This young lady was now exactly eighteen years of age. She was out, and so was her twin sister, Mabel. Annie, who was only seventeen, was still supposed to be in the school-room, but she was very much en évidence at all the parties and entertainments; but Penelope, who was only fourteen, was obliged to be to a certain extent under tutelage.
The Carters’ ball, or rather, as they expressed it themselves, their little impromptu dance, had been the talk of all the girls and young men who were lucky enough to be invited to it. It was a great honour to be intimate with the Carters; they were jolly, good-natured girls, and certainly without a trace of snobbishness in their compositions. They were so rich that they did not want to be bothered, as they expressed it, with monied people; they liked to choose their own friends. Molly and Ethel and Nesta had attracted Clara and Mabel some time ago, and their brothers, too, had considered the girls very pretty; for the young Aldworths were of the laughing, joking, gay sort of girls, who could talk in a pert, frank fashion; who were not troubled with an overplus of brains, and, in consequence, were exceedingly popular with certain individuals.
It was to visit the Carters, therefore, and to unburden her mind of its load, that Ethel, with her aching head, proceeded to go on this hot summer afternoon. She found the girls and two boy friends from the neighbourhood having tea under the wide-spreading cedar tree on the lawn. This cedar tree had been the pride of Sir John St. Just, but Mr Carter seriously thought of cutting it down in order to still further enlarge the view; therefore the poor old cedar was at present on sufferance, and the young people were enjoying its shade when Ethel appeared with crimson cheeks, and eyes which still bore traces of the heavy tears which she had shed. They jumped up, and Mabel ran to meet her.
“This is good; and so you have followed your horrid, detestable note. Why, of course, you are coming to-night. Clara and I won’t hear of a refusal.”
“We cannot, really,” said Ethel. “We can’t either of us come.”
“Let me introduce you to Mr John and Mr Henry Grace,” said Mabel, bringing Ethel up to the rest of the party.
“Have some tea, Ethel, do,” said Clara, holding out her hand a little languidly. “How awfully hot you look.”
Ethel sank down on a chair which one of the others had vacated and allowed herself to be cooled and petted. Clara suddenly began on the subject of the ball.
“What a queer note you sent; what does it all mean?” she asked.
“I will tell you afterwards; I have come over to explain,” said Ethel, “if I can see you – you and dear Mabel for a few minutes alone before I leave.”
“Dear me, what is the mystery?” said Jim, who had flung himself on the grass. “Why can’t you tell us all? It would be no end of a lark. Another rumpus with the mother. Is she more cantankerous than ever?”
“No, mother is quite nice, particularly nice,” said Ethel, who had often explained to the young Carters what a trial her mother was.
“Well, then, come and have a game,” said Jim. “Come along, do, and forget all the worries. If it isn’t the mother it can’t be anything very serious.”
“Yes, but it is, and I cannot tell you,” said Ethel.
She looked so forlorn that everyone present pitied her. Her soft brown eyes filled with sudden tears and overflowed.
“Oh, how my head is aching. I’ve been lying down all the afternoon. I just managed to come out to tell you, for I felt you must know.”
“Is it as bad as that? Then we had best make ourselves scarce,” said Jim. “Come along, let us go away, we who are the unfavoured; we’ll leave the select few to listen to confidences.”
A game of tennis was presently in active progress, Clara and Mabel, who both longed to join, did not feel too sympathetic.
“Well,” said Clara, “whatever is it? Do tell all. If you won’t come to-night and you won’t play, why – ”
“Oh, you mean me to go,” said Ethel. “It’s always like that – I might have expected it.”
“Oh, no; don’t go,” said Mabel, who was more good-natured than her sister, “that is,” she corrected herself, “if we can do anything to help you.”
“I must tell you – I won’t keep you more than a few minutes. You know Marcia – you have heard of her?”
“Of your elder sister? Oh, how funny! There came a letter yesterday from Colonel St. Just to father, and he said that his sister, Mrs Silchester, is coming to spend the holidays with them, and that she had mentioned your sister, Miss Marcia Aldworth. She said what a splendid girl she was. Colonel St. Just told us to tell you – he thought you would be pleased.”
“Oh, she is deceived in her,” said Ethel, her face getting redder than ever. “She is deceived in her. I wish she knew. Well, I’ll tell you all about it. You know Marcia isn’t our real sister – ”
“Oh, my dear, of course, that is no news,” said Clara more crossly than ever.
“But she is older – she is older than I am, and older than Molly. She is twenty.”
This was said with effect, and a long pause followed. “She will be twenty-one before long. You can’t call that young, can you?”
“Well, not as young as eighteen, of course.”
“But it isn’t young at all,” said Ethel, in a fretful tone. “Now I am only seventeen, and dear Molly is only eighteen; we are quite young.”
“And so are we, we are both eighteen, aren’t we, darling old Clay?” said Mabel, patting her sister on the face.
“Yes, but don’t call me Clay – it does sound so earthy,” said Clara. “But do go on, Ethel. Out with this trouble.”
“Well, it is this – father sent for Marcia.”
“What, from that delightful school where Mrs Silchester adores her so much?”
“Yes, why not? She is his child, and he sent for her, and she came, and Horace approved of the plan.”
“I am always so frightened of that Horace of yours,” said Mabel. “But do hurry up.”
“Well, she came. We feared she wouldn’t, for she is awfully selfish; but she did; she came, and we were so happy. It was, you know, liberation for us, for dear mother, poor darling, does take up such a lot of time. One of us has always to be with her, and sometimes two have to be with her, for father insists on her never being alone, and we are not rich like you, and cannot afford a hired nurse.”
“And who would give a hired nurse to one’s mother?” said Mabel.
“Well, anyhow, that is how it is; we wouldn’t, of course, and Marcia came. She came last night. She is very staid, you know, not a bit like us.”
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,