L.T. Meade (continued 5)

“I did, dear. You will be wanting a bit of supper. How do you do, Mr Aldworth? I hope your poor mother is easier—suffering less, getting stronger by degrees.”

Horace bowed and murmured something in reply, and took a seat with his back to the light. Griffiths strutted over to the hearthrug, put his hands behind him, swelled out,—as Mrs Griffiths afterwards expressed it,—looked as red as a turkey-cock, and demanded the presence of the two girls.

“The girls,” said Mrs Griffiths—“they are out.”

Her first impulse was to hide the fact that she had lent Nesta money; but second thoughts rejected this. Griffiths would worm it out of her. Griffiths could get any secret out of her—he was terrible when he reached his turkey-cock stage.

“The girls,” she said timidly, “they’re not in.”

“Neither of them?”

“Neither of them.”

“Then where in the name of all that is good are they?” thundered the angry man.

“Flossie is away on a picnic with the Browns.”

“I’m not inquiring for Flossie in particular at present. I want that other hussy—I want Miss Nesta Aldworth. Where is she?”

“I have come,” said Horace, breaking in at this juncture, and speaking in a most self-restrained voice—“to take my sister Nesta home with me, and to thank you most sincerely, Mrs Griffiths, for your kindness.”

“It’s the most dastardly, disgraceful thing that ever occurred, and to think that I should have had a hand in it,” said Griffiths. “I have been done as neatly as ever man was. I, paying all the expenses and treating the girl as though she were my own child, and thinking that Aldworth, there, and his father, would be pleased, and believe that I meant well by his family, and all the time I was doing them a base injury. It’s a wonder that girl’s mother isn’t in her grave, and so she would be if it wasn’t for—”

“My mother is all right, thank you,” said Horace. “But I am most anxious to catch the last train back to Newcastle. Is Nesta upstairs? Can she come down? I want to take her away.”

“She is not,” said Mrs Griffiths, and now she trembled exceedingly, and edged nearer to Horace, as though for protection. “It is my fault, you mustn’t blame her. I got the telegram—I’d rather not say anything about it, but I can’t hide the truth from you, Griffiths. You are so masterful when you get red in the face like that—I’m just terrified of you, and I must out with the truth. The poor child was so frightened that she told me what she had done. She owned up handsome, I must say, and then she said: ‘Lend me a little money to take me home—I will go home at once.’ She was frightfully cut up at nobody really missing her. She had evidently thought she would be sent for at once. I own that she did wrong.”

“Of course, she did wrong,” shouted Griffiths. “I never heard of a meaner thing to do, a meaner and a lower, and if I thought that my child—”

It was on this scene that Flossie, radiant with the success of her happy day, broke. She opened the door wide, rushed in, and said:

“Oh, if I haven’t had—where are you, Nesta? Why, whatever is the matter?”

“You come along here, Flossie,” said Griffiths. “There’s no end of a row, that’s the truth. Come and stand by me. Tell me what you know of this Nesta business—this runaway business, this daring to deceive an honest man, this creeping off, so to speak, in the dark. Tell me what you know. Own up, child, own up, and be quick.”

“Yes, tell us what you know,” said Horace. His voice was kind; Flossie turned to him.

“I—it was my fault as much as hers.”

“Your fault?” bellowed her father. “Your fault?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Griffiths, don’t frighten the wits out of the poor child; let her speak,” exclaimed the mother.

But when all was said and done, Flossie had grit in her. She was not going on this day of calamity to let her friend bear the brunt alone.

“We did it between us,” she said. “Poor old Nesta, she was having such a bad time, and I wanted her so much. We planned it together. We knew that if father knew it he would not take her, so we planned it, and you never guessed, father, and, and—Oh, I suppose you will give me an awful punishment—send me to a terrible school or something of that sort.”

But Griffiths was past himself.

“You knew it—you planned it! Why, you are as bad as she is!”

He took her by her shoulders and shook her. Her black eyes blazed up into his face.

“Yes, I am quite as bad as she is,” she said.

“Then go out of the room. Go upstairs.”

“Griffiths, Griffiths,” moaned the mother.

“You must do just as you please with regard to your daughter,” said Horace then. “I am sorry for Miss Griffiths; I don’t think, notwithstanding her confession, that she can be as bad as Nesta; but what I want to know is, where is Nesta?”

“I will tell you, Mr Aldworth. If my poor child was brave enough to fight her father when he was in the turkey-cock stage, I’m not going to be a whit behind her. We may be bad, Floss and I, but we’re not cowards. The poor child was so cowed by the tone of Griffiths’ telegram that she begged and implored of me to lend her money to go home before Griffiths got back. That is the long and short of it, and she’s safe back at Newcastle by this time, and safe in your house, and doubtless her mother has forgiven her. I lent her the money to go.”

“How much?” said Horace sternly.

“Not a penny more than ten shillings. The poor child said she would let me have it back again. Not that I want it—indeed I don’t.”

Horace put his hand into his pocket, took out half a sovereign and laid it on the table.

“I have to thank you both,” he said, turning to Griffiths, “for your great kindness to my sister. You meant well, however ill she meant. I have nothing to say with regard to your daughter’s conduct except that I would not be too hard on her, Mr Griffiths, if I were you. The girl might have tried to get out of it, but she did not; there is always something in that. Now I shall just have time to catch my train.”

“You won’t take bite nor sup, Mr Aldworth? We’re so honoured to have you in the house, sir, so pleased, so delighted. You are sure you won’t take bite nor sup?”

“I am sorry, but I must catch my train; it leaves at 9:10.”

“And how, if I might venture to ask you, is your poor mother, Mr Aldworth?”

“My mother is better. She is not at home at present. She is at Hurst Castle with Miss Angela St. Just. Miss St. Just has had a wonderful effect upon her, and has managed to get her over there, and I trust she may come back a very different woman.”

“Then after all,” said Mrs Griffiths, “poor little Nesta did not injure her mother; that is something to be thankful for, and when you are scolding her, sir, I hope you will bear it in mind. And I hope, Griffiths, you will also bear it in mind, and act handsome by our child, and take her in the true spirit and forgive her.”

“I am disgusted,” said Griffiths, “disgusted.”

He stalked to the door, pushed it wide open, let it bang behind him, and went down the stairs.

“There!” said Mrs Griffiths, bursting into tears, “he will be unmanageable, not only to-night, but to-morrow, and the day after, and the day after. A pretty time Floss and I’ll have—a pretty time truly. But I’m glad you spoke up, Mr Aldworth. You are not offended with us, forsooth?”

“Offended with you, madam,” said the young man; “how can I do anything but thank you for your kindness to my poor silly young sister? But now I must really be off.”

Chapter Twenty Six.

In Hiding.

When Nesta reached the railway station she was almost beside herself with fear. She went to the ticket office to get a third-class single ticket for Newcastle. There was a girl standing just in front of her, a commonplace, respectable looking girl, who asked for a ticket to a place which she pronounced as Souchester. The ticket only cost one and sixpence. It flashed through Nesta’s mind that she might just as well go to Souchester as anywhere else. It had not before entered into her brain that here lay an immediate source of relief. Perhaps her family would be really frightened when they knew nothing about her, so frightened that when they saw her again, they would forgive her.

Scarcely knowing what she did, and with no previous intention of going anywhere but straight home, she too asked for a ticket to Souchester. The man handed it to her.

“One and sixpence, please,” he said.

She pushed in her half-sovereign, received back eight and sixpence change, which she thought great riches, slipped the money into her purse, put the purse into her pocket, and went on the platform. The man directed her which way to go to catch the Souchester train. She followed the girl who had first put the idea into her mind. This girl looked of the servant class. She was respectably dressed, she carried a parcel wrapped up in brown paper. Nesta felt that between her and that girl there was a sort of link; she could not quite account for it, but she was anxious not to lose sight of her.

“Souchester,” said the man who stood on the platform, taking Nesta’s ticket and examining it, “there you are, Miss, right ahead, that train, that train, Miss, it’s just starting, you be quick if you want to catch it.” Nesta hurried. The girl with the brown paper parcel got into a third-class carriage, Nesta followed her, and a minute later the train was in motion. At first it went slowly, then quickly, and soon the gay town of Scarborough was out of sight, and they were going rapidly between fields full of waving corn, with the blue sea still close at hand.

