Chapter Eleven.Repentance and Afterwards.The three girls found themselves in their own bedroom.“Don’t turn up the light,” said Ethel. “Let’s sit in the dark.”“It doesn’t matter,” said Molly, “we’d best have the light, we may be wanted.”“Yes, I forgot that,” replied Ethel.She turned on the gas, which roared a little and then subsided into a sullen yellow flame. The shade belonging to the gas jet had been broken that morning by Nesta in a game of romps with her two sisters.“How hot it is,” said Nesta presently.No one took any notice of her remark, and after a time Ethel spoke.“I ought to tell you,” she said.Molly turned her haggard face.“What?” she asked. “If it is anything awful, I shall scream.”“You won’t—so there!”“What do you mean? How can you prevent me?”“I saw,” said Ethel, and she gulped down a sob in her throat—“I saw Dr Anstruther, and he said we were to forget ourselves—to obliterate ourselves—that was the word he used—to keep ourselves out of sight. We might be wanted, or we might not. We’re of no account—no account at all—that was the kind of thing he said, and I’m not a bit surprised.”“Nor am I,” said Nesta; “we’re beasts. I wish we could be killed. I wish we could be buried alive. I wish—I wish—anything but what has happened.”Molly went and stood by the window.“I’m the worst of you,” she said after a pause.“No, you’re not,” said Nesta—“I’m the worst. Nothing would have happened at all if I hadn’t run away in that mean, horrid, detestable fashion. I thought it was such a joke. You both really did think you had a day off, and it was my turn to be with her—with her. Why, I’d give my two hands to be with her now.” Nesta held out her two plump little hands as she spoke. “The doctor may cut them off; he may chop me in bits—he may do anything if only I might be with her.”“Well, you cannot,” said Ethel; “you’re no more to her now than the rest of us. What you say is quite right; you did do worse.”“No, don’t say that,” interrupted Molly, “I was the worst. I saw the attack begin, and I knew it, for I have seen it before. But I shut it out of my mind; there was a door in my mind, and I shut it firm and locked it, and forced myself to forget, and when she was lying there so white and panting for breath, I just put a shawl over her, and said, you will have such a nice sleep, and I went away back to my fun—my fun! Fancy my eating strawberries and cream, and mother—mother so ill. Fancy it! Think of it?”“I don’t want to think of it,” said Ethel. “I wish we could have something to make us go into a dead sleep. I want this night to go by. I don’t think that Marcia should have all her own way.”Then she remembered the doctor’s words.“I wish I might dare to open the door very softly,” said Nesta, “and just creep, creep upstairs and watch outside. I wish I might. Do you think I might?”“I don’t see why you shouldn’t,” said Ethel, with a momentary gleam of hope. “You can walk just like a cat when you please. No one ever was as good going down creaking stairs as you when you want to steal things from the pantry. You may as well make yourself useful as not. Go along and report; tell us if all is quiet.”Nesta, with a momentary sense of relief at having something to do, slipped off her shoes and left the room. She came back at the end of five minutes.“There isn’t a sound—I don’t think things can be so bad,” she said, and she closed the door behind her.She had scarcely uttered the words before there came a tap, sharp and decisive, and Horace came in. The girls had never loved Horace; it must be owned that he had never done anything to make his young sisters care for him. He had kept them at a distance, and they had been somewhat afraid of him. They saw him now standing on the threshold with a tray in his hand, a tray which contained three cups of hot cocoa and three thick slices of bread and butter, and when they read, not disapproval, but sorrow in his face, it seemed to the three that their hearts threw wide their doors and let him in. Nesta gave a gasp; Molly choked down something. Ethel jumped up and sat down again and clasped her hands.“I knew you’d be all feeling pretty bad,” said Horace, “so I came to sit with you for a minute or two, and here’s some cocoa. I made it myself. I’m not much of a cook, but drink it up, you three, and then let us talk.”“Horace—oh, Horace—may we?”“Drink it up first. Nesta, you begin. Why, whatever have you done to your face?”“It got torn with some briars, but it doesn’t matter,” said Nesta. She rubbed her face roughly; she would have liked to make it smart. Any outward torture would be better than the fierce pain that was tugging at her heart. But the cocoa was hot and good, and warm as the summer night was, the three girls were chilly from shock and grief. Horace insisted on their eating and drinking, and then he sat down on a little sofa which was placed at the foot of the two small beds. He coaxed Nesta to sit next to him.“Ethel, you come and sit on the other side,” he said, “and, Molly, here’s a chair for you just in front.”He managed to take the three pairs of hands and to warm them all between his own. Then he said cheerily:“Well, now, the very best thing we can do, is to make ourselves as useful as possible. We won’t think of the past.”“But we must—we must, Horace,” said Molly. “And I’m the worst. I’d like to confess to you—I wish I might.”“My dear, I’m not a bit of a father confessor, and we have quite trouble enough in the house at present without raking up what you have done. There, if you like, I’ll tell you. You have, all three of you, been abominably careless and selfish. We won’t add any more to that; it is quite bad enough. There is such a thing as turning over a new leaf, and whether you have the strength to turn over that leaf God only knows—I don’t. The thing at present is to face what is before us.”“You will tell us, Horry, won’t you?” said Nesta, in a coaxing tone. She could not for the life of her help coaxing any one she came across.“I will tell you. I haven’t come into this room to be mealy-mouthed or to hide anything from you. Our mother is very ill; the doctor thinks it quite possible that she may not live until the morning.”“Then I’ll die, too,” said Nesta.“Nonsense, Nesta. Don’t give way to selfishness just now. You are in no possible danger.”“I’ll die; I know I’ll die.”“Hush!” said her brother sternly; “let me go on with what I’ve got to say. Our mother is in danger; you cannot be with her, for, alas, when you were given the chance you would not take it. You never really nursed her; you never—not for a single moment—saw to her real comforts. Therefore, now in her hour of peril, you three—her own children—are useless. Nevertheless, the doctor thinks it best that you should not undress. You must stay in your room, ready to be called if it is necessary.”“If?” said Molly. “Why, what is going to happen? Why must we be called?”“Poor children! she may want to speak to you.”“I won’t go,” said Molly.She covered her face with her hands and began to shake from head to foot.“It may not be necessary, child; but do learn to have more self-control. How will you bear all the sorrows of a lifetime if you break down now?”“I have never been taught to bear anything—I have never been taught,” said Molly.Horace looked at her in absolute perplexity. Molly rose tremblingly; she flung herself across the bed. She was shivering so violently that her whole body shook.It was at that instant that Marcia softly opened the door and came in.“Why, what is it? What is it, Horace? How good of you.”“Now, you have come, Marcia, I’ll go,” said Horace, and he slipped out of the room.“Marcia, can you speak to us? Can you? Aren’t you too angry?”“Poor children—no, not now. Molly, sit up.”Marcia laid her hand on the girl’s shoulder. She raised her up forcibly.“My darling,” she said, “kiss me.”“Will you kiss me after what has happened?”“I pity you so much. I have come to—to kneel with you—to pray. It would be a very terrible thing for you if our mother were to die to-night. We will ask God to keep her alive.”“Oh, do, Marcia,” said Nesta, in a tone of the greatest anguish and the greatest belief. “You are so good. He will be certain to hear you. Kneel down at once, Marcia—say the words, oh, say them, say them!” Marcia did pray, while the three girls clustered round her and joined their sobs to her earnest petitions.In the morning Mrs Aldworth was still alive. There had been no repetition of the dangerous attack. The great specialist from Newcastle was summoned, and he gave certain directions. A trained nurse was brought into the house, and Nesta, Molly, and Ethel were sent to stay with the Carters.It was the Carters themselves who had suggested this, and the girls went away, feeling thoroughly brokenhearted. They were really so shocked, so distressed, that they did not know themselves; but as day after day went by, and as Mrs Aldworth by slow degrees got better, and yet better, so much better that the doctor only came to see her once a day, then every second day, then twice a week, and then finally said to Marcia, “You can summon me when you want me—” so did the remorse and the agony of that terrible night pass from the minds of the young Aldworths. They could not help having a good time at the Carters’. The Carters were the essence of good nature. They had been dreadfully sorry for them during their time of anguish; they had done their utmost for the girls, and now they were willing to keep them as their guests.On a certain day, a month after Mrs Aldworth’s serious illness, when she had come back again to that standpoint from which she had so nearly slipped away into the ocean of Eternity, Marcia made up her mind that it was time to put the repentance of her three young sisters to the test. They must return home and renew their duties to their mother. Marcia had given up all idea now of returning to Frankfort. She had written once or twice to Angela, and Angela had replied. She had also written to Mrs Silchester.“There is little hope of my being able to return this summer. My stepmother has been most alarmingly ill,” she wrote.Angela had come to see her, but Marcia could not give her much of her time. Angela had kissed her, and had looked into her eyes, and Marcia had said:“I think I understand a little better your remarks about the path of duty, and the grandeur of duty, and I am quite content, and I do not repent at all.”Angela thought a good deal of her friend, and wondered what she could do for her. But she scarcely approved of Marcia’s still firmly adhered-to resolution, that the young Aldworths were to resume the care of their mother.“It will be so trying to you, and do you dare for a single moment to risk leaving her with them?”“Yes; the doctor has great hopes of her. He says that the new treatment has produced an almost radical change in the condition of her heart, and that with care she will do well, and may even become fairly strong once more. But all this is a question of time, and the girls have been quite long enough away from home, and I am going to fetch them to-morrow.”On a certain day, therefore, when Nurse Davenant had done everything to make the invalid thoroughly comfortable, Marcia put on her hat and walked along the shady road towards the St. Justs’ old house.She had known it fairly well when she was quite a child, but had never cared to go there since the Carters had purchased it. The Carters were absolute strangers to Marcia. She had never once met them. She walked now under the avenue of splendid old beech trees, and thought of her past and future. Things were not going quite so well with herself as she could have hoped. Her life seemed to have narrowed itself into the care of one querulous invalid. It is true that the doctor had declared that but for Marcia Mrs Aldworth would not now be in the world; but there were Mrs Aldworth’s own daughters; Marcia’s own step-sisters. She must do something for them. What could she do?She had just turned a certain bend in the avenue, when she heard a mocking voice say in laughing tones:“I tell you what it is, I don’t ever want to go back to stupid old Marcia, nor—nor to the old house. I’m as happy here as the day is long, and now that Mothery is getting well, and you let me have as much of Flossie’s society as I want, I don’t ever want to go home.”“Hush!” said another voice.Nesta raised her head and saw Marcia.“Oh, did you hear me?” she said. “I know I was saying something very naughty; but I almost forget what it was.”“I did hear you, Nesta,” said Marcia. “How are you, dear? Of course, I’m not angry with you. You wouldn’t have said it to my face, would you?”“Well, I suppose not,” said Nesta.“Are you Miss Aldworth, really?” said Penelope, the youngest of the Carter girls.She was a black-eyed girl, with a great lot of fussy curly hair. She had rosy cheeks and white teeth. She looked up merrily at Marcia with a quizzical expression in her dancing eyes.