisle of the little village church. She no longer sang with a voice which seemed to the parishioners like that of an angel, in the choir. She went away with her father, and the Carters, it must be owned, had a bad time of it during the first year of their residence at Court Prospect.
But money can effect wonders. The