It so happened that Nesta and the girl with the brown paper parcel were the only two in this special compartment. Nesta looked at her companion; she did not exchange a single word with her, but nevertheless, she was for the time being her guiding star. The girl was essentially commonplace; she was stout, very dumpy in figure, she had a large, full-moon face, small eyes, a wide mouth, and high cheek bones. She wore no gloves, and her hands were coarse and red. Presently she pulled a coarse sandwich, made of two hunches of bread with a piece of bacon in the middle, from her brown paper parcel, and began to eat it deliberately. When she had eaten half, she looked at Nesta. Then taking a knife out of her pocket, she cut a piece from her sandwich and offered it awkwardly, and yet with a good-natured smile, to her fellow traveller. Nesta thanked her, and said she was not hungry.

This incident, however, opened the ball, and Nesta was able to ask what sort of place Souchester was.

“Oh, just a country place,” said the girl. “Be yer going there, Miss?”

“I’m a poor girl just like yourself,” said Nesta. She became suddenly interested. If this was not a real adventure, a real proper running away, she did not know what was.

“I am a poor girl like you,” repeated Nesta, “and I am going to Souchester.”

“Now I wonder what for?” said the girl. “My name is Mary Hogg. I’m in a place—it’s a big house, and I’m under kitchenmaid. I have had a week’s holiday to see my aunt, who lives in a poor part of Scarborough, not where the rich folks live. I’ve had a jolly week and now I’m going back to my place. There are very few poor at Souchester, it’s just a little bit of a village, and it’s owned by the St. Just family.”

Nesta suddenly felt she had been entrapped once more. “What St. Justs?” she asked.

“Why, the St. Justs,” answered the girl. “Miss Angela’s folks. You must have heard of Miss Angela St. Just.”

“Yes,” said Nesta, then she added petulantly—“They seem to be everywhere.”

“Oh, no, they ain’t,” said Mary Hogg. “Sir Edward and his daughter, they’ve had what you call reverses, but the rest of the family is rich, very rich. They owns Hurst Castle, and my place. I belong to ’em, so to speak. I’m at Castle Walworth. I’m under kitchenmaid. They keep a power of servants; you can scarce count ’em on your fingers.”

Nesta was interested.

“Have you very hard work to do?” she asked.

“Oh, no; nothing to speak of, and I gets rare good living, and no end of pickings, too, which I takes to my mother, whenever I has time to go and see her. She lives in a bit of a cottage just outside of the village. She’s very poor, indeed, is mother. She’s a widdy. Father died five years ago, and left her with me and two boys. The boys is still at school. The St. Just family is very good to mother, and it was through Miss Angela asking, that I got a place as kitchenmaid at the Castle. I’m proud of my place.”

“You must be,” said Nesta.

“It’s real respectable,” said the girl. “You can’t be like ordinary servants; you mustn’t consider yourself an ordinary servant there. Just think of me—a bit of a girl like me—I ain’t seventeen yet—having to wear a little tight bonnet with strings fastened under my chin, and a regular livery. Grey, it is, with red pipings. That’s the livery the servants at Castle Walworth wear. The bonnets are black, with a bit of red just bordering them inside. We look very nice when we go to church, all in our livery. But when I goes to see mother, then I can wear just what I like, and when I’m with my aunt—oh, my word, I did have a good time at Scarborough—but here we be, Miss, here we be. I’ll wish you good-day, Miss.”

The train stopped and the two girls alighted on the platform. Nesta walked hurriedly by her companion’s side. The girl with the brown paper parcel did not seem to want anything more to do with her. The tickets were taken by the ticket collector, and then they found themselves side by side in a narrow road, a road branching off to right and left. It was a winding road, quite pretty and very countrified indeed. If there was a village, there seemed to be no trace of one.

“Where’s the village?” asked Nesta, doing her best to detain the sole person in all the world whom she thought she had a right to speak to.

“Why, there—down in the valley, nestling among all them trees,” said Mary Hogg. “This is my way,” she added, “straight up this steep hill, and there’s the Castle, and the flag is flying; that shows the family are at home. They’ll be waiting for me. If Mrs Gaskell, that’s our housekeeper, finds I’m five minutes late, why she’ll blow my nose off.”

“How awful!” said Nesta.

“Oh, she ain’t really so bad; she’s quite a kind sort; but the family is at home, and I’m due back now, so I’ll wish you good-evening, Miss.”

“Stay one minute, just one minute.”

“I can’t really, Miss; I must hurry; time’s up, and time’s everything at Castle Walworth. We, none of us, dare be one minute late, not one blessed minute. There’s the family has their pleasure, and they must have time for that, and we servants, we has our work, and we must have time for that. That’s the way of the world, Miss. I can’t stay to talk, really, Miss.”

“Then I’ll walk with you,” said Nesta.

“It’s a steep hill, Miss, and if you’ve come to see your friends—”

“That’s just what I haven’t—I have come to—Oh, Mary Hogg, I must confide in you. I have come here because I want to—to hide for a little.”

“My word! To hide!” said Mary Hogg. She really quite interested at last. She forgot the awful Mrs Gaskell and all the terrors that punctuality caused in the St. Just establishment. Her eyes became round as the letter “O,” and her mouth formed itself into much the same shape.

“You be a bad ’un!” she said. “So you’ve run away?”

“Yes, I have. I haven’t time to tell you my story, but I want to stay at Souchester just for a little! you must help me, for I wouldn’t have come to Souchester but for you.”

“There now; didn’t I say you were bad? What in the name of wonder have I to do with it?”

“I was going in quite another direction, and I heard you ask for a ticket to Souchester, and I thought I’d come too, and I got into the same carriage with you because I thought you looked kind and—and respectable. I’ve got some money,” continued Nesta, speaking with sudden dignity. “I’m not a beggar, but I want to go to a very cheap place just to spend the night. Do you know of any place? It won’t do you any harm to tell me if there’s anybody in the village who would give me a bed.”

“But, do you mean a very, very cheap place?” asked Mary Hogg, who thought on the spot that she might do a good deal for her mother. Mrs Hogg was so poor that she was glad even of stray sixpences and pence.

“I don’t mind how poor it is, if it is only cheap; that is what I want—something very cheap.”

“There’s mother’s house. Would you mind going there?”

“Of course I wouldn’t. Where is it?”

“I must be quick; I really must. You had better come a little way up the hill with me, and I’ll tell you. It’s rather steep, but there, I’ll go a little slower. I’ll tell Mrs Gaskell that I met a fellow creature in distress. She’s a very Christian woman, is Mrs Gaskell, and that, perhaps, will make her more inclined to be lenient with me. I’ll tell her that.”

“But you won’t tell her my name, will you?”

“In course not, seeing as I don’t know it.”

“That’s true,” said Nesta, with a relieved laugh.

“And I don’t want to,” said Mary Hogg.

“Better not,” said Nesta.

“Well, if you think mother’ll give you a bed—”

“I don’t know—it was you who said it.”

“She will, if you pay her. You may have to give her fourpence—can you afford that?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“She’ll give you your breakfast for three ha’pence, and a sort of dinner meal for threepence. Can you manage that?”

“Yes, quite well.”

Nesta made a mental calculation. If Mrs Hogg was really so very reasonable, she might stay with her for several days. Eight and sixpence would last a long time at that rate.

“You are very kind,” she said, with rapture. “That will do beautifully. Now, just tell me where she lives, will you?”

“You say as Mary Hogg told you to come. Mother’ll know what that means. It’s a very small house; ’tain’t in no way the sort as you’re used to.”

“I don’t mind. Tell me where it is.”

“Well; there’s the village yonder. You foller your nose and you’ll get it. By-and-by you’ll cross the stream over a little bridge, but still foller after your nose, and you’ll come to a cottage just at the side of the road, standing all alone. You can go up the path and knock at the door, and when you knock, mother’ll say, ‘Come right in,’ and you’ll go right in, and mother ’ll say, ‘What do you want?’ and you’ll say, ‘Mary Hogg sent me.’ Then you’ll manage the rest. Good-bye to you; I really must run.”

Mary put wings to her feet, and toiling and panting with her brown paper parcel, she hurried up the steep hill towards that spot where Castle Walworth reflected from its many windows the gleam of the now westering sun.

Nesta stood for a minute just where her new friend had left her, and then went down towards the village. She felt in her pocket for her little purse; she took it out and opened it. Yes, there was the money that Mrs Griffiths had lent her—eight shillings and sixpence. She felt herself quite wealthy. At the Hogg establishment she might really manage to live for several days.