“Yes, I am Miss Aldworth, and I have come to see my sisters, and to thank you for being so good to them.”“How is mother to-day, Marcia?” said Nesta.“Much, much better.”Nesta slipped her hand inside Marcia’s arm. She wanted, as she expressed it afterwards to Penelope, to make up to Marcia. She wanted to coax her to do something, which she did not think Marcia was likely to do.“I generally have my own way,” she said, “except with that stupid old Marcia. She never yields to any one, although she has such a kind look. Oh, I know she was good to mother that dreadful, dreadful, dreadful night; but I want to shut that tight from my memory.”“Yes, do, for Heaven’s sake,” said Penelope. “You always give me the jumps when you speak of it.”Now, Nesta was intensely anxious that Marcia should not go up to the house; there was great fun going on on the front lawn. A number of guests had been invited, and Molly and Ethel were having a right good time. Penelope and Nesta were to join them presently, but that was when Flossie arrived. They did not want Marcia—old Mule Selfish, as Nesta still loved to call her, to intrude her stupid presence into the midst of the mirth.“I am so glad mother is better; I can tell the others all about her. What message have you got for them?”“I have no message for them,” said Marcia somewhat coldly. “I am going up to the house—that is, if I may, Miss Carter?”Marcia spoke with that sort of air which had such an effect on people slightly beneath herself. The Carters were beneath Marcia in every sense of the word, and they felt it down to their shoes, and rather disliked her in consequence.“Of course, you must come up to the house,” said Penelope, although Nesta gave her such a fierce dig in the ribs for making the remark that she nearly cried out.“I have come, Nesta,” said Marcia, in her kind voice, “to say that you and Molly and Ethel are expected home to-morrow. We have trespassed quite long enough on your kindness, Miss Carter,” she continued.“Oh, indeed, you haven’t,” cried Penelope. “We like having them—they’re a right good sort, all of them. Not that I care so much for your precious Flossie Griffiths,” she added, giving Nesta a dig in the ribs in her turn.“Oh, don’t you? That’s because you are madly jealous,” said Nesta.The girls wrangled, and fell a little behind. Marcia continued her walk.Molly had sworn to herself on that dreadful night, when her mother lay apparently dying, that she would never wear the pale blue muslin dress with its forget-me-not bows again. But circumstances alter one’s feelings, and she was in that identical dress, freshly washed, and with new forget-me-not bows, on this occasion. And she had a forget-me-not muslin hat to match on her pretty head. Ethel was all in white and looked charming. The girls were standing in a circle of other young people when Marcia appeared. Marcia went gravely up to them; spoke to the Carters, thanked them for their kindness, and then said quietly:“I have come here to say that father and mother expect you all to return home to-morrow. If you can make it convenient to be back after early dinner, it will suit us best. No, I will not stay now; thank you very much, Miss Carter. It is necessary that the girls should return then, for their duties await them. Mother is so much better, and she will be delighted to see them. I am afraid I must go now. At what hour shall we expect you to-morrow?”“You needn’t expect us all,” was on Molly’s lips. Ethel frowned and bit hers. Molly raised her eyes and saw Jim looking at her.“I suppose,” she stammered, turning crimson—“I suppose about—about three o’clock.”“Yes, three o’clock will do nicely. I will send a cab up to fetch your luggage.”“You needn’t do that,” said Jim; “I’ll drive the girls down on the dogcart and all their belongings with them,” he added.He walked a little way back with Marcia.“I am so very glad Mrs Aldworth is better. You know, somehow or other, Miss Aldworth, we felt that we were to blame for that attack. We ought not to have coaxed your sisters to come back with us that night.”“We needn’t talk of it now,” said Marcia. “Something very dreadful might have happened. God in his goodness prevented it, and I greatly trust, Mr Carter, that Mrs Aldworth will get much better in health now than she has ever been before.”“Well, that is excellent news,” he said.He opened the gate for Marcia.“I am sorry you won’t stay to tea,” he said.“Thank you, very much, but I must hurry back to my invalid.”“What a right good sort she is,” thought the lad. “And what a splendid face she has got.”Then he returned to the merry party on the lawn. He went straight up to Molly.“You must be happy now,” he said. “You’ll see her to-morrow. You have been telling me all this time how you have been pining for her.”“Oh, yes, I know,” said Molly. “I know.”Her voice was subdued.“You are not vexed—not put out about anything, are you?” said the boy.“No; oh, no.”“And with such a splendid sister.”“Oh, for Heaven’s sake don’t begin to praise her,” said Ethel, who came up at that moment. “When we think of all that she has made us endure—and now the last thing she has done is this—she has stolen our mother’s love. It’s a whole month since we saw our dear mother, and she thinks of no one but Marcia; but when Marcia gives the word, forsooth, then we are brought back—not by your leave, or anything else, but just when Marcia wishes it.”“That’s nonsense,” said Jim. “You are in a bit of a temper, I think. But, come; let’s have some fun while we may.”The news that they were all to go back was broken to the different members of the Carter family, who expressed their regret in different ways and different degrees. Not one of them, however, suggested, as both Molly and Ethel hoped, that it was absolutely and completely impossible for them to spare their beloved Aldworths. On the contrary, Clara said that sorry as they were to part, it was in some ways a little convenient, as their friends the Tollemaches were coming to spend a fortnight or three weeks with them, and the Mortimers were also to be guests at Court Prospect.“We shouldn’t have room for you all with so many other people, so it is just as well that you are going, for it is never agreeable to have to ask one’s friends to leave,” said Clara in her blunt fashion.“But all the same, we’ll miss you very much,” said Mabel.“For my part,” cried Annie, “I’m sorry enough to lose you two girls, but I’m rather glad as far as Penelope is concerned. She has run perfectly wild since that Nesta of yours is here. They’re always squabbling and fighting over that wretched, commonplace girl, Flossie Griffiths. I asked father about her, and he said that her people were quite common and not worth cultivating.”“Then you only care for people worth cultivating. I wonder you like us,” said Ethel, with much sarcasm in her tone.“Oh, you’re the daughters of a professional man,” said Mabel.“And if we were not?”Mabel laughed.“I don’t expect we’d see much of your society. Our object now is to better ourselves. You see, father is enormously rich, and he wants us to do great things. He wants us to be raised in the social scale. He told me only this morning that he was most anxious to cultivate your step-sister, Miss Aldworth, and I’ll tell you why, Miss Aldworth is such a very great friend of Miss Angela St. Just.”“Now,” said Ethel, “I’d like to ask you a question. What do you see in that girl?”“What do we see in her?” exclaimed Clara, who thought it time to take her turn in the conversation, “why, just everything.”“Well, I’d like you to explain.”“Hasn’t she got the most beautiful face, the most wonderful manners? She is so graceful, so gracious, and then she has such good style. There is nothing in all the world that we wouldn’t any of us do for Miss St. Just.”“And yet you have never spoken to her?”“Father means that we shall, and he wants you to help us.”Molly was silent. She felt intensely cross and discontented.“I don’t know her myself,” said Molly.“But your precious Marcia does, and we are greatly hoping to get an introduction through her.”That night as the three girls retired to bed, in the large and luxurious room set aside for their use at Court Prospect, they could not help expressing some very bitter remarks.“We’ll never have a chance against Marcia,” said Molly. “She just gets everything. She has got our mother’s love—Horace thinks the world of her; father is devoted to her, and now even our own darling friend, our dear Carters, say plainly that they want to know her because she can get them an introduction to that tiresome Angela St. Just. I haven’t patience with them.”“It strikes me,” said Ethel, “that they’re not specially sorry to see the last of us. How do you feel about it, Molly?”“I’m not going to say,” said Molly.She went to the window and flung it open. The prospect was delightful. Overhead the stars were shining with unwonted brilliancy; there was no touch or smell of town in this rural retreat. Oh, how sweet it was—how delightful to have such a home! But to-morrow they must give it up; the picnics, the laughter, the fun, the gay friends always coming in and going out. They must go back to the little grubby house, to the tiresome monotony of everyday life—to Susan, impertinent Susan; to Fanny, who had dared to speak to Nesta as she had done on that awful night; to the room where they had lived through such tortures and—to their mother.To tell the truth, they were afraid to see their mother. They had shut away the idea of clasping her hand, of looking into her face. On that night when she lay close to death they would have given themselves gladly to save her, but that night and this were as the poles asunder. All the old selfish ideas, all the old devotion to Number One, that utter disregard for Number Two, were as strong as ever within them. They disliked Marcia more than they had ever disliked her. Their month at the Carters’ had effectually spoiled them.But time and circumstances are relentless. The Aldworths were to return to their home the next day, and although Molly dreamed that something came to prevent it, and although Ethel vowed that she would implore Clara to keep her on as a sort of all-round useful sort of lady companion, and although Nesta threatened—her favourite threat—by the way—to run away, nothing did happen. Nesta did not run away; Ethel was not adopted as Mabel’s slave; Molly was forced to go with just a nod and a good-natured regret from Jim.“I’ll miss you a bit at first, but I’ll come round and see you, and you’ll come to see us; but you are going back to your mother, and you will be pleased.”And then he was off to attend to his school, for he was still a big schoolboy.Clay and Mabel were heartily tired of the Aldworth girls. Penelope was slightly annoyed at parting from Nesta, but only—and she vowed this quite openly—because she was able to shirk her lessons when Nesta was present. And so they went away, not even in the dogcart, for Jim could not spare the time, but humbly and sadly on foot, and their trunks were to follow later on.
The three girls found themselves in their own bedroom.
“Don’t turn up the light,” said Ethel. “Let’s sit in the dark.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Molly, “we’d best have the light, we may be wanted.”
“Yes, I forgot that,” replied Ethel.
She turned on the gas, which roared a little and then subsided into a sullen yellow flame. The shade belonging to the gas jet had been broken that morning by Nesta in a game of romps with her two sisters.
“How hot it is,” said Nesta presently.
No one took any notice of her remark, and after a time Ethel spoke.
“I ought to tell you,” she said.
Molly turned her haggard face.
“What?” she asked. “If it is anything awful, I shall scream.”
“You won’t—so there!”
“What do you mean? How can you prevent me?”
“I saw,” said Ethel, and she gulped down a sob in her throat—“I saw Dr Anstruther, and he said we were to forget ourselves—to obliterate ourselves—that was the word he used—to keep ourselves out of sight. We might be wanted, or we might not. We’re of no account—no account at all—that was the kind of thing he said, and I’m not a bit surprised.”
“Nor am I,” said Nesta; “we’re beasts. I wish we could be killed. I wish we could be buried alive. I wish—I wish—anything but what has happened.”
Molly went and stood by the window.
“I’m the worst of you,” she said after a pause.
“No, you’re not,” said Nesta—“I’m the worst. Nothing would have happened at all if I hadn’t run away in that mean, horrid, detestable fashion. I thought it was such a joke. You both really did think you had a day off, and it was my turn to be with her—with her. Why, I’d give my two hands to be with her now.” Nesta held out her two plump little hands as she spoke. “The doctor may cut them off; he may chop me in bits—he may do anything if only I might be with her.”