Following Mary’s directions she reached the little village street, found the rustic bridge, crossed it and went along a pretty shady road. Some people passed her, poor people returning from their work, people of her own class, some well dressed, some the reverse. They all looked at her, for people will stare at a stranger in country villages. Then a carriage passed by with several gaily dressed ladies in it, and they also turned and looked at Nesta. Nesta hurried after that. How awful it would be if she suddenly met Angela St. Just Angela would know her, of course, and she would know Angela. But no one in the carriage seemed to recognise her, and the prancing horses soon bowled out of sight.

Then she came to a cottage covered with ivy, roof and all; it almost seemed weighted down by the evergreens. She saw a tiny porch made of latticework, which was also covered with evergreens. The porch was so small and so entirely covered that Nesta had slightly to stoop to get within. There was a little door which was shut; she knocked, and a voice said, “Come right in.”

Nesta felt for a moment as though she were Red Riding Hood, and the wolf were within. She lifted the latch and went in. The first person she saw was a sandy-haired middle-aged woman, with a strong likeness to Mary Hogg. The woman said, “Oh, my!” then she gave a little curtsey, then she said, “Oh, my!” again. Nesta stood and stared at her. A small boy who had been lying face downward on the floor, started to his feet, thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, and stared also. Another boy, who had been bending over a book, and who was a little older, flung the book on the floor, and added to the group of starers.

“Mary Hogg sent me,” said Nesta.

She used the words wondering if they would be a talisman, the “open sesame” which her hungry soul desired. They certainly had an immediate effect, but not the effect she expected. Mrs Hogg darted forward, dusted a chair, and said:

“Honoured Miss, be seated.”

Nesta dropped into the chair, for she was really very tired.

“If you are one of the young ladies from the Castle, I’m sorry I ain’t got all the sewing done yet, but I will to-morrow.”

“No,” said Nesta, “it isn’t that. I’m not one of the young ladies from the Castle; I’m just a girl, a stranger, and I want a bed for the night. I travelled in the same train with your daughter, Mary Hogg, and she sent me on here. She said you would give me a bed, and that you’d expect me to pay. I can pay you. I have got eight and sixpence. I hope you won’t charge me a great deal, for that is all the money I have in the wide world. But I can pay you; will you give me a bed?”

Now this was most exciting to Mrs Hogg. It was still more exciting to the two boys, whose names were Ben and Dan. They stood now side by side, each with his hands in his pockets, and his glowing eyes fixed on Nesta’s face. Mrs Hogg stood silent; she was considering deeply.

“There’s but two rooms,” she said, at last. “This room, and the bedroom beyond; but there’s the scullery.”

“I could sleep anywhere,” said Nesta, who was terrified at the thought of being thrust out of this humble habitation.

“There’s only one thing to be done,” said Mrs Hogg, “you must share my bed.”

This was scarcely agreeable, but any port in a storm, Nesta thought.

“Very well.”

“I’ll charge you twopence a night.”

“Thank you,” said Nesta.

“The boys will have to leave the room and sleep in the scullery.”

“Hooray!” said Dan.

“Hurroa!” cried Ben.

“Quiet, lads, quiet,” said the mother. “You go right out of the way and let the young lady rest herself.”

“I’m just a girl,” said Nesta. “I’d best not be a young lady; I’m just a girl, and I’m very glad to come and stay with you. I shall be rather hungry presently,” she continued; “could you give me any supper?”

“If it’s anything special, I’ll charge you what it costs,” said Mrs Hogg; “but if it’s anything, why, it’ll be three ha’pence for supper, twopence for breakfast, threepence for dinner. Them’s my terms.”

“It must be anything,” said Nesta.

Mrs Hogg nodded. She whispered to her eldest boy, who, with another “Hooray!” rushed out of the cottage, followed by his brother. Nesta sank down in the shadow; she had found a refuge. For the present she was safe. Even Horace, with all his penetration, could not possibly find her in Mrs Hogg’s kitchen, in Souchester. She made a hurried calculation. She might live here for over a week quite comfortably. In her present terrible plight a week seemed like forever.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Unaccustomed Fare.

Mrs Hogg’s bedroom was choky and Mrs Hogg herself snored loudly. But the place was really clean, and Nesta was too tired to lie long awake. When she did open her eyes in the morning, it was to the pleasant perfume of fried herring. A small boy was standing gazing at her out of two of the roundest eyes Nesta had ever seen. She came to the conclusion that the eyes of the entire Hogg family were not made like other people’s; they were as round as marbles, and protruded very slightly from the head. The boy said:

“Red herrings!” thrust his tongue into his cheek, winked at her, and vanished.

Nesta proceeded to dress herself, and went into the living room. The place of honour was reserved for her. There was bread for breakfast, but no butter. There was, however, a sort of lard, which the children much appreciated. There was tea, but very little milk, and coarse brown sugar. Mrs Hogg helped the boys liberally, but she did not give them any of the red herring. Nesta noticed that Ben’s eyes watered when he glanced at it. She herself could not touch it, so she transferred the morsel which had been put on her plate to that of the little boy. The boy shouted; he did not seem to be able to speak quietly. He said “Hurra!” The moment he said “Hurra!” the eldest boy said “Hooray!” and stretched out his hand and snatched a piece of herring from the dish. Mrs Hogg rose and smacked both the boys on their ears, whereupon they fell to crying bitterly.

“Oh, don’t,” said Nesta. “How can you? It seems so cruel.”

“Crool?” said Mrs Hogg; “crool to smack yer own children? Why, don’t Bible Solomon say, ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child’? There’s no spoiling of my children in this house. Put back that fish, you greedy boy. Ain’t it got to do for Missie’s dinner and supper, as well as for her breakfast; you put it back this blessed minute.”

Nesta felt a sudden sense of dismay. To be obliged to eat red herring as her sole sustenance for one whole day did seem dreadful, but she reflected that anything was better than her father’s and brother’s wrath, and the sneers of her two sisters, and better than Marcia’s gracious, and yet most intolerable forgiveness. Nesta was not at all sorry yet, for what she had done, but she was sorry for the sense of discomfort which now surrounded her. She had borne with her supper, which consisted of porridge and milk, the night before, but her breakfast was by no means to her taste. When the boys had gone to Sunday school, she said almost timidly:

“If I can’t help you in any way can’t I go out?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake do, my dear. I don’t want to see you except when you want to see me. You’re welcome to half my bed, although I was half perished in the night, for you would take all the clothes and wrap yourself in them. I’ve got rheumatics in my back, and I could have cried out with the pain. You’re a selfish young miss, I take it.”

Nesta was accustomed to home truths, but Mrs Hogg’s home truths hurt her more than most. She felt something like tears burning at the back of her eyes.

“Perhaps I am,” she said. “I know I’m not at all happy.”

She went out of the house, and wandered down the summer road. Soon she got into an enchanting lane where wild flowers of all sorts grew in wild profusion. Here also was a distant, a very distant glimpse of the blue, blue sea. She was glad to be away from it; she was glad, of course, to be here. She had not an idea what would become of her in the end. She felt as though all her life had suddenly been drawn up short, as though the thread of her existence had been snapped. It was her own doing; she had done it herself.

She heard the church bells ringing in the distance, but she knew it was impossible for her to go to church. She began to wonder what they were doing at home, and to wonder what the Griffiths were doing. She found she did not like to think either of her home or of the Griffiths. What could she do when her eight and sixpence was gone? Mrs Hogg was not at all an affectionate woman; she would exact her pence to the uttermost farthing. Nesta felt that if she were to live on red herrings for a week, she would feel very thin at the end of it. She detested red herrings She sincerely hoped there would be a variety in the Hogg menu. But Mrs Hogg’s emphatic statement did not seem to point that way. At least for to-day she was to be supported on butterless bread and red herrings.

Still she wandered on, the country air fanning her cheeks. There was peace everywhere except in her own troubled heart. As yet she was not at all sorry, there was only sorrow for herself, she was not sorry for the pain she was giving others. Had the temptation come to her again she would have succumbed.

“The people at home don’t love me much,” she thought, “or they’d have sent for me. I gave them every chance. It might have been naughty of me to run away, but I gave them the chance of sending for me. But they never sent a line or a message; they never would have done it, if Mr Griffiths had not gone to see mother and found out the truth. Oh, to think of what he would say when he came in. I wonder what he did say. I wonder what Flossie is doing. I wonder—oh, I wonder!”

She went on until she was tired, then she sat down by the edge of a babbling brook, dipped her hand into the water, and amused herself watching the minnows and other small fish as they floated past her in the bed of the stream. There were forget-me-nots growing on the edge of the bank; she picked some and tore them to pieces. Then she started up impatiently. What was she to do when the eight and sixpence was out? She began to think of Mary Hogg up at the Castle. It must be nice to have something to do. She wondered if the St. Justs would take her on as one of their servants. They kept such a lot, perhaps they might have room for her. She did not relish the idea. She had some pride, and she did not care to sink to the position of a domestic servant. Nevertheless, she thought it would be better than doing nothing at all; better than going back to her family; better than starving. But then the St. Justs might not have her. She could not honestly say she would make a good servant. She felt certain in her heart that she would be unpardonably careless, thoughtless, unable to do any one thing properly. Why, she could not even make a bed! She used to try at home, sometimes, and always failed miserably.

Then she began to consider another fact. The St. Justs would very quickly discover who she was. Oh, no, she must not go there; she must go to somebody else. But who else? She had really no time to lose. Perhaps she could go as reader or companion. That was much better. That would be quite nice. There must surely be a blind lady in the village, and blind old ladies always wanted companions to read to them. Nesta could read—how often she had read to her mother. Oh, yes, she would really do that part quite nicely. She was the quickest reader she knew. She could gabble through a story at breathless speed; it did not matter whether she pronounced her words right or wrong. Yes, a blind old lady was the very thing.

She began to feel hungry, for her breakfast had not been very satisfying. Whatever happened she must be in time for the Hogg dinner. This was the principal meal of the day; it would cost her threepence. She began to think that she was paying dear for the sort of food she got at the Hoggs’.

She walked back without meeting any one, and entered her new home. She was right; they were preparing for dinner. Mrs Hogg was stirring something over the fire; the boys were in their old attitude of rapt attention, their hands in their pockets. There was a cloth on the table which had once been white; it was certainly that no longer. There were coarse knives and forks and very coarse plates, with the thickest glasses to drink out of that Nesta had ever seen. Mrs Hogg said:

“If you’ll take your ’at off, Miss, dinner’ll be ready in a twinkle.”

Nesta retired into the bedroom; she came back in a few minutes. When she did so the youngest boy came up to her, and whispered in her ear:

“Pease pudding for dinner.” He then said, looking round at his brother, “Hurra!” and the brother, as was his invariable habit, cried “Hooray!”

The pease pudding was lifted out of the pot in a bag; the bag was opened, the boys looking on with breathless interest. It was put in the centre of the table on a round dish, and the family sat down.

“Your grace, Dan,” said Mrs Hogg.

Dan said:

“For all your mercies—” He closed his eyes and mumbled the rest.

Then Mrs Hogg cut liberal slices of the pease pudding and helped Nesta and the two children. She gave Nesta the largest share. Nesta disliked pease pudding as much as she disliked fried herring, but that did not matter; she was so hungry now that she ate it. The pease pudding was followed by a dumpling, which the boys greatly appreciated. There were currants in it, so few that to search for them was most exciting and caused “Hurras!” and “Hoorays!” to sound through the cottage. This was a dinner which was, as the boys expressed it, “filling.”

“Seems to puff you out,” said Ben.

“Seems to stuff you up,” said Dan.

“Out you both go now,” said Mrs Hogg, and she and Nesta were alone. Mrs Hogg washed up and put the place in perfect order. She then sat down by the table, put on her spectacles, and opened her Bible.

“Ain’t you got a Bible with you?” she said.

“No,” replied Nesta, “I haven’t got anything with me.”

“Shall I read aloud to you, Miss?”

“No, thank you,” replied Nesta.

Mrs Hogg glanced up at Nesta with small favour in her face.

“Please,” said Nesta, coming close to her, “I want to get something to do. I am a young lady, you know.”

“Maybe you be; but you took all the clothes off me last night, and that ain’t young-ladyish to my way o’ thinking.”

“I’m sorry,” said Nesta, who thought it best to propitiate Mrs Hogg, “Please,” she continued, in a coaxing tone, “do you happen to know a blind lady in the village?”

“A blind lady—what do you mean?”

“Isn’t there one?” cried Nesta, in a tone of distress. “Why, you talk as though you wanted some one to be blind. What do you mean?”

“Well, I do; I want to read to her.”

“Sakes alive! what a queer child.”

“But is there one?”

“There ain’t as far as I’m aware. There’s old Mrs Johnston, but she ain’t blind; she has the very sharpest of eyes that were ever set into anybody’s head. She’s crool, too, crool, the way she snaps you up. She used to have a lady to read to her, but that lady has gone to Ameriky to be married. She went a week ago, and they say Mrs Johnston almost cried, crool as she used to be to Miss Palliser. Now, if you really wanted to—”

“But I do; I do,” said Nesta. “I want to very badly indeed. May I go to see her? What is her address?”

“What ails her is rheumatism. She can’t stir without screeching out loud, and she wants some one to bolster her up. Not that I think much of you myself, but anyhow you might as well go and see.”

“Would she like me to go and see her to-day?”

“Bless you!” said Mrs Hogg, “on the Sawbath? Not a bit of it. She’d never give you nothing to do if you went and broke in on her Sunday rest. It’s church with her, as far as church indoors can be church, and she wouldn’t see you if you called fifty times. But you might go to-morrow, if you so liked it.”

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Applying for a Situation.

On the morrow between twelve and one o’clock, Nesta, who had no best clothes to put on, but who had to make the best of what she stood up in, as Mrs Hogg expressed it, started on her mission of inquiry to Mrs Johnston’s. Mrs Johnston lived in the high street. It was not much of a street, for Souchester was quite a tiny place; but still there were a few houses, and three or four shops, and amongst those houses was one with a hall door painted yellow, and pillars painted green. In that house lived Mrs Johnston. Nesta’s whole horizon, every scrap of her future, seemed now to be centred in Mrs Johnston. She had lain awake a good part of the night thinking about her, and making her plans. If Mrs Johnston would pay her—say ten shillings a week, she could easily manage to live quite well. She would still board with the Hoggs and take her food with them. She would soon get accustomed to the red herrings and to the half of Mrs Hogg’s bed. She would soon get accustomed to the boys, who could only articulate, as far as she was concerned, the words “Hooray” and “Hurroa.” In fact she would get accustomed to anything, and she would stay there until her family, tired out with looking for her, would cease to trouble their heads. By-and-by perhaps they would be sorry, and they would hold out the olive branch, and she would go home, but that time was a long way off.

Meanwhile all her future would depend on Mrs Johnston. She reached the house and rang the bell.

The house was not pretty, but it seemed to be immaculately neat. A girl as neat as the house itself presently opened the door. When she saw Nesta, she said:

“My missus can’t see anybody to-day,” and was about to slam the door in Nesta’s face, when that young lady adroitly slipped her foot in.

“I must see her. It is most important. It has something to do with the St. Justs,” said Nesta.

She was desperate and had to make up an excuse to secure her interview at any cost. The servant girl was impressed by the word St. Just, and telling Nesta she might stay in the hall and she would inquire, she went away to find her mistress.

Mrs Johnston’s celebrated rheumatism was at its worst that day. She was consequently more cranky than usual, and less inclined to be civil to any who wanted her.

“A girl, did you say, Mercy? Speak out, my lass. What sort of a girl?”

“A kind of lady girl, ma’am.”

“A stranger?”

“Yes; I never seen her before.”

“Did she say what she wanted?”

“I think the people from the Castle sent her, ma’am. She said it was to do with the St. Justs.”

“Why, then, for goodness’ sake show her in. I am expecting Miss Angela, and perhaps she will call some time to-day. We must have the place in apple-pie order. I hope to goodness that girl hasn’t come to say that Miss Angela can’t come. I’ve been counting on her visit more than anything.”

“In course, you have, ma’am, and no wonder. She’s a beautiful young lady.”

“Well, show the other young lady in, Mercy,” said Mrs Johnston; “but tell her that I’m bad with the rheumatics and I can’t entertain her long. If I ring the bell twice, Mercy, you will bring up the gingerbread and milk; but if I ring it three times, it will be for the gingerbread and cowslip wine, and if I don’t ring it at all, why, you are to bring up nothing. It all depends on what the young lady wants.”

How poor Nesta would have enjoyed the gingerbread and milk, let alone the gingerbread and cowslip wine which she was never to taste, for her diet at the Hoggs’ was the reverse of appetising. Try as she would she could scarcely manage it; hunger would, of course, bring her to it in time. But although she was nearly starving for her ordinary food, she was not hungry enough yet for the food which the Hoggs consumed. Mercy came back to her.

“You may come in, Miss,” she said. “It is entirely because you are a young lady from the Castle; but my missis wishes to tell you that her rheumatics are awful bad to-day. You’ll be as gentle as you can with her, Miss.”

Nesta nodded, and entered the room, the door of which Mercy held open for her.

Now, Nesta could never be remarked for her graceful or gentle movements, and she managed, in coming into the room, to excite Mrs Johnston’s quickly aroused ire, by knocking violently against a little table which held a tray full of some pretty silver ornaments. One of them was knocked down, and the whole arrangement was destroyed.

“Clumsy girl!” muttered Mrs Johnston under her breath. She looked up with a frown on her face as Nesta approached.

Mercy stooped to rearrange the silver ornaments.

“Go away, Mercy, for goodness’ sake!” snapped the old lady. “Shut the door, and remember about the bell. If I don’t ring, bring nothing whatever, Mercy. You understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Mercy.

Nesta went and stood in front of Mrs Johnston.

“Take a seat, my dear,” said the good lady, for she recalled that even a clumsy visitor from the Castle was worth propitiating. “So you have come from Miss Angela St. Just. I do trust and hope that the sweet young lady isn’t going to disappoint me?”

“But I haven’t,” said Nesta, “and she didn’t send you a message.”

“But you are staying there?”

“No; I’m not.”

“Then what message have you from the St. Justs, may I ask?”

Mrs Johnston held herself very upright. Even her rheumatism gave way to her anger.

“What has brought you here, may I ask, young girl?”

“I came,” said Nesta, “because Mrs Hogg sent me.”

“Mrs Hogg? Hogg? You don’t mean Mary Hogg, the laundress?”

“I don’t know whether she’s a laundress or whether she’s not, but I am lodging there.”

Mrs Johnston sat still more upright. “I am lodging there for the present I know the St. Justs, but I am lodging there, and I want something to do in this place, and I thought perhaps you’d let me—oh, please don’t get so red in the face! Please don’t! Please hear me out. I thought perhaps you’d let me come and read to you, the same as the girl who went to America. Mrs Hogg said you wanted some one.”

“Mary Hogg shall never have one scrap of my washing again. What does she mean by sending me a total stranger? I shall request Mary Hogg to mind her own business.”

“Please, it isn’t her fault. I wanted a blind one, but when there wasn’t one, I thought, perhaps, you’d do.”

“What?” said Mrs Johnston.

“Some one who is blind; but you aren’t blind.”

“Thank Heavens, no! I can see quite well, and I don’t much admire your face, Miss.”

“But I could read to you. I can read, oh, so well. I have an invalid mother, and I’ve read to her, oh, stories upon stories out of the penny papers. I can read ever so quickly. I wish you’d try me. What I want is ten shillings a week, and, and—oh, not my food. I could have my food at Mrs Hogg’s. It is awfully plain—pease pudding and herrings mostly; but I don’t mind that if only you’d pay me ten shillings a week and let me come to you every day.”

“You are the most audacious girl! I really never heard of anything quite so extraordinary in the whole course of my life. And, pray, may I ask why you said you had come from the St. Justs?”

“I know them, you see, and I thought your maid wouldn’t let me in, so I made up an excuse.”

“Then you are a liar as well. Now, let me give you my answer. I don’t know you or anything about you. I don’t like your appearance. I don’t intend to employ you as my reader. You are exceedingly awkward and your dress is untidy. If you are a lady you scarcely look like one, and ladies don’t go to lodge with women like Mary Hogg.”

“If they are very poor they do,” said Nesta. “I have got very little money.”

“What is your name?”

“Oh, please, don’t ask me. I would rather not say.”

“Indeed! You’d rather not say. And do you suppose that I’d take a girl into my employment—a girl who cannot give me her name?”

“I’d rather not. What is the use? You are very cruel. I wish there had been a blind one about; she wouldn’t be so cruel.”

“Will you please go. Just go straight out by that door. Don’t knock yourself against my silver again. The hall is very short, and the front door within a few feet away. Open it; get to the other side; shut it firmly after you and depart. Don’t let me see you again.”

Nesta did depart. She felt as though some one had beaten her. She had never, perhaps, in all her pampered existence, received so many blows in such a short time as that terrible old Mrs Johnston had managed to inflict. At first, she was too angry to feel all the misery that such treatment could cause; but when she entered the Hogg establishment and found in very truth from the moist atmosphere of the place, from the absence of any preparations for a meal, and from the worried expression on Mrs Hogg’s face, that she was indeed a laundress, she burst into tears.

“Highty tighty!” said Mrs Hogg. “I can’t have any more of this. Out you go. Did you see her?”

“Oh, don’t ask me. She’s a perfect terror!”

“She has a sharp bark, but what I say is that her bark’s worse nor her bite. She pays regular. Now, why couldn’t you bring yourself to mind her and to soothe her down a bit? Maybe she’d do well by you.”

“She wouldn’t have me on any terms. She turned me right out. She didn’t like me at all.”

“I’m not surprised at that. I don’t much like von, either. But there’s your dinner in the corner there. I wropt it up in a bit o’ paper. You’d best take it out and eat it in the fields. It’ll be all mess and moither and soapsuds and steaming water here for the rest of the day.”

“And when may I come back again?”

“I don’t want you back at all.”

“But I suppose you won’t turn me out?”

“No, you may share my bed. You behaved better last night. Come back when you can’t bear yourself any longer, and if you can buy yourself a draught of milk and a hunch of bread for supper it would give less trouble getting anything ready. The boys’ll have cold porridge to-night, without any milk, and that’s all I can give you. I can never be bothered with cooking on a washing day.”

Nesta took up her dinner, which was wrapped up in a piece of old newspaper, and disappeared. She walked far, far until she was tired. Then she sat down and opened the little parcel. Within was the rind of a very hard cheese and a lump of very stale bread. But Nesta’s hunger was now so strong that she ate up the bread and devoured the cheese and felt better afterwards.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Making Sunshine All Round.

It was between three and four o’clock on that same day when Angela St. Just stepped out of her pretty carriage and went up the neatly kept path which led to Mrs Johnston’s house. Mrs Johnston was not a favourite of hers, nor, for that matter, of anybody else. How Mercy, her nice little maidservant, managed her so wonderfully; how Miss Palliser, the girl who had lately been married and gone to America, had put up with her, was a marvel to most people. But then, Angela rather liked people whom others disliked, and she generally managed to give them a ray of brightness. She entered the little parlour now, and was received by the old lady with outstretched hand.

“My dear, my dear! this is good,” she said. “I am so delighted, Angela; sit dawn, and tell me all about yourself.”

Angela pushed back her hat and looked at old Mrs Johnston, then she said quietly:

“I was determined to give you a whole hour, and here I am, and you must make the most of me, for I am leaving Castle Walworth to-day. I am going back to Hurst Castle.”

“Oh, dear, what a pity. Just when I thought you’d stay here for a good while.”

“I am sorry, but it can’t be helped. My friend, Marcia—you have heard me speak of Marcia.”

“Of course, I have, my dear, and a wonderful young lady she is.”

“Well, she is in trouble. All the Aldworths are in trouble.”

“Are they indeed?” said Mrs Johnston. She could be sympathetic enough where anybody in the most remote degree connected with the St. Justs was concerned, in especial with Angela, whom she worshipped.

“I am sorry for that,” she said, “if it worries you. You ought to have no worries.”

“But why not? But I’m not exactly worried, only, of course, I want to help them, and I am quite sure it will all come right in the end. I feel like that about everything.”

“You are a very blessed girl,” said the old lady.

Angela smiled.

“God is so good to me,” she said.

“Well, tell me all about it—what has put you out?”

“I have told you, have I not, about Mrs Aldworth? Well, you know, she is getting better. We managed to get her to Hurst Castle last week, and she is enjoying herself very much. Marcia is looking after her, and she is gradually getting more and more the use of her limbs, and a great specialist is coming from London to see her, and to give advice as to her future treatment. Everything except one now points to the possibility of a complete recovery.”

“And what is the one thing, my dear?”

“The one thing that is making us all so anxious is this. You know I told you that there are three young Aldworth girls. Molly is one, Ethel another, and Nesta, the third. Nesta has been very difficult and very troublesome, and the fact is she has run away.” Mrs Johnston did not know why she suddenly gave a little jump, but the next minute she said quickly:

“How old is she?”

“About fifteen, I think.”

“Rather big for her age?”

“I should say she was; she is unformed; she is rather untidy.”

“Awkward, I should say. Shouldn’t you now pronounce her awkward?”

“I think I should. I don’t know her very well, you see. I have only seen her once, and Marcia has told me about her. She is a very difficult girl.”

“And how long is it since she left home?”

“She left home last Saturday week. She ran away first to Scarborough to stay with some friends. We were all distressed about that, and we had to tell a story to Mrs Aldworth which partly satisfied her. We didn’t tell her anything that wasn’t true. We said Nesta had gone to stay with the Griffiths, and we thought it best that she should stay there for a few days. Then we got Mrs Aldworth to Hurst Castle, and she has been doing splendidly ever since. But the difficulty is that we shall have to tell her soon that we really don’t know where Nesta is. We don’t know, and we are in great trouble.”

“Oh, my dear, I am sure trouble is very bad for you, you look so frail. There now, I wonder when Mercy will bring the tea.”

Mrs Johnston had scarcely uttered these words before the room door was opened, and Mercy, her cheeks crimson with excitement at the greatness of the honour conferred upon her, laid a delicately prepared tea on the centre table. There was silver of the oldest and quaintest pattern; there was china thin as an eggshell; there was a little silver teapot, in short everything was perfection. There were cakes of the very lightest that Mercy’s skilful hands could make. Angela was the last person to despise such a meal; on the contrary, she received it with marked appreciation.

“How delicious! How much, much nicer than the meal I should have had at Castle Walworth. Oh, how good of you, how good of you to get it for me. But you must let me pour out the tea, and give you a cup.”

The radiant face, the shining eyes, the sympathetic manner, all did their work on cross old Mrs Johnston. Why couldn’t other people come in like Angela and make sunshine all round them? What was the matter with Mrs Johnston that she forgot her ailments and her crotchets, and her disagreeablenesses? She was only anxious now to please her young guest.

“There now,” she said, “it is good for sair een to look at you. You have cheered me and heartened me up wonderfully. But as I was saying, troubles aren’t good for you, dear, you are fretting yourself, I’m sure.”

“I am really anxious, though I know I oughtn’t to be. I am sure things will come right, I have always thought so. They do come right in the long run, but still Mrs Aldworth is so delicate, and Nesta has run away again from the people she was staying with at Scarborough.”

“Well,” said Mrs Johnston, “you say you believe things will come right. I’ve not been at all of that way of thinking. I don’t pretend that I have. It has been, my idea that things were much more likely to go wrong than right. I have found it so in life. But there, what ever possessed you, in the midst of all your anxieties, to write me a little note last night and say that you would come to see me this afternoon, and that perhaps you’d come about tea time, and that perhaps Mercy would make some of her scones, for you could never forget how delicious they tasted last time? I can tell you, Miss Angela, I awoke this morning feeling as cross and as bad and as sour as an old woman could feel, for I was aching from head to foot with the rheumatism, and I was thinking how lonely it was not to have chick nor child belonging to me, and Miss Palliser, who had her faults, poor thing, but who knew my ways, gone to America, and had it not been for your note, I don’t know what I should have done, but that cheered me, and I got downstairs. But what do you think?—even with the hope of seeing you, I couldn’t help having the grumps. But to go on with my story, I was grumbling and grumbling inside me—not that I said a word, for there wasn’t any one to say it to; Mercy was in the kitchen, with her heart in her month at the thought of seeing you, and I was by the window wondering how I could pass the hours and bear the pain in my back and down my legs, when there came a loud, impertinent sort of ring at the bell of the front door, and I wondered who that could be. I heard Mercy parleying with some one in the hall, and after a bit, in she walked and said that a girl wanted to see me, and that she knew you. Oh, dear, I thought for sure she’d come to tell me that you couldn’t come, and the same thought must have been in Mercy’s mind, for her eyes looked quite dazed. So I said: ‘Mercy, show her in,’ and in she came, as awkward a creature as you could clap your eyes on. Will you believe me, my dear, she wasn’t more than half inside the room before she bumped against my little table with my precious silver ornaments, and knocked some of them over, and it was a providence that they weren’t injured. Then, she came right in front of me, and asked me if I didn’t want some one to read to me. Never was there a queerer creature. When I questioned her whether she had brought a message from you, she said she hadn’t, and that she came herself, to see me, and that she was living in Mrs Hogg’s cottage—Mary Hogg’s cottage; that widow that I have so often told you about, the one who does my washing, by the way. You may be quite sure I was pretty well excited and angry when she said that, and I sent her away double quick; but it’s my certain sure opinion that she is the very girl you are looking for. I am as sure of it as that my name is Margaret Johnston.”

Chapter Thirty.

Found at last.

Angela did not quite know how she got out of the house. There was some fuss and some regret on the part of Mrs Johnston, and Mercy very nearly cried, but at last she did get away. She stepped into her little carriage, and drove down the road and went straight as fast as she possibly could to Mrs Hogg’s cottage.

Mrs Hogg was still busy over her washing, but she had come to the wringing stage, and the steam was not quite so thick in the kitchen, and certainly her face, flushed and tired as it was, quite beamed when she saw Angela.

“Dear, dear, Miss Angela, you mustn’t come in. ’Tain’t a fit place to put your dainty, beautiful feet into, ’tain’t really, Miss.”

“Will you come and speak to me here for a minute, Mrs Hogg?” said Angela, and she waited in the tiny porch.

Mrs Hogg came out.

“You have a girl staying with you, haven’t you?”

“Oh, dear me, Miss, so I have, a young girl—I don’t know nothing about her, not even her name, nor a single thing. It was Mary, my daughter, sent her. She’s nothing but a fuss and a worry, and that touchy about her food as never was, turning up her nose at good red herring and at pease pudding, and dumplings, and what more can a poor woman give, I’d like to know?”

“You are sure you don’t know her name?”

“No, Miss. She’s a very queer girl.”

“Is she—you understand those sort of things, Mrs Hogg—is she, in your opinion, a young lady?”

“Handsome is as handsome does,” was Mrs Hogg’s rejoinder, “and to my way o’ thinking—to be frank with you—Miss, she ain’t.”

This was rather a damper to Angela’s hopes, but after a minute she reflected that probably Nesta was a rough specimen of the genus Lady, and that at any rate it was her duty to follow up this clue to the end.

“I should like to see her,” she said. “Where is she now?”

“Oh, Miss, if I thought, even for a single moment, that she was a friend of yourn, I’d treat her very different; but all she did was to stand in the middle of my kitchen on Saturday—”

“On Saturday?” said Angela.

“Yes; Miss, on Saturday, and she says as bold as brass—‘Mary Hogg sent me.’ That was her; but if I’d known—”

“Where is she now?” said Angela:

“I gave her a bit of dinner when she came in all flustered and angry, forsooth, because poor old Mrs Johnston hadn’t been given a stroke of blindness—that seemed to put her out more than anything else. She must have a most malicious mind—that is, according to my way of thinking. Well, anyhow, Miss, I gave her a bit of dinner when she came in, and I told her to take it out and eat it. I don’t know from Adam where she is now.”

“She would go, perhaps, into the country?”

“Well, Miss, perhaps she would. Would you like Ben and Dan to go along and look for her!”

“I wish they would,” said Angela.

Ben and Dan were rotated out of their lairs in the back part of the premises, and were only too charmed to do Angela’s bidding. They flew off, fleet as a pair of little hares, down the shady lanes, looking in vain for Nesta.

But it was Angela herself who at last found her. She had decided not to drive in her carriage, for the sound of wheels, and the rhythmic beat of the ponies’ feet might startle the girl, and if she really meant to hide, might make her hide all the more securely. No, she would walk. So she gathered up her white skirt and walked down the summer lanes. By-and-by she thought she heard a noise which was different from the song of the birds, and the rushing of the waters, and the varied hum of innumerable bees. She stood quite still. It was the sound of distress, it was a sob, and the sob seemed to come from the throat of a girl. Angela stepped very softly. She went over the long grass and came to a tree, and at the foot of that tree lay a girl, her face downward, her whole figure shaken with sobs. Angela laid her hand on her.

“Why, Nesta!” she said. “How silly of Nesta to be afraid.”

The words were so unexpected that Nesta jumped to her feet; then covered her face, then flung herself face downwards again and sobbed more piteously than ever.

“I have found you, Nesta, and nobody is going to be in the least bit angry with you. May I sit by you for a little?”

“You are Miss St. Just—you are the person everybody worships and makes a fuss over. I don’t want you. Go away.”