“Well, you cannot,” said Ethel; “you’re no more to her now than the rest of us. What you say is quite right; you did do worse.”
“No, don’t say that,” interrupted Molly, “I was the worst. I saw the attack begin, and I knew it, for I have seen it before. But I shut it out of my mind; there was a door in my mind, and I shut it firm and locked it, and forced myself to forget, and when she was lying there so white and panting for breath, I just put a shawl over her, and said, you will have such a nice sleep, and I went away back to my fun—my fun! Fancy my eating strawberries and cream, and mother—mother so ill. Fancy it! Think of it?”
“I don’t want to think of it,” said Ethel. “I wish we could have something to make us go into a dead sleep. I want this night to go by. I don’t think that Marcia should have all her own way.”
Then she remembered the doctor’s words.
“I wish I might dare to open the door very softly,” said Nesta, “and just creep, creep upstairs and watch outside. I wish I might. Do you think I might?”
“I don’t see why you shouldn’t,” said Ethel, with a momentary gleam of hope. “You can walk just like a cat when you please. No one ever was as good going down creaking stairs as you when you want to steal things from the pantry. You may as well make yourself useful as not. Go along and report; tell us if all is quiet.”
Nesta, with a momentary sense of relief at having something to do, slipped off her shoes and left the room. She came back at the end of five minutes.
“There isn’t a sound—I don’t think things can be so bad,” she said, and she closed the door behind her.
She had scarcely uttered the words before there came a tap, sharp and decisive, and Horace came in. The girls had never loved Horace; it must be owned that he had never done anything to make his young sisters care for him. He had kept them at a distance, and they had been somewhat afraid of him. They saw him now standing on the threshold with a tray in his hand, a tray which contained three cups of hot cocoa and three thick slices of bread and butter, and when they read, not disapproval, but sorrow in his face, it seemed to the three that their hearts threw wide their doors and let him in. Nesta gave a gasp; Molly choked down something. Ethel jumped up and sat down again and clasped her hands.
“I knew you’d be all feeling pretty bad,” said Horace, “so I came to sit with you for a minute or two, and here’s some cocoa. I made it myself. I’m not much of a cook, but drink it up, you three, and then let us talk.”
“Horace—oh, Horace—may we?”
“Drink it up first. Nesta, you begin. Why, whatever have you done to your face?”
“It got torn with some briars, but it doesn’t matter,” said Nesta. She rubbed her face roughly; she would have liked to make it smart. Any outward torture would be better than the fierce pain that was tugging at her heart. But the cocoa was hot and good, and warm as the summer night was, the three girls were chilly from shock and grief. Horace insisted on their eating and drinking, and then he sat down on a little sofa which was placed at the foot of the two small beds. He coaxed Nesta to sit next to him.
“Ethel, you come and sit on the other side,” he said, “and, Molly, here’s a chair for you just in front.”
He managed to take the three pairs of hands and to warm them all between his own. Then he said cheerily:
“Well, now, the very best thing we can do, is to make ourselves as useful as possible. We won’t think of the past.”
“But we must—we must, Horace,” said Molly. “And I’m the worst. I’d like to confess to you—I wish I might.”
“My dear, I’m not a bit of a father confessor, and we have quite trouble enough in the house at present without raking up what you have done. There, if you like, I’ll tell you. You have, all three of you, been abominably careless and selfish. We won’t add any more to that; it is quite bad enough. There is such a thing as turning over a new leaf, and whether you have the strength to turn over that leaf God only knows—I don’t. The thing at present is to face what is before us.”
“You will tell us, Horry, won’t you?” said Nesta, in a coaxing tone. She could not for the life of her help coaxing any one she came across.
“I will tell you. I haven’t come into this room to be mealy-mouthed or to hide anything from you. Our mother is very ill; the doctor thinks it quite possible that she may not live until the morning.”
“Then I’ll die, too,” said Nesta.
“Nonsense, Nesta. Don’t give way to selfishness just now. You are in no possible danger.”
“I’ll die; I know I’ll die.”
“Hush!” said her brother sternly; “let me go on with what I’ve got to say. Our mother is in danger; you cannot be with her, for, alas, when you were given the chance you would not take it. You never really nursed her; you never—not for a single moment—saw to her real comforts. Therefore, now in her hour of peril, you three—her own children—are useless. Nevertheless, the doctor thinks it best that you should not undress. You must stay in your room, ready to be called if it is necessary.”
“If?” said Molly. “Why, what is going to happen? Why must we be called?”
“Poor children! she may want to speak to you.”
“I won’t go,” said Molly.
She covered her face with her hands and began to shake from head to foot.
“It may not be necessary, child; but do learn to have more self-control. How will you bear all the sorrows of a lifetime if you break down now?”
“I have never been taught to bear anything—I have never been taught,” said Molly.
Horace looked at her in absolute perplexity. Molly rose tremblingly; she flung herself across the bed. She was shivering so violently that her whole body shook.
It was at that instant that Marcia softly opened the door and came in.
“Why, what is it? What is it, Horace? How good of you.”
“Now, you have come, Marcia, I’ll go,” said Horace, and he slipped out of the room.
“Marcia, can you speak to us? Can you? Aren’t you too angry?”
“Poor children—no, not now. Molly, sit up.”
Marcia laid her hand on the girl’s shoulder. She raised her up forcibly.
“My darling,” she said, “kiss me.”
“Will you kiss me after what has happened?”
“I pity you so much. I have come to—to kneel with you—to pray. It would be a very terrible thing for you if our mother were to die to-night. We will ask God to keep her alive.”
“Oh, do, Marcia,” said Nesta, in a tone of the greatest anguish and the greatest belief. “You are so good. He will be certain to hear you. Kneel down at once, Marcia—say the words, oh, say them, say them!” Marcia did pray, while the three girls clustered round her and joined their sobs to her earnest petitions.
In the morning Mrs Aldworth was still alive. There had been no repetition of the dangerous attack. The great specialist from Newcastle was summoned, and he gave certain directions. A trained nurse was brought into the house, and Nesta, Molly, and Ethel were sent to stay with the Carters.
It was the Carters themselves who had suggested this, and the girls went away, feeling thoroughly brokenhearted. They were really so shocked, so distressed, that they did not know themselves; but as day after day went by, and as Mrs Aldworth by slow degrees got better, and yet better, so much better that the doctor only came to see her once a day, then every second day, then twice a week, and then finally said to Marcia, “You can summon me when you want me—” so did the remorse and the agony of that terrible night pass from the minds of the young Aldworths. They could not help having a good time at the Carters’. The Carters were the essence of good nature. They had been dreadfully sorry for them during their time of anguish; they had done their utmost for the girls, and now they were willing to keep them as their guests.
On a certain day, a month after Mrs Aldworth’s serious illness, when she had come back again to that standpoint from which she had so nearly slipped away into the ocean of Eternity, Marcia made up her mind that it was time to put the repentance of her three young sisters to the test. They must return home and renew their duties to their mother. Marcia had given up all idea now of returning to Frankfort. She had written once or twice to Angela, and Angela had replied. She had also written to Mrs Silchester.
“There is little hope of my being able to return this summer. My stepmother has been most alarmingly ill,” she wrote.
Angela had come to see her, but Marcia could not give her much of her time. Angela had kissed her, and had looked into her eyes, and Marcia had said:
“I think I understand a little better your remarks about the path of duty, and the grandeur of duty, and I am quite content, and I do not repent at all.”
Angela thought a good deal of her friend, and wondered what she could do for her. But she scarcely approved of Marcia’s still firmly adhered-to resolution, that the young Aldworths were to resume the care of their mother.
“It will be so trying to you, and do you dare for a single moment to risk leaving her with them?”
“Yes; the doctor has great hopes of her. He says that the new treatment has produced an almost radical change in the condition of her heart, and that with care she will do well, and may even become fairly strong once more. But all this is a question of time, and the girls have been quite long enough away from home, and I am going to fetch them to-morrow.”
On a certain day, therefore, when Nurse Davenant had done everything to make the invalid thoroughly comfortable, Marcia put on her hat and walked along the shady road towards the St. Justs’ old house.
She had known it fairly well when she was quite a child, but had never cared to go there since the Carters had purchased it. The Carters were absolute strangers to Marcia. She had never once met them. She walked now under the avenue of splendid old beech trees, and thought of her past and future. Things were not going quite so well with herself as she could have hoped. Her life seemed to have narrowed itself into the care of one querulous invalid. It is true that the doctor had declared that but for Marcia Mrs Aldworth would not now be in the world; but there were Mrs Aldworth’s own daughters; Marcia’s own step-sisters. She must do something for them. What could she do?
She had just turned a certain bend in the avenue, when she heard a mocking voice say in laughing tones:
“I tell you what it is, I don’t ever want to go back to stupid old Marcia, nor—nor to the old house. I’m as happy here as the day is long, and now that Mothery is getting well, and you let me have as much of Flossie’s society as I want, I don’t ever want to go home.”
“Hush!” said another voice.
Nesta raised her head and saw Marcia.
“Oh, did you hear me?” she said. “I know I was saying something very naughty; but I almost forget what it was.”
“I did hear you, Nesta,” said Marcia. “How are you, dear? Of course, I’m not angry with you. You wouldn’t have said it to my face, would you?”
“Well, I suppose not,” said Nesta.
“Are you Miss Aldworth, really?” said Penelope, the youngest of the Carter girls.
She was a black-eyed girl, with a great lot of fussy curly hair. She had rosy cheeks and white teeth. She looked up merrily at Marcia with a quizzical expression in her dancing eyes.
“Yes, I am Miss Aldworth, and I have come to see my sisters, and to thank you for being so good to them.”
“How is mother to-day, Marcia?” said Nesta.
“Much, much better.”
Nesta slipped her hand inside Marcia’s arm. She wanted, as she expressed it afterwards to Penelope, to make up to Marcia. She wanted to coax her to do something, which she did not think Marcia was likely to do.
“I generally have my own way,” she said, “except with that stupid old Marcia. She never yields to any one, although she has such a kind look. Oh, I know she was good to mother that dreadful, dreadful, dreadful night; but I want to shut that tight from my memory.”
“Yes, do, for Heaven’s sake,” said Penelope. “You always give me the jumps when you speak of it.”
Now, Nesta was intensely anxious that Marcia should not go up to the house; there was great fun going on on the front lawn. A number of guests had been invited, and Molly and Ethel were having a right good time. Penelope and Nesta were to join them presently, but that was when Flossie arrived. They did not want Marcia—old Mule Selfish, as Nesta still loved to call her, to intrude her stupid presence into the midst of the mirth.
“I am so glad mother is better; I can tell the others all about her. What message have you got for them?”
“I have no message for them,” said Marcia somewhat coldly. “I am going up to the house—that is, if I may, Miss Carter?”
Marcia spoke with that sort of air which had such an effect on people slightly beneath herself. The Carters were beneath Marcia in every sense of the word, and they felt it down to their shoes, and rather disliked her in consequence.
“Of course, you must come up to the house,” said Penelope, although Nesta gave her such a fierce dig in the ribs for making the remark that she nearly cried out.
“I have come, Nesta,” said Marcia, in her kind voice, “to say that you and Molly and Ethel are expected home to-morrow. We have trespassed quite long enough on your kindness, Miss Carter,” she continued.
“Oh, indeed, you haven’t,” cried Penelope. “We like having them—they’re a right good sort, all of them. Not that I care so much for your precious Flossie Griffiths,” she added, giving Nesta a dig in the ribs in her turn.
“Oh, don’t you? That’s because you are madly jealous,” said Nesta.
The girls wrangled, and fell a little behind. Marcia continued her walk.
Molly had sworn to herself on that dreadful night, when her mother lay apparently dying, that she would never wear the pale blue muslin dress with its forget-me-not bows again. But circumstances alter one’s feelings, and she was in that identical dress, freshly washed, and with new forget-me-not bows, on this occasion. And she had a forget-me-not muslin hat to match on her pretty head. Ethel was all in white and looked charming. The girls were standing in a circle of other young people when Marcia appeared. Marcia went gravely up to them; spoke to the Carters, thanked them for their kindness, and then said quietly:
“I have come here to say that father and mother expect you all to return home to-morrow. If you can make it convenient to be back after early dinner, it will suit us best. No, I will not stay now; thank you very much, Miss Carter. It is necessary that the girls should return then, for their duties await them. Mother is so much better, and she will be delighted to see them. I am afraid I must go now. At what hour shall we expect you to-morrow?”
“You needn’t expect us all,” was on Molly’s lips. Ethel frowned and bit hers. Molly raised her eyes and saw Jim looking at her.
“I suppose,” she stammered, turning crimson—“I suppose about—about three o’clock.”
“Yes, three o’clock will do nicely. I will send a cab up to fetch your luggage.”
“You needn’t do that,” said Jim; “I’ll drive the girls down on the dogcart and all their belongings with them,” he added.
He walked a little way back with Marcia.
“I am so very glad Mrs Aldworth is better. You know, somehow or other, Miss Aldworth, we felt that we were to blame for that attack. We ought not to have coaxed your sisters to come back with us that night.”
“We needn’t talk of it now,” said Marcia. “Something very dreadful might have happened. God in his goodness prevented it, and I greatly trust, Mr Carter, that Mrs Aldworth will get much better in health now than she has ever been before.”
“Well, that is excellent news,” he said.
He opened the gate for Marcia.
“I am sorry you won’t stay to tea,” he said.
“Thank you, very much, but I must hurry back to my invalid.”
“What a right good sort she is,” thought the lad. “And what a splendid face she has got.”
Then he returned to the merry party on the lawn. He went straight up to Molly.
“You must be happy now,” he said. “You’ll see her to-morrow. You have been telling me all this time how you have been pining for her.”
“Oh, yes, I know,” said Molly. “I know.”
Her voice was subdued.
“You are not vexed—not put out about anything, are you?” said the boy.
“No; oh, no.”
“And with such a splendid sister.”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake don’t begin to praise her,” said Ethel, who came up at that moment. “When we think of all that she has made us endure—and now the last thing she has done is this—she has stolen our mother’s love. It’s a whole month since we saw our dear mother, and she thinks of no one but Marcia; but when Marcia gives the word, forsooth, then we are brought back—not by your leave, or anything else, but just when Marcia wishes it.”
“That’s nonsense,” said Jim. “You are in a bit of a temper, I think. But, come; let’s have some fun while we may.”
The news that they were all to go back was broken to the different members of the Carter family, who expressed their regret in different ways and different degrees. Not one of them, however, suggested, as both Molly and Ethel hoped, that it was absolutely and completely impossible for them to spare their beloved Aldworths. On the contrary, Clara said that sorry as they were to part, it was in some ways a little convenient, as their friends the Tollemaches were coming to spend a fortnight or three weeks with them, and the Mortimers were also to be guests at Court Prospect.
“We shouldn’t have room for you all with so many other people, so it is just as well that you are going, for it is never agreeable to have to ask one’s friends to leave,” said Clara in her blunt fashion.
“But all the same, we’ll miss you very much,” said Mabel.
“For my part,” cried Annie, “I’m sorry enough to lose you two girls, but I’m rather glad as far as Penelope is concerned. She has run perfectly wild since that Nesta of yours is here. They’re always squabbling and fighting over that wretched, commonplace girl, Flossie Griffiths. I asked father about her, and he said that her people were quite common and not worth cultivating.”
“Then you only care for people worth cultivating. I wonder you like us,” said Ethel, with much sarcasm in her tone.
“Oh, you’re the daughters of a professional man,” said Mabel.
“And if we were not?”
Mabel laughed.
“I don’t expect we’d see much of your society. Our object now is to better ourselves. You see, father is enormously rich, and he wants us to do great things. He wants us to be raised in the social scale. He told me only this morning that he was most anxious to cultivate your step-sister, Miss Aldworth, and I’ll tell you why, Miss Aldworth is such a very great friend of Miss Angela St. Just.”
“Now,” said Ethel, “I’d like to ask you a question. What do you see in that girl?”
“What do we see in her?” exclaimed Clara, who thought it time to take her turn in the conversation, “why, just everything.”
“Well, I’d like you to explain.”
“Hasn’t she got the most beautiful face, the most wonderful manners? She is so graceful, so gracious, and then she has such good style. There is nothing in all the world that we wouldn’t any of us do for Miss St. Just.”
“And yet you have never spoken to her?”
“Father means that we shall, and he wants you to help us.”
Molly was silent. She felt intensely cross and discontented.
“I don’t know her myself,” said Molly.
“But your precious Marcia does, and we are greatly hoping to get an introduction through her.”
That night as the three girls retired to bed, in the large and luxurious room set aside for their use at Court Prospect, they could not help expressing some very bitter remarks.
“We’ll never have a chance against Marcia,” said Molly. “She just gets everything. She has got our mother’s love—Horace thinks the world of her; father is devoted to her, and now even our own darling friend, our dear Carters, say plainly that they want to know her because she can get them an introduction to that tiresome Angela St. Just. I haven’t patience with them.”
“It strikes me,” said Ethel, “that they’re not specially sorry to see the last of us. How do you feel about it, Molly?”
“I’m not going to say,” said Molly.
She went to the window and flung it open. The prospect was delightful. Overhead the stars were shining with unwonted brilliancy; there was no touch or smell of town in this rural retreat. Oh, how sweet it was—how delightful to have such a home! But to-morrow they must give it up; the picnics, the laughter, the fun, the gay friends always coming in and going out. They must go back to the little grubby house, to the tiresome monotony of everyday life—to Susan, impertinent Susan; to Fanny, who had dared to speak to Nesta as she had done on that awful night; to the room where they had lived through such tortures and—to their mother.
To tell the truth, they were afraid to see their mother. They had shut away the idea of clasping her hand, of looking into her face. On that night when she lay close to death they would have given themselves gladly to save her, but that night and this were as the poles asunder. All the old selfish ideas, all the old devotion to Number One, that utter disregard for Number Two, were as strong as ever within them. They disliked Marcia more than they had ever disliked her. Their month at the Carters’ had effectually spoiled them.
But time and circumstances are relentless. The Aldworths were to return to their home the next day, and although Molly dreamed that something came to prevent it, and although Ethel vowed that she would implore Clara to keep her on as a sort of all-round useful sort of lady companion, and although Nesta threatened—her favourite threat—by the way—to run away, nothing did happen. Nesta did not run away; Ethel was not adopted as Mabel’s slave; Molly was forced to go with just a nod and a good-natured regret from Jim.
“I’ll miss you a bit at first, but I’ll come round and see you, and you’ll come to see us; but you are going back to your mother, and you will be pleased.”
And then he was off to attend to his school, for he was still a big schoolboy.
Clay and Mabel were heartily tired of the Aldworth girls. Penelope was slightly annoyed at parting from Nesta, but only—and she vowed this quite openly—because she was able to shirk her lessons when Nesta was present. And so they went away, not even in the dogcart, for Jim could not spare the time, but humbly and sadly on foot, and their trunks were to follow later on.