“I am sorry you don’t want me, but I am not going away. I am going to stay by you; may I?”

Nesta could not refuse. Angela sat down. Ben and Dan peeped their round childish faces over the top of the hedge and saw Angela sitting by Nesta’s side.

“Hooray!” said Ben.

“Hurroa!” said Dan.

Angela turned.

“Go back to your mother, boys. Here is a penny for you, Dan, and another for you, Ben. Go back to your mother, and say that I have found my friend, Miss Nesta Aldworth, and am taking her back to Castle Walworth.”

This was a most awe-inspiring message; the boys, young as they were, understood some of its grand import. They rushed presently into their mother’s cottage.

“You be a little flat, mammy!” they said. “Why, the gel you give red herrings to, and no butter, is a friend of our Miss Angela’s.”

“The Lord forgive me!” said Mrs Hogg, and she forgot all about her washing, and sat down on the first chair she could find, and let her broad toil-worn hands spread themselves out one on each knee.

“The Lord forgive me!” she said at intervals.

Ben was deeply touched. He went and bought some fruit with his penny and pressed it on his mother, but she scarcely seemed to see it.

“To think as I complained to her of robbing me of half my rightful bedclothes,” was her next remark. “May I see myself in my true light in the future. How could I tell? How could I tell?”

But down by the stream a very different scene was being enacted; for Angela, having given her message to the boys, did not say anything more for a long time. Nesta waited for her to speak. At first Nesta was angry at being, as she expressed it, caught. She had not that worshipful attitude towards Angela St. Just that all the other girls of the neighbourhood seemed to feel. She rather despised her, and did not at all wish to be in her company. But then that was because she had never before been in close contact with Angela. But now that Angela gave that remarkable message, that respect-restoring message to the boys, it seemed to Nesta that a healing balm, sweet as honey itself, had been poured over her troubled heart. She could not help liking it; she could not help reflecting over it. A friend of Angela’s, and she was to go back with her to Castle Walworth.

After a little she raised her head again and peeped at her companion. How pretty Angela looked in her white dress, with her perfect little profile, the dark lashes partly shading her cheeks. She was looking down; she was thinking. Her lips were moving. Perhaps she was a real angel—perhaps she was praying. Very much the same sort of feeling as she had inspired in the breast of Penelope Carter, began now to dawn in that of Nesta, and yet Nesta had a far harder and more difficult nature than Penelope. All the same Nesta was touched. She reflected on the difference between herself and this young lady, and yet Angela had spoken of her as her friend. Then suddenly, she did not know why—Nesta touched Angela on the arm. The moment she did this Angela turned. Quick as thought her soft eyes looked full into Nesta’s face.

“Oh, you poor child, you poor child!” she said, and then she swept her arms round the girl and kissed her several times on her cheek.

“Now, Nesta,” she said, “we won’t ask you for any motives. I am not going to put a single question to you, but I want you just to come straight back with me to the Castle. I will tell you after dinner what I am going to do next; but there is no scolding, nothing of that sort, you are just to come back with me.”

“Am I?” said Nesta. “I can’t believe it.”

“You will believe it when you see it. Come, we must be quick, it is getting late.”

She took Nesta’s hand and led her down the road. There was the pretty carriage, there were the ponies with the silver bells; there was the smartly dressed little groom.

“Harold, get up behind,” said Angela, “I am in a great hurry to get back to Castle Walworth.”

Nesta found herself seated beside Angela, and quick as thought, it seemed to her, they were flashing through the summer air, past Mrs Hogg’s cottage, where the boys, Ben and Dan, raised the loudest and heartiest “Hooray!” and “Hurroa!” that Angela had ever heard. The ponies pricked up their ears at the sound, and flew faster than ever, up the village high street, past the station, and up and up, a little slower now, the steep hill where Nesta and Mary Hogg had walked side by side; then through the portcullis, and into the courtyard of the castle.

Then indeed a new shyness came over Nesta. It was like a troubled, hopeless, despairing sinner, so she thought, being led into heaven by an angel.

“I’m not fit—I’m not really,” she said, and she tugged at Angela’s hand, as if she would refuse to go in.

“Oh, you are fit enough,” said Angela, “you are my friend.”

When they got inside, Angela said something to a man who was standing near in livery, and then they went down a passage, where they met no one, up some low steps, along another passage and then a door was flung open, and Angela and Nesta entered. They entered a pretty bedroom, furnished as Nesta had never seen a bedroom before. Angela went up to a girl who was sitting by the window sewing.

“Clements,” she said, “this is my friend. I want you to put her into one of my pretty dresses, so that she may come down to dinner with me. Attend to her and see to everything she wants; she will sleep here to-night. This room leads out of my room, dear,” she said, giving Nesta another smiling glance, and then she left her.

Clements dressed Nesta in white, and she would have thought on another occasion that she had never looked so nice. But she was really past thinking of how she looked, for somehow Angela’s treatment was awaking something different within her, something which had never, even on that night when her mother was so terribly ill, been truly awakened before. She looked humble and very sad when Angela came back to her.

“You look quite sweet,” said Angela, giving her a kiss. “Come along downstairs. By the way, I have sent a telegram to Marcia to tell her that you are all right, and that I am bringing you back to-morrow.”

“Home?” said Nesta.

“Well, to your mother. That will make you happy, won’t it?”

“Mothery!” said Nesta, and there was a lump in her throat.

“I’ll tell you all about it after dinner. I have excellent news for you,” said Angela.

At another time that dinner, eaten in the company of people whom Nesta had never even dreamed about before, might have confused her, but she was past being confused now. She had a curious sensation, however, that the rich and delicately cooked food provided for the guests at Castle Walworth was as little to her taste as fried herrings and pease pudding at Mrs Hogg’s cottage. There was a heavy weight about her heart; she could scarcely raise her eyes to look at any one. Angela seemed to know all that, for after dinner she took her away, and out in the cool garden in the shadows of the summer night she talked to Nesta as no one had ever talked to her before.

Chapter Thirty One.

The Best of them All.

“It is all too wonderful,” said Nesta.

“Yes, isn’t it?” replied Penelope.

“To think,” continued Nesta, “that I should like it, that I should even on the whole be quite pleased.”

“As to me,” said Penelope, “I can scarcely contain myself. It is all on account of her, too. In fact, it is on account of both of them. They are both coming, you know.”

“Oh, it is mostly on account of her, as far as I am concerned,” said Nesta.

As Nesta spoke Penelope looked at her.

“You certainly are very much changed,” she said. “I wouldn’t know you for the same girl.”

“And I wouldn’t know you for the same girl,” retorted Nesta. “You seem to be sort of—sort of watching yourself all the time.”

Penelope smiled. She slipped her hand through Nesta’s arm.

“Let us walk up and down,” she said.

The girls disappeared out of a low French window, and paced slowly up the shrubbery at Court Prospect. When they came to the end of the shrubbery they crossed the lawn and stood for a few moments just where they could get a peep into what had been the rose garden. That old-world garden where Angela used to walk when she was a child, and where her mother had walked before her. When they reached this spot, Penelope said very slowly:

“Do you know, Nesta, it was here, just here, she found me. Here on the ground.”

“Were you really just here?” said Nesta.

“I was, and I was about as miserable a girl as could be found in the wide world. I told you all about it, didn’t I?”

“Oh, yes, and we needn’t go into it now, need we?”

“We need never talk of it any more. It is buried away deep; even God has forgotten it, at least, that is what Angela says.”

“I was a thousand times worse than you,” said Nesta, “and Angela says—by the way she found me, too, lying on the grass—I was sobbing bitterly. I had cause to sob, I was just fifty times as wicked as you. But we needn’t talk of that now.”

“Of course not,” replied Penelope, “for as Angela says, if God has forgotten, nobody else need mind.”

“But it is strange,” continued Nesta, “how different you are.”

“And how different you are, Nesta, so we both understand each other.”

They walked a little further, and then they turned. Wonderful things had happened since that day only two short months ago, when Angela St. Just had found Nesta sobbing her heart out on the banks of the pretty little river Tarn, which flowed not far from Castle Walworth.

Amongst many remarkable things Mrs Aldworth had been restored to comparative health. The great specialist who had come down from London on purpose to see her, declared that all the treatment she had hitherto undergone was wrong. He had suggested a course of electricity, which really had a miraculous effect. It strengthened her nerves and seemed to build up her whole system. Mrs Aldworth was so well that it was no longer in the least necessary for her to be confined to her bedroom. She had remained at Hurst Castle for over six weeks, and a fortnight ago had started for the continent with Molly, and Ethel, and Nurse Davenant as her companions. This was Angela’s suggestion. Angela thought that Mrs Aldworth and the girls would really enjoy a little tour in Normandy and Brittany, and afterwards they might go further south. To Mrs Aldworth it seemed like a glimpse of heaven, and Molly and Ethel were in raptures at the thought of their new dresses, and their new surroundings, and had gone off with the cheers and good will of every one concerned.

The final arrangement of all was that Nesta and Penelope were to go for a year to that excellent school at Frankfort, which Mrs Silchester presided over. Marcia was to go back again to her beloved occupation, and Angela was to spend the winter with them. Thus, indeed, was everything couleur de rose.

“For my part,” said Nesta, as she continued to talk to her companion, “I can’t imagine how I could ever take up with that common girl, Flossie Griffiths.”

“Angela says that no one is common, that if we look deep enough we shall find something to love and to care for in every human being,” said Penelope. “I never used to think so, and if any one had said that sort of thing to me some time ago, I should have set that person down as a prig, but somehow when Angela says it, I don’t seem to mind a bit. It seems to come all right. Isn’t it quite wonderful?”

“Yes, she is like no one else,” said Nesta.

But just as this moment, when they were both talking and wondering what the future would bring forth, and what golden hopes would be realised, and how many good resolutions carried into effect, there was seen crossing the lawn a stout little woman and a girl walking by her side. This person was no other than Mrs Griffiths, of Scarborough fame. Just for the moment Nesta held back. She had not seen Mrs Griffiths, and had not heard a single word from Flossie since the day she had left Scarborough. Mrs Griffiths had not even acknowledged the letter in which Nesta had returned the half-sovereign.

“Oh, there they come, and I don’t one bit want to meet them,” said Nesta to Penelope.

But Mrs Griffiths quickly waddled forward.

“Now, my dear Nesta, this is just wonderful. I am glad to see you again. Do you remember the shrimps and the wading, and how we bathed on a certain morning that shall be nameless?”

Nesta coloured and glanced at Penelope. Flossie, without taking any notice of Nesta, went straight up to Penelope.

“Well,” she said, “and how are you? What is all this fuss about? Why should you, who hoped to be a grand lady, go off to a dull German school? I am sure I should hate it.”

“I don’t,” said Penelope. “I like it very much.”

“Nesta,” said Mrs Griffiths, “just come along and have a walk with me all alone.”

Nesta was forced to comply.

“Is it true,” said Mrs Griffiths, in an awe-struck tone, “that you are hand in glove with those aristocratic St. Justs?”

“I am not,” said Nesta, who with all her faults was very downright. “Only Angela, one of the family, has been very kind to me, more than kind. She wouldn’t have noticed me but for Marcia, dear Marcia. I owe it all to her.”

“To your sister Marcia, that priggish girl, the old maid of the family as you used to call her? Miss Mule Selfish?”

Mrs Griffiths laughed.

“I did roar over that name,” she said. “I told Griffiths about it, and I thought he wouldn’t never stop laughing. He said it was the best and very smartest thing he had ever heard any girl say. It was you who gave it, wasn’t it?”

“I did; I am horrible sorry, for she isn’t Miss Mule Selfish at all. The name fits me best,” said Nesta.

“Oh, my word,” said Mrs Griffiths. “How queer you are. You are much changed; I doubt if you are improved. Flossie, come along here this minute.”

Flossie ran forward.

“What do you think Nesta calls herself now?”

“What?” said Flossie, who was not specially inclined to be friendly.

“Why, she says she was all wrong about that fine-lady sister of hers, and that she herself is Miss Mule Selfish.”

“Very likely,” said Flossie. “I always did think Nesta a remarkably selfish girl, even when she was supposed to be my great friend. Mother, have you told her?”

“No,” said Mrs Griffiths, “I have been asking her about herself. She is going to the German school, and she seems quite pleased.”

“Yes, I am delighted,” said Nesta.

“Well then, you may as well tell her now,” said Flossie.

“It’s this,” said Mrs Griffiths, slightly mincing her words and speaking in a rather affected tone, “that Floss and I are going to London, for father—we always call him father, don’t we, Floss?—that is Mr Griffiths, you know, has got a splendid opening there, and he is taking a very fine house in Bayswater, and we are to live there, and Flossie will have masters for music and dancing, and she will come out presently, and perhaps make a great match, for I am given to understand that the men admire her very much, with her black eyes and her rosy cheeks.”

“Oh, don’t,” said Flossie, flushing, it is true, but at the same time flashing her eyes with a delighted glance from Nesta to Penelope. “We’ll be very rich in the future,” she said, in a modest tone, and then she dropped her eyes.

There was a dead pause for a minute or two.

“Father has been having some luck lately,” said Mrs Griffiths, “and so perhaps he’ll ride over the heads even of the grand Aldworths, and even of you Carters, although you do own a fine place like Court Prospect.”

“We are very glad,” said Nesta.

“I thought, perhaps,” said Flossie, “it would be best to say that seeing the change in my circumstances, I wish to have nothing more to do with you, Nesta Aldworth.”

“It seems unkind,” said Mrs Griffiths. “I didn’t much like coming up here to say it, but Flossie was determined.”

“It was father and I who settled it last night,” said Flossie. “I spoke to him about it, and he said that such a very deceitful girl could have nothing to do with me in the future; so this is good-bye. I wish you well, of course. I would not wish my worst enemy anything but well, but whatever happens in the future I cannot know you.”

“Very well; of course I am sorry. I know I behaved like a perfect horror,” said Nesta.

“You say that!” cried Flossie. There was a queer look in her black eyes. She fully expected that Nesta would make a scene and get, in short, into one of her celebrated tantrums; but Nesta’s eyes kept on being sorry, and Penelope said:

“Oh, don’t let’s talk about disagreeables. If we are all happy in our own way, why should we nag and jar at one another? Do come into the house, Mrs Griffiths, and have some tea, and if father is anywhere round I’ll ask him to have a chat with you. I am sure he will be delighted to hear that Mr Griffiths had made a lot of money.”

“Not so much made, my dear,” said Mrs Griffiths, going on in front with Penelope, “but in the making. That’s it—it’s in the making. We are likely to be richer and richer. Father is so excited you can scarcely hold him in bounds. But there, my dear, there. I am sorry Flossie is so rude, but the child’s head is turned by her fine prospects.”

When they got near the house Nesta turned and looked at Flossie.

“So you are never going to speak to me again, even though—”

“Well?” said Flossie.

“Even though we were such friends always.”

“You never really loved me; I don’t believe it a bit,” was Flossie’s response. “Did you, now?”

“I think I did,” said Nesta; “in a horribly selfish way perhaps.”

“Well, you were fairly generous, that I will say,” continued Flossie, “with regard to your yellow-boy. Anyhow, I’ll try to think kindly of you. Take a kiss and we’ll say no more about it.”

Nesta thought that to kiss Flossie at that moment was one of the hardest things she had to do. But then she was doing a great many hard things just then, and she found as life went on that she had to go on doing hard things, harder and harder each day; a fault to be struggled with each day, a lesson to be learnt, for hers was by no means an easy character. She was not naturally amiable; she was full of self-will, pride, and obstinacy; but nevertheless, that sweet germ of love which Angela had planted in her heart that day down by the river, kept on growing and growing, sometimes, it is true, very nearly nipped by the frosts of that wintry side of her nature, or scorched by the tempests of her violent passions, but nevertheless, the fires of summer, and the frosts of winter could not quite destroy it, for it was watered by something higher than anything Nesta could herself impart to it.

“Nesta is the best of them all,” said Marcia, a long time afterwards to Angela, “and she owes it to you.”

“No,” said Angela, “she owes it to God.”

The End.

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Chapter 1

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Chapter 2

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Chapter 3

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Chapter 4

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Chapter 5

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Chapter 6

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Chapter 7

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Chapter 8

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Chapter 9

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Chapter 10

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Chapter 11

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Chapter 12

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Chapter 13

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Chapter 14

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Chapter 15

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Chapter 16

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Chapter 17

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Chapter 18

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Chapter 19

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Chapter 20

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Chapter 21

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Chapter 22

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Chapter 23

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Chapter 24

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Chapter 25

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Chapter 26

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Chapter 27

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Chapter 28

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Chapter 29

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Chapter 30

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Chapter 31

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