Chapter Twelve.The New Leaf.As soon as ever the three Aldworth girls entered the house, they were met by their father. This in itself was quite unlooked-for. As a rule, he never returned home until time for late dinner in the evening. He was a very busy professional man, and was looked up to by his fellow townspeople. He now stood gravely in the hall, not going forward when he saw the girls, but waiting for them to come up to him.“Well, Molly,” he said, “how do you do? How do you do, Ethel?”He just touched Nesta’s forehead with his lips.“I want you three in my study,” he said.“Good gracious,” said Molly in a whisper, “it’s even more awful than we expected.”But Ethel and Nesta felt subdued, they scarcely knew why. They all went into the study, and Mr Aldworth shut the door.“Now, girls,” he said, “you have come back. You are, let me tell you, exceedingly lucky. That which happened a month ago might have brought sorrow into your young lives which you could never have got over. That kind of silent sorrow which lasts through the years, and visits one when one is dying. That sorrow might have come to you, but for your sister Marcia.”“Father,” began Molly.“Hush, Molly, I don’t wish for excuses. You were, Horace tells me and so does Marcia, intensely sorry and remorseful that night, and I trust God in his heaven heard your prayers for forgiveness, and that you have come back now, intending to turn over a new leaf.”“Yes, father, of course. We won’t any of us neglect dear, dear mother again,” said Ethel. “We are most anxious to see her.”“I have taken steps,” continued Mr Aldworth, “to see that you do not neglect her. For the present she will have Nurse Davenant—”“Who is she?” asked Ethel.“The nurse I was obliged to call in to help Marcia. For the present Nurse Davenant will be with her day and night, and your province will be to sit with her and amuse her under Nurse Davenant’s directions. But the doctor wants a complete and radical change, which your sister Marcia will explain to you. Any possible fluctuation on your parts, any shirking of the duties which you are expected to perform, will be immediately followed by your absence from home.”Ethel looked up almost brightly.“There is your Aunt Elizabeth in the country. I have written to her and she will take one, two, or all three of you. She told me that you could go to her for three or four months. I do not think you will have much fun, or much liberty there. If you don’t choose to behave yourselves at home, you go to your Aunt Elizabeth. I have come back specially to say so. And now, welcome home, my dears, and let us have no more nonsense.”The father who had never in the least won his children’s affection, left the room, leaving the three girls gazing at each other.“A pretty state of things,” began Nesta, pouting.“Oh, don’t,” said Ethel.“Don’t!” said Molly, who was nearer crying than either of them. “To think of Aunt Elizabeth—to have to go to her. Of course, it’s all Marcia.”“Of course it’s all Marcia,” said a voice at the door, and the three girls had the grace to blush hotly as they turned and looked at their sister. She wore that immaculate white which was her invariable custom; her dark hair was becomingly arranged; her face was placid.“My dear children, welcome home,” she said affectionately, “and try not to blame your poor old Marcia too much. It is nice to see you. I have tea ready for you in the little summer parlour. You must be thirsty after your long walk; I thought Jim Carter was going to bring you back in the dogcart.”“He couldn’t,” began Nesta.“He couldn’t,” interrupted Ethel; “he had to go to school for a special field day.”“He would if he could,” burst in Molly.“Well, anyhow, you are here, and I suppose the luggage is to follow.”“Oh, yes; not that it matters,” said Molly.“But it does matter, dear. Now come and have your tea.”Marcia took Molly’s damp, hot little hand in her own cool one, and led the way into the summer parlour. It had been a very ugly and neglected room, but it was so no longer. Marcia, by a very simple arrangement of art muslin had contrived to transform it into a pale green bower of beauty. The tea equipage was on the table, and very pretty did the cups and saucers look. There was fruit, the fruit that happened to be in season; there were flowers; there were hot cakes; there was fragrant tea; there were even new-laid eggs.“Oh, I declare,” said Nesta, cheering up, for she was fond of her meals; “this does look good.”“Shall I pour out tea?” said Molly.“You may in future, Molly. I hope you will, but wouldn’t you like me to do so to-day?”“Yes, please, Marcia.”Marcia sat down and helped her sisters, and while she did so she chatted. She was quite bright and cheerful.“I have had your rooms altered a little too,” she said.Molly looked up with a frown.“Yes, I hope you will forgive me, but I think they look rather nice. And instead of that sort of lumber room where you always fling everything you don’t want to use at the moment, I have made a second little bedroom for Nesta.”“For me?” said Nesta. “Golloptious! I did want a bedroom to myself.”“I thought you were fearfully crowded, and I wanted besides—”“What is the matter?” said Molly suddenly.“To make things as different as possible from what they were during that night.”“I do believe you are kind,” said Molly, and something hot came at the back of her eyes, which made them suspiciously bright for a moment.“If you will only believe that, my darlings, I don’t care how hard I work,” said the elder sister.The meal came to an end, the girls had eaten even as much as Nesta’s healthy appetite demanded, and accompanied by Marcia they went upstairs. Did they not know those stairs well—that darn in the carpet, that shabby blind at the lobby window, that narrow landing just above? And mother’s room at the far end of the passage—mother’s room with the green baize door, which was supposed to shut away sound, but did not. Oh, did they not remember it all, and how it looked on that awful night? And this was the way to their room. What had they not endured during that night in their own room? Molly almost staggered.“Aren’t you well, dear?” said Marcia very tenderly.“I—I don’t know. Oh, yes, I suppose so. I’m all right—I mean it’s just a little overcoming,” she said, after a minute’s pause. “Past memories, you know.”“I quite understand. But see your room, it is quite altered.”It was truly, and this was Marcia’s surprise to her sisters. With Horace’s help, who had come forward rather liberally with his purse, the room had been repapered; it had practically been refurnished. The commonplace beds were exchanged for brass ones, the commonplace furniture for new, artistic wash-handstands and chests of drawers and wardrobes. The shabby carpet was replaced by one of neat pale blue felt; there were a few good pictures on the walls; there were pale blue hangings to the windows, and Nesta’s room just beyond was a replica of her sisters’.The girls turned; it was Ethel who made the first step forward.“I wouldn’t have known it—why, you are a darling!”“And to think we ever called you Miss Mule Selfish!” said Nesta.“Miss—what!” said Marcia.“I won’t repeat it—forget it.”“But tell me—it did sound so funny. MisswhatSelfish?”“Miss Mule Selfish. Oh, I never will again—I declare I am a greater beast than ever.”“Well, girls, whatIwant you to do for me is this— In return for the trouble—for I have taken trouble, and Horace has spent money on your rooms as well—I want you to learn self-repression. I want you to put on neat and pretty dresses, and shoes that won’t make any sound, and then you may, one by one, come in and see mother. She is longing for you, longing for her own children; for much as she cares for me, I cannot take your place, so you needn’t imagine it for one moment.”As Marcia said the last words she left the room. The girls stood and stared at each other.“She’s a brick!” said Molly. “I shouldn’t be one scrap ashamed of showing this room to Clay, and I never could bear the thought of her coming up to it in the old days.”“I say, what a jolly bed,” said Ethel. “Shouldn’t I just like to tumble into it and sleep and sleep.”“And my darling little room all alone, too. Don’t you envy me, you two? Won’t you be always afraid that I’m eavesdropping and listening to your precious secrets?” cried the irrepressible Nesta.“Oh, it is good,” said Molly, “but I feel quite a big ache at my heart. It’s Marcia, and we’ve been so horrid to her, and she has been so good to us.”“Well, let’s try hard to show her that we’re really pleased,” said Ethel.The girls washed their hands and combed out their luxurious hair and made themselves as smart as possible, and then, an anxious trio, they went out and stood on the landing. Here it was Nesta who began to tremble.“It’s that old patch in the carpet,” she said. “It upsets me more than anything. I remember how I tried to skip over it that night when I went to listen at mother’s door. Oh dear, and the carpet is split here too. Marcia might have got new carpets for the stairs instead of titivating our rooms.”“Marcia only thinks of what will please others,” said Ethel.“For goodness’ sake, don’t praise her too much,” said Molly, “or I shall turn round. I always do when people are overpraised.”A door was opened. It led into their mother’s room. Marcia stood outside.“Molly, darling,” she said, “you come first.”She took Molly’s hand; she led her round the screen and brought her up to her mother. Just for a moment the girl shut her eyes. There flashed before her mental vision the remembrance of that mother as she had lain pale and panting and struggling for life when she had left her, pretending that she was only sleeping. But now Mrs Aldworth was sitting bolt upright on her sofa, and the room was sweet and fresh and in perfect order, and a nice-looking young woman in nurse’s uniform stood up when the girls entered the room.“I will leave you, Mrs Aldworth, and go and get my tea,” she said. “You will be glad to welcome your young ladies. But remember not too much talking, please.”Mrs Aldworth raised her faded eyes; she looked full at Molly.“My little girl!”“Mothery; oh, mothery!”The girl dropped on her knees.“Gently, Molly. Sit down there. Tell mother what a right good time you have had while you have been away,” said Marcia.“I am ever so much better,” said Mrs Aldworth, in a cheerful tone. “I am very glad you were with the Carters. You like them so much.”“Yes, mother,” said Molly, and then she added, and there was real truth and real sincerity in her tone—“I like best of all to be at home; I like best of all to be with you.”The words were spoken with an effort, but they were true. Molly did feel just like that at the moment.Mrs Aldworth smiled, and a very pretty colour came into her cheeks.“I have been quite ill,” she said. “I have been ill and weak for an extraordinarily long time. At least so Marcia says; and Nurse Davenant is quite a tyrant in her way, and Dr Anstruther too; but to tell the truth, darling, I have never had an ache or pain, and I can’t imagine why people make such a fuss. But there, darling, I am glad to see you and to have you back again. You’ll come and sit with your old mother sometimes, won’t you, and you won’t think it a dreadful trial?”“Never again,” said Molly.“Go, Molly dear, for the present,” said Marcia, “and send Ethel in.”Molly went almost on tiptoe across the room. She got behind the screen and opened the door.“Go in,” she said in a whisper; “she’s looking wonderful.”“Don’t whisper, girls,” said Marcia. “Come right in, Ethel.”Ethel came in and also kissed her mother, and told her that she looked wonderfully well, and that she too was glad to be back, but she was more self-restrained than her sister, and more self-assured, putting a curb upon herself.It was Nesta, after all, the youngest, the darling, who made her mother perfectly comfortable, for whatever her faults Nesta could not for a single moment be anything but natural. She came in soberly enough; but when she saw her parent she forgot everything, but just that this was Mothery, and once she had been a terrible beast to that same mother, and she made a little run across the room and dropped on her knees and took her mother’s hand and kissed it, and kissed it, and kissed it.“Oh, you darling, you darling! You sweet! You sweet! There never was any one like you, mothery, never, never, never! Do let me press my cheek against yours. Oh, you sweet! You pet!”Mrs Aldworth gave one glance of loving triumph at Marcia. Was she not right? Did not her children adore her? Marcia must see it now for herself.Marcia sat down on a chair and breathed a sigh of relief. Little Nesta was right enough. Little Nesta was better in her conduct than either of her sisters.“You will come in, of course, and say good-night to me, darling,” said Mrs Aldworth when Nurse Davenant made her appearance with the invalid’s tea most temptingly prepared.“Oh yes, if we may.”“You may all come in and out as much as you please, and as often as mother wants you,” said Marcia.“There is no restraint; no limit of time. You do just as you like.”“Then I expect my own dear sweet pet mothery will be getting a little tired of me,” was Nesta’s response, “for I’ll be wanting to be always and always with her, see if I don’t!” and Nesta kissed her mother’s hand again rapturously.“Oh, what tempting toast,” she said, “and how nice that tea looks.”Mrs Aldworth smiled.“They are dear girls,” she said to Marcia when the door closed on Nesta. “I am glad they’re home, and how terribly the sweet pets have missed me.”
As soon as ever the three Aldworth girls entered the house, they were met by their father. This in itself was quite unlooked-for. As a rule, he never returned home until time for late dinner in the evening. He was a very busy professional man, and was looked up to by his fellow townspeople. He now stood gravely in the hall, not going forward when he saw the girls, but waiting for them to come up to him.
“Well, Molly,” he said, “how do you do? How do you do, Ethel?”
He just touched Nesta’s forehead with his lips.
“I want you three in my study,” he said.
“Good gracious,” said Molly in a whisper, “it’s even more awful than we expected.”
But Ethel and Nesta felt subdued, they scarcely knew why. They all went into the study, and Mr Aldworth shut the door.
“Now, girls,” he said, “you have come back. You are, let me tell you, exceedingly lucky. That which happened a month ago might have brought sorrow into your young lives which you could never have got over. That kind of silent sorrow which lasts through the years, and visits one when one is dying. That sorrow might have come to you, but for your sister Marcia.”
“Father,” began Molly.
“Hush, Molly, I don’t wish for excuses. You were, Horace tells me and so does Marcia, intensely sorry and remorseful that night, and I trust God in his heaven heard your prayers for forgiveness, and that you have come back now, intending to turn over a new leaf.”
“Yes, father, of course. We won’t any of us neglect dear, dear mother again,” said Ethel. “We are most anxious to see her.”
“I have taken steps,” continued Mr Aldworth, “to see that you do not neglect her. For the present she will have Nurse Davenant—”
“Who is she?” asked Ethel.
“The nurse I was obliged to call in to help Marcia. For the present Nurse Davenant will be with her day and night, and your province will be to sit with her and amuse her under Nurse Davenant’s directions. But the doctor wants a complete and radical change, which your sister Marcia will explain to you. Any possible fluctuation on your parts, any shirking of the duties which you are expected to perform, will be immediately followed by your absence from home.”
Ethel looked up almost brightly.
“There is your Aunt Elizabeth in the country. I have written to her and she will take one, two, or all three of you. She told me that you could go to her for three or four months. I do not think you will have much fun, or much liberty there. If you don’t choose to behave yourselves at home, you go to your Aunt Elizabeth. I have come back specially to say so. And now, welcome home, my dears, and let us have no more nonsense.”
The father who had never in the least won his children’s affection, left the room, leaving the three girls gazing at each other.
“A pretty state of things,” began Nesta, pouting.
“Oh, don’t,” said Ethel.
“Don’t!” said Molly, who was nearer crying than either of them. “To think of Aunt Elizabeth—to have to go to her. Of course, it’s all Marcia.”
“Of course it’s all Marcia,” said a voice at the door, and the three girls had the grace to blush hotly as they turned and looked at their sister. She wore that immaculate white which was her invariable custom; her dark hair was becomingly arranged; her face was placid.
“My dear children, welcome home,” she said affectionately, “and try not to blame your poor old Marcia too much. It is nice to see you. I have tea ready for you in the little summer parlour. You must be thirsty after your long walk; I thought Jim Carter was going to bring you back in the dogcart.”
“He couldn’t,” began Nesta.
“He couldn’t,” interrupted Ethel; “he had to go to school for a special field day.”
“He would if he could,” burst in Molly.
“Well, anyhow, you are here, and I suppose the luggage is to follow.”
“Oh, yes; not that it matters,” said Molly.
“But it does matter, dear. Now come and have your tea.”
Marcia took Molly’s damp, hot little hand in her own cool one, and led the way into the summer parlour. It had been a very ugly and neglected room, but it was so no longer. Marcia, by a very simple arrangement of art muslin had contrived to transform it into a pale green bower of beauty. The tea equipage was on the table, and very pretty did the cups and saucers look. There was fruit, the fruit that happened to be in season; there were flowers; there were hot cakes; there was fragrant tea; there were even new-laid eggs.
“Oh, I declare,” said Nesta, cheering up, for she was fond of her meals; “this does look good.”
“Shall I pour out tea?” said Molly.
“You may in future, Molly. I hope you will, but wouldn’t you like me to do so to-day?”
“Yes, please, Marcia.”
Marcia sat down and helped her sisters, and while she did so she chatted. She was quite bright and cheerful.
“I have had your rooms altered a little too,” she said.
Molly looked up with a frown.
“Yes, I hope you will forgive me, but I think they look rather nice. And instead of that sort of lumber room where you always fling everything you don’t want to use at the moment, I have made a second little bedroom for Nesta.”
“For me?” said Nesta. “Golloptious! I did want a bedroom to myself.”
“I thought you were fearfully crowded, and I wanted besides—”
“What is the matter?” said Molly suddenly.
“To make things as different as possible from what they were during that night.”
“I do believe you are kind,” said Molly, and something hot came at the back of her eyes, which made them suspiciously bright for a moment.
“If you will only believe that, my darlings, I don’t care how hard I work,” said the elder sister.
The meal came to an end, the girls had eaten even as much as Nesta’s healthy appetite demanded, and accompanied by Marcia they went upstairs. Did they not know those stairs well—that darn in the carpet, that shabby blind at the lobby window, that narrow landing just above? And mother’s room at the far end of the passage—mother’s room with the green baize door, which was supposed to shut away sound, but did not. Oh, did they not remember it all, and how it looked on that awful night? And this was the way to their room. What had they not endured during that night in their own room? Molly almost staggered.
“Aren’t you well, dear?” said Marcia very tenderly.
“I—I don’t know. Oh, yes, I suppose so. I’m all right—I mean it’s just a little overcoming,” she said, after a minute’s pause. “Past memories, you know.”
“I quite understand. But see your room, it is quite altered.”
It was truly, and this was Marcia’s surprise to her sisters. With Horace’s help, who had come forward rather liberally with his purse, the room had been repapered; it had practically been refurnished. The commonplace beds were exchanged for brass ones, the commonplace furniture for new, artistic wash-handstands and chests of drawers and wardrobes. The shabby carpet was replaced by one of neat pale blue felt; there were a few good pictures on the walls; there were pale blue hangings to the windows, and Nesta’s room just beyond was a replica of her sisters’.
The girls turned; it was Ethel who made the first step forward.
“I wouldn’t have known it—why, you are a darling!”
“And to think we ever called you Miss Mule Selfish!” said Nesta.
“Miss—what!” said Marcia.
“I won’t repeat it—forget it.”
“But tell me—it did sound so funny. MisswhatSelfish?”
“Miss Mule Selfish. Oh, I never will again—I declare I am a greater beast than ever.”
“Well, girls, whatIwant you to do for me is this— In return for the trouble—for I have taken trouble, and Horace has spent money on your rooms as well—I want you to learn self-repression. I want you to put on neat and pretty dresses, and shoes that won’t make any sound, and then you may, one by one, come in and see mother. She is longing for you, longing for her own children; for much as she cares for me, I cannot take your place, so you needn’t imagine it for one moment.”
As Marcia said the last words she left the room. The girls stood and stared at each other.
“She’s a brick!” said Molly. “I shouldn’t be one scrap ashamed of showing this room to Clay, and I never could bear the thought of her coming up to it in the old days.”
“I say, what a jolly bed,” said Ethel. “Shouldn’t I just like to tumble into it and sleep and sleep.”
“And my darling little room all alone, too. Don’t you envy me, you two? Won’t you be always afraid that I’m eavesdropping and listening to your precious secrets?” cried the irrepressible Nesta.
“Oh, it is good,” said Molly, “but I feel quite a big ache at my heart. It’s Marcia, and we’ve been so horrid to her, and she has been so good to us.”
“Well, let’s try hard to show her that we’re really pleased,” said Ethel.
The girls washed their hands and combed out their luxurious hair and made themselves as smart as possible, and then, an anxious trio, they went out and stood on the landing. Here it was Nesta who began to tremble.
“It’s that old patch in the carpet,” she said. “It upsets me more than anything. I remember how I tried to skip over it that night when I went to listen at mother’s door. Oh dear, and the carpet is split here too. Marcia might have got new carpets for the stairs instead of titivating our rooms.”
“Marcia only thinks of what will please others,” said Ethel.
“For goodness’ sake, don’t praise her too much,” said Molly, “or I shall turn round. I always do when people are overpraised.”
A door was opened. It led into their mother’s room. Marcia stood outside.
“Molly, darling,” she said, “you come first.”
She took Molly’s hand; she led her round the screen and brought her up to her mother. Just for a moment the girl shut her eyes. There flashed before her mental vision the remembrance of that mother as she had lain pale and panting and struggling for life when she had left her, pretending that she was only sleeping. But now Mrs Aldworth was sitting bolt upright on her sofa, and the room was sweet and fresh and in perfect order, and a nice-looking young woman in nurse’s uniform stood up when the girls entered the room.
“I will leave you, Mrs Aldworth, and go and get my tea,” she said. “You will be glad to welcome your young ladies. But remember not too much talking, please.”
Mrs Aldworth raised her faded eyes; she looked full at Molly.
“My little girl!”
“Mothery; oh, mothery!”
The girl dropped on her knees.
“Gently, Molly. Sit down there. Tell mother what a right good time you have had while you have been away,” said Marcia.
“I am ever so much better,” said Mrs Aldworth, in a cheerful tone. “I am very glad you were with the Carters. You like them so much.”
“Yes, mother,” said Molly, and then she added, and there was real truth and real sincerity in her tone—“I like best of all to be at home; I like best of all to be with you.”
The words were spoken with an effort, but they were true. Molly did feel just like that at the moment.
Mrs Aldworth smiled, and a very pretty colour came into her cheeks.
“I have been quite ill,” she said. “I have been ill and weak for an extraordinarily long time. At least so Marcia says; and Nurse Davenant is quite a tyrant in her way, and Dr Anstruther too; but to tell the truth, darling, I have never had an ache or pain, and I can’t imagine why people make such a fuss. But there, darling, I am glad to see you and to have you back again. You’ll come and sit with your old mother sometimes, won’t you, and you won’t think it a dreadful trial?”
“Never again,” said Molly.
“Go, Molly dear, for the present,” said Marcia, “and send Ethel in.”
Molly went almost on tiptoe across the room. She got behind the screen and opened the door.
“Go in,” she said in a whisper; “she’s looking wonderful.”
“Don’t whisper, girls,” said Marcia. “Come right in, Ethel.”
Ethel came in and also kissed her mother, and told her that she looked wonderfully well, and that she too was glad to be back, but she was more self-restrained than her sister, and more self-assured, putting a curb upon herself.
It was Nesta, after all, the youngest, the darling, who made her mother perfectly comfortable, for whatever her faults Nesta could not for a single moment be anything but natural. She came in soberly enough; but when she saw her parent she forgot everything, but just that this was Mothery, and once she had been a terrible beast to that same mother, and she made a little run across the room and dropped on her knees and took her mother’s hand and kissed it, and kissed it, and kissed it.
“Oh, you darling, you darling! You sweet! You sweet! There never was any one like you, mothery, never, never, never! Do let me press my cheek against yours. Oh, you sweet! You pet!”
Mrs Aldworth gave one glance of loving triumph at Marcia. Was she not right? Did not her children adore her? Marcia must see it now for herself.
Marcia sat down on a chair and breathed a sigh of relief. Little Nesta was right enough. Little Nesta was better in her conduct than either of her sisters.
“You will come in, of course, and say good-night to me, darling,” said Mrs Aldworth when Nurse Davenant made her appearance with the invalid’s tea most temptingly prepared.
“Oh yes, if we may.”
“You may all come in and out as much as you please, and as often as mother wants you,” said Marcia.
“There is no restraint; no limit of time. You do just as you like.”
“Then I expect my own dear sweet pet mothery will be getting a little tired of me,” was Nesta’s response, “for I’ll be wanting to be always and always with her, see if I don’t!” and Nesta kissed her mother’s hand again rapturously.
“Oh, what tempting toast,” she said, “and how nice that tea looks.”
Mrs Aldworth smiled.
“They are dear girls,” she said to Marcia when the door closed on Nesta. “I am glad they’re home, and how terribly the sweet pets have missed me.”
Chapter Thirteen.A Surprise Visit.The girls soon settled down into the old routine of home life. They got accustomed to their pretty room, which truth to tell they kept in anything but perfect order. They were accustomed to the fact that Mrs Aldworth was a greater invalid than before, but was also well looked after, and was so guarded by Marcia and Nurse Davenant that nobody dared to neglect her. The shadow of that awful night receded farther end farther into the back recesses of their brains; they still had the Carters to love and worship; and Nesta still adored her friend Flossie Griffiths.A week went by—a fortnight. The weather was intensely hot. Had it been possible, the doctor would have ordered Mrs Aldworth to the seaside; but although her strength returned up to a certain point, she did not seem to go beyond it.It was one day during the first week in August, one of those extremely hot days when it is an effort even to move, that Mrs Aldworth lay panting on her balcony. The trees in the garden were already assuming a brown tint; the flowers were drooping under the sultry heat of the sun; there was a hot quiver in the air when one looked right in front of one. The bees flew in and out of the window; butterflies chased each other over the garden. There was a stillness and yet a heaviness in the air which seemed to betoken a storm not far off.It was just then that there came a ring at the front door, and Nesta in a great state of excitement entered her mother’s room.“Marcia,” she said, “may I speak to you for a minute?”Marcia, who was doing some light needlework in the neighbourhood of the invalid’s sofa, said:“Come in, Nesta, and tell me what it is all about.”“But I want to see you by yourself,” said Nesta.“My darling,” said Mrs Aldworth, “why these constant secrets? Why shouldn’t your mothery know?”“Oh, it’s Clara Carter—she’s downstairs. She wants to talk to you. Oh, and here’s a telegram for you.” Nesta thrust a little yellow envelope into her sister’s hand. Marcia opened it.“It’s from Angela,” she said. “She’s coming to see me in a few minutes. What does Clara want?”“Just to speak to you. Won’t you come down?”“Can you spare me, dear?” said Marcia, turning to the invalid.“Yes, of course, Marcia. Go, my dear, and don’t hurry back. I feel inclined to ask Miss Angela St. Just to come and see me this morning. You have told me so much about her that I should like to see her; she must be a very nice girl.”“She is, very nice and very beautiful. She is one of God’s angels. Her name is one of the most appropriate things about her,” said Marcia.“Do you think she would care to come up to see me?”“She would be delighted, if you are strong enough.”“Yes,” said Nurse Davenant, “Mrs Aldworth is doing finely to-day. Now, Miss Nesta, if you don’t wish to sit down, please leave the room, for your mother cannot be fatigued by your moving about in that restless fashion.”Nesta decided that she would leave the room.“I’ll go and get some flowers for mothery,” she said, glancing at the different flower glasses, and the next minute, making her escape, she overtook Marcia, who was halfway downstairs.“What is it, Nesta, what are you so excited about?”“It’s because Clay is coming to ask you something most important I do hope you won’t say no. They’re all most keenly anxious. Molly and Ethel don’t want it, but I do. I promised Penelope when I was there, that I’d do my utmost, but the others are against it.”“Whatever can it be?” said Marcia.“Well, you see, the Carters are most anxious to know the St. Justs, Angela in particular, and Clara is coming here. Oh, don’t go so fast, Marcia, I must tell you. Clara is coming here on purpose, for she guessed that Angela would be coming to see you to-day.”“You mean Miss St. Just,” said Marcia steadily.“Why mayn’t I call her Angela as well as you?”“Simply because, Nesta, you don’t know her.”“Well, Miss St. Just, whatever you like to call her.”“And how could Miss Carter possibly know that my friend was coming to see me to-day?”“Because she knew from her father that Sir Edward had to come to Newcastle for an important meeting, and she guessed somehow, that Miss Angela—I must call her that—would come also, and she is just coming on purpose that you may introduce her. She doesn’t want to say so, but she wants to talk to you until Miss St. Just arrives, and you mustn’t gainsay her. You won’t—will you? It’s the greatest fun in the world—it means a great deal to me.”“Now, Nesta, what can it mean?”“I won’t tell you. You can’t turn her away—you can’t be so rude. There she is, sitting by the window. She’s a dear old thing.”Nesta did not accompany Marcia into the drawing room. Marcia went forward and shook hands with Clara, who was looking as such a girl must look when she is particularly anxious to make an impression. Clara, in her cotton frock, with her wild, somewhat untidy mop of hair, was at least natural at Court Prospect; but Clara, with that same hair confined in every direction by invisible nets, with her showy hat, and her dress altogether out of taste, her hands forced into gloves a size too small for her, was by no means a very pleasing object to contemplate. She could not boast of good looks, and she had no style to recommend her. She was natural with the younger Aldworths, but Marcia rather frightened her. She came forward, however, and spoke enthusiastically.“It is good of you, Miss Aldworth, to give me some of your valuable time. I assure you I’m as proud as possible. I said to Mabel this morning, and to Annie, that I would come to see you. Father was driving into Newcastle to attend that meeting of the Agriculturists. Of course father, as you may know, is on the Board.” Marcia made no reply.“He is on the Board, and will be made Chairman at the next election of officers. It is a most important matter, isn’t it, Miss Aldworth? You are interested in the welfare of the farmers, are you not?”“I regret to say that I don’t know anything about them,” said Marcia. “I have lived a great deal out of England,” she continued, “and since I came home I have been much occupied.”“Oh, yes,” said Clara with enthusiasm, “we all know how noble you have been—you saved the life of the poor dear girls’ mamma, didn’t you?”“No, it was God who did that.”“Oh, thank you so much for reproving me. I didn’t mean in that way. But for you, for your finding her just when you did, she might have died. It was very awful, wasn’t it? I did so pity Molly and Ethel. You see, they had invited us to tea, and they gave us, poor girls, a very nice meal; we all quite enjoyed it, and Molly looked so pretty in her blue dress. I think Molly is quite pretty, don’t you?”No reply from Marcia.“You know she went up to her mother because Nesta—naughty Nesta, had run away. Nesta is very naughty, isn’t she?”Marcia very faintly smiled.“May I draw down this blind?” she said. “The sun is getting into your eyes.”“Thank you, how kind of you—how considerate. Well, as I was saying, a servant came out and spoke to Molly, and said that her mother wanted her. Molly went in, and she came back in a few minutes and seemed quite jolly and happy. She thought that her mother was going to sleep. But it wasn’t a real sleep, was it? Do tell me the truth. I have always been so anxious to know. You see, when the girls came to us, they were in such a dreadful state of grief, that we did not dare to question them, and we have never dared to question them from that day to this. But I should like to know the truth. Was it a natural sleep?”“I am sorry, very sorry,” replied Marcia, “that I cannot enlighten you. That dreadful time is over, and thank God, Mrs Aldworth’s life has been spared.”Clara coloured; she felt the reproof in Marcia’s tone. “I know you think me a very silly, curious girl,” she said; “but I really do want to be nice and good and to improve myself. Now you, Miss Aldworth—”Marcia fidgeted. She rose, and opened the window.“The day is very hot,” she said.“Indeed it is. We are all going to the seaside on Saturday. I suppose you couldn’t spare one of the girls—Ethel, or Molly, or Nesta?”“I fear not. I wish we could, for their sakes. Our hope is that Mrs Aldworth may be better, and then we may be able to take her to the seaside.”There came a ring at the front door. Marcia coloured brightly. She felt her cheeks growing hot and then cold. Clara was watching her face.“I think that is the ring of a friend of mine,” she said, “and if you—”Before she could finish her sentence the door was flung open and Susan announced Miss St. Just. Enter a tall girl in white, with a white muslin hat to match, and a face the like of which Clara had never seen before. The room seemed transfigured. Marcia herself sank into insignificance beside Angela.Angela came up quickly and kissed her friend.“You are surprised, Marcia? I want to take you back with me just for the day. If we are quick we can catch the next train.”“Won’t you introduce me?” said Clara’s voice, somewhat high-strained and mincing, at that moment.“Oh, I beg your pardon. Angela, this is Miss Carter, Miss Clara Carter.”Angela turned. There was no false pride about her.“You live at Court Prospect?” she said, “our old place. How do you do? I hope you like it.”“Very much indeed,” said Clara, stammering in her eagerness. “It is a lovely place. We have, I think—and we’d be proud to show it to you—improved the place immensely.”“Improved it?” said Angela. “The cedar avenue, and the beech avenue, and the old Elizabethan garden?”“We have altered the garden a good deal—I hope you don’t mind. You know, it was very confined and old-fashioned, with its prim box hedges, and those quaint things that looked like animals cut out in box at each corner.”“And the sundial—you haven’t destroyed that, have you!”“If you mean that queer stone in the centre—well, yes, we have turned the whole garden into a tennis lawn. It is so delightful. If you could only come and see it.”“Some day, perhaps. Thank you very much.” Angela turned again, to Marcia.“Do run up and put on your things. I know you can be spared quite well. I want a whole day in the woods. We can catch the next train to Hurst Castle, and my little pony trap is waiting. Be quick, Marcia, be quick.”Marcia flew from the room. Now indeed was Clara’s chance.“I hope you’re not hurt, Miss St. Just,” she began. “If I’d known even for a single moment that you valued those things—”“Thank you,” said Angela, “I value their memory. Of course the place is no longer ours, and you have the right to do as you like with your own.”“Then you think we did wrong? You, who know so much better.”“I will try not to think so; but don’t ask me about Court Prospect. Let us forget that you live there.”“Then you won’t come to see us? We are so anxious to know you.”“How kind of you,” said Angela sweetly. “What a hot day this is; don’t you find it so?”“Well, yes; but at Court Prospect it is much cooler.”“Of course; you are more in the country.”Angela wondered when Marcia would be ready.“We are going to the seaside,” continued Clara. “Of course, we cannot stand this great heat. I want to take one of the Aldworth girls with me; but Marcia—I mean Miss Aldworth, your friend—doesn’t seem to approve of it.”“They couldn’t leave home very well just now. The one who ought to go is Marcia herself.”“Indeed, yes. How sweet of you to confide in me. Don’t you think she is looking very pale?”“She has suffered a good deal. I am most anxious that she should have a fortnight or so at Hurst Castle.”“What a rapturous idea,” thought Clara. “If only I could bring it about. What wouldn’t I give to spend some days at Hurst Castle! If only that girl would get me to help her.”“But why won’t she go?” said Clara. “It seems quite easy. Mrs Aldworth has three daughters of her own, and there is the nurse. I think she could.”“I quite agree with you,” said Angela, and just then Marcia came into the room.“I am ready,” she said. “I am ever so sorry, Miss Carter, it does seem rude, but we shall miss our train.”“Marcia, Miss Carter and I have been having quite an interesting conversation about you. We both think you need a change, and Miss Carter thinks with me that your mother could be left with her own girls and the nurse.”The colour came into Marcia’s cheeks.“We can talk of that in the train,” she said. “Good-bye, Miss Carter. Shall I call Nesta to you?”“No, thank you, I must be going now. I am so glad to have seen you. Miss St. Just. It is a very great honour to make your acquaintance. I trust some day you will be induced to come to see us in our home. We should be so glad to get your opinion with regard to further improvements which we are anxious to make. You will come, won’t you, come day? It would be such a very great pleasure.”Angela gave a dubious promise, and the next minute the girls were hurrying down the street.“What a detestable creature!” said Marcia.“Oh, no, she belongs to a type,” said Angela. “But I don’t want to think of the awful things they have done at Court Prospect. They think they have improved my garden—my dear, dear garden.”
The girls soon settled down into the old routine of home life. They got accustomed to their pretty room, which truth to tell they kept in anything but perfect order. They were accustomed to the fact that Mrs Aldworth was a greater invalid than before, but was also well looked after, and was so guarded by Marcia and Nurse Davenant that nobody dared to neglect her. The shadow of that awful night receded farther end farther into the back recesses of their brains; they still had the Carters to love and worship; and Nesta still adored her friend Flossie Griffiths.
A week went by—a fortnight. The weather was intensely hot. Had it been possible, the doctor would have ordered Mrs Aldworth to the seaside; but although her strength returned up to a certain point, she did not seem to go beyond it.
It was one day during the first week in August, one of those extremely hot days when it is an effort even to move, that Mrs Aldworth lay panting on her balcony. The trees in the garden were already assuming a brown tint; the flowers were drooping under the sultry heat of the sun; there was a hot quiver in the air when one looked right in front of one. The bees flew in and out of the window; butterflies chased each other over the garden. There was a stillness and yet a heaviness in the air which seemed to betoken a storm not far off.
It was just then that there came a ring at the front door, and Nesta in a great state of excitement entered her mother’s room.
“Marcia,” she said, “may I speak to you for a minute?”
Marcia, who was doing some light needlework in the neighbourhood of the invalid’s sofa, said:
“Come in, Nesta, and tell me what it is all about.”
“But I want to see you by yourself,” said Nesta.
“My darling,” said Mrs Aldworth, “why these constant secrets? Why shouldn’t your mothery know?”
“Oh, it’s Clara Carter—she’s downstairs. She wants to talk to you. Oh, and here’s a telegram for you.” Nesta thrust a little yellow envelope into her sister’s hand. Marcia opened it.
“It’s from Angela,” she said. “She’s coming to see me in a few minutes. What does Clara want?”
“Just to speak to you. Won’t you come down?”
“Can you spare me, dear?” said Marcia, turning to the invalid.
“Yes, of course, Marcia. Go, my dear, and don’t hurry back. I feel inclined to ask Miss Angela St. Just to come and see me this morning. You have told me so much about her that I should like to see her; she must be a very nice girl.”
“She is, very nice and very beautiful. She is one of God’s angels. Her name is one of the most appropriate things about her,” said Marcia.
“Do you think she would care to come up to see me?”
“She would be delighted, if you are strong enough.”
“Yes,” said Nurse Davenant, “Mrs Aldworth is doing finely to-day. Now, Miss Nesta, if you don’t wish to sit down, please leave the room, for your mother cannot be fatigued by your moving about in that restless fashion.”
Nesta decided that she would leave the room.
“I’ll go and get some flowers for mothery,” she said, glancing at the different flower glasses, and the next minute, making her escape, she overtook Marcia, who was halfway downstairs.
“What is it, Nesta, what are you so excited about?”
“It’s because Clay is coming to ask you something most important I do hope you won’t say no. They’re all most keenly anxious. Molly and Ethel don’t want it, but I do. I promised Penelope when I was there, that I’d do my utmost, but the others are against it.”
“Whatever can it be?” said Marcia.
“Well, you see, the Carters are most anxious to know the St. Justs, Angela in particular, and Clara is coming here. Oh, don’t go so fast, Marcia, I must tell you. Clara is coming here on purpose, for she guessed that Angela would be coming to see you to-day.”
“You mean Miss St. Just,” said Marcia steadily.
“Why mayn’t I call her Angela as well as you?”
“Simply because, Nesta, you don’t know her.”
“Well, Miss St. Just, whatever you like to call her.”
“And how could Miss Carter possibly know that my friend was coming to see me to-day?”
“Because she knew from her father that Sir Edward had to come to Newcastle for an important meeting, and she guessed somehow, that Miss Angela—I must call her that—would come also, and she is just coming on purpose that you may introduce her. She doesn’t want to say so, but she wants to talk to you until Miss St. Just arrives, and you mustn’t gainsay her. You won’t—will you? It’s the greatest fun in the world—it means a great deal to me.”
“Now, Nesta, what can it mean?”
“I won’t tell you. You can’t turn her away—you can’t be so rude. There she is, sitting by the window. She’s a dear old thing.”
Nesta did not accompany Marcia into the drawing room. Marcia went forward and shook hands with Clara, who was looking as such a girl must look when she is particularly anxious to make an impression. Clara, in her cotton frock, with her wild, somewhat untidy mop of hair, was at least natural at Court Prospect; but Clara, with that same hair confined in every direction by invisible nets, with her showy hat, and her dress altogether out of taste, her hands forced into gloves a size too small for her, was by no means a very pleasing object to contemplate. She could not boast of good looks, and she had no style to recommend her. She was natural with the younger Aldworths, but Marcia rather frightened her. She came forward, however, and spoke enthusiastically.
“It is good of you, Miss Aldworth, to give me some of your valuable time. I assure you I’m as proud as possible. I said to Mabel this morning, and to Annie, that I would come to see you. Father was driving into Newcastle to attend that meeting of the Agriculturists. Of course father, as you may know, is on the Board.” Marcia made no reply.
“He is on the Board, and will be made Chairman at the next election of officers. It is a most important matter, isn’t it, Miss Aldworth? You are interested in the welfare of the farmers, are you not?”
“I regret to say that I don’t know anything about them,” said Marcia. “I have lived a great deal out of England,” she continued, “and since I came home I have been much occupied.”
“Oh, yes,” said Clara with enthusiasm, “we all know how noble you have been—you saved the life of the poor dear girls’ mamma, didn’t you?”
“No, it was God who did that.”
“Oh, thank you so much for reproving me. I didn’t mean in that way. But for you, for your finding her just when you did, she might have died. It was very awful, wasn’t it? I did so pity Molly and Ethel. You see, they had invited us to tea, and they gave us, poor girls, a very nice meal; we all quite enjoyed it, and Molly looked so pretty in her blue dress. I think Molly is quite pretty, don’t you?”
No reply from Marcia.
“You know she went up to her mother because Nesta—naughty Nesta, had run away. Nesta is very naughty, isn’t she?”
Marcia very faintly smiled.
“May I draw down this blind?” she said. “The sun is getting into your eyes.”
“Thank you, how kind of you—how considerate. Well, as I was saying, a servant came out and spoke to Molly, and said that her mother wanted her. Molly went in, and she came back in a few minutes and seemed quite jolly and happy. She thought that her mother was going to sleep. But it wasn’t a real sleep, was it? Do tell me the truth. I have always been so anxious to know. You see, when the girls came to us, they were in such a dreadful state of grief, that we did not dare to question them, and we have never dared to question them from that day to this. But I should like to know the truth. Was it a natural sleep?”
“I am sorry, very sorry,” replied Marcia, “that I cannot enlighten you. That dreadful time is over, and thank God, Mrs Aldworth’s life has been spared.”
Clara coloured; she felt the reproof in Marcia’s tone. “I know you think me a very silly, curious girl,” she said; “but I really do want to be nice and good and to improve myself. Now you, Miss Aldworth—”
Marcia fidgeted. She rose, and opened the window.
“The day is very hot,” she said.
“Indeed it is. We are all going to the seaside on Saturday. I suppose you couldn’t spare one of the girls—Ethel, or Molly, or Nesta?”
“I fear not. I wish we could, for their sakes. Our hope is that Mrs Aldworth may be better, and then we may be able to take her to the seaside.”
There came a ring at the front door. Marcia coloured brightly. She felt her cheeks growing hot and then cold. Clara was watching her face.
“I think that is the ring of a friend of mine,” she said, “and if you—”
Before she could finish her sentence the door was flung open and Susan announced Miss St. Just. Enter a tall girl in white, with a white muslin hat to match, and a face the like of which Clara had never seen before. The room seemed transfigured. Marcia herself sank into insignificance beside Angela.
Angela came up quickly and kissed her friend.
“You are surprised, Marcia? I want to take you back with me just for the day. If we are quick we can catch the next train.”
“Won’t you introduce me?” said Clara’s voice, somewhat high-strained and mincing, at that moment.
“Oh, I beg your pardon. Angela, this is Miss Carter, Miss Clara Carter.”
Angela turned. There was no false pride about her.
“You live at Court Prospect?” she said, “our old place. How do you do? I hope you like it.”
“Very much indeed,” said Clara, stammering in her eagerness. “It is a lovely place. We have, I think—and we’d be proud to show it to you—improved the place immensely.”
“Improved it?” said Angela. “The cedar avenue, and the beech avenue, and the old Elizabethan garden?”
“We have altered the garden a good deal—I hope you don’t mind. You know, it was very confined and old-fashioned, with its prim box hedges, and those quaint things that looked like animals cut out in box at each corner.”
“And the sundial—you haven’t destroyed that, have you!”
“If you mean that queer stone in the centre—well, yes, we have turned the whole garden into a tennis lawn. It is so delightful. If you could only come and see it.”
“Some day, perhaps. Thank you very much.” Angela turned again, to Marcia.
“Do run up and put on your things. I know you can be spared quite well. I want a whole day in the woods. We can catch the next train to Hurst Castle, and my little pony trap is waiting. Be quick, Marcia, be quick.”
Marcia flew from the room. Now indeed was Clara’s chance.
“I hope you’re not hurt, Miss St. Just,” she began. “If I’d known even for a single moment that you valued those things—”
“Thank you,” said Angela, “I value their memory. Of course the place is no longer ours, and you have the right to do as you like with your own.”
“Then you think we did wrong? You, who know so much better.”
“I will try not to think so; but don’t ask me about Court Prospect. Let us forget that you live there.”
“Then you won’t come to see us? We are so anxious to know you.”
“How kind of you,” said Angela sweetly. “What a hot day this is; don’t you find it so?”
“Well, yes; but at Court Prospect it is much cooler.”
“Of course; you are more in the country.”
Angela wondered when Marcia would be ready.
“We are going to the seaside,” continued Clara. “Of course, we cannot stand this great heat. I want to take one of the Aldworth girls with me; but Marcia—I mean Miss Aldworth, your friend—doesn’t seem to approve of it.”
“They couldn’t leave home very well just now. The one who ought to go is Marcia herself.”
“Indeed, yes. How sweet of you to confide in me. Don’t you think she is looking very pale?”
“She has suffered a good deal. I am most anxious that she should have a fortnight or so at Hurst Castle.”
“What a rapturous idea,” thought Clara. “If only I could bring it about. What wouldn’t I give to spend some days at Hurst Castle! If only that girl would get me to help her.”
“But why won’t she go?” said Clara. “It seems quite easy. Mrs Aldworth has three daughters of her own, and there is the nurse. I think she could.”
“I quite agree with you,” said Angela, and just then Marcia came into the room.
“I am ready,” she said. “I am ever so sorry, Miss Carter, it does seem rude, but we shall miss our train.”
“Marcia, Miss Carter and I have been having quite an interesting conversation about you. We both think you need a change, and Miss Carter thinks with me that your mother could be left with her own girls and the nurse.”
The colour came into Marcia’s cheeks.
“We can talk of that in the train,” she said. “Good-bye, Miss Carter. Shall I call Nesta to you?”
“No, thank you, I must be going now. I am so glad to have seen you. Miss St. Just. It is a very great honour to make your acquaintance. I trust some day you will be induced to come to see us in our home. We should be so glad to get your opinion with regard to further improvements which we are anxious to make. You will come, won’t you, come day? It would be such a very great pleasure.”
Angela gave a dubious promise, and the next minute the girls were hurrying down the street.
“What a detestable creature!” said Marcia.
“Oh, no, she belongs to a type,” said Angela. “But I don’t want to think of the awful things they have done at Court Prospect. They think they have improved my garden—my dear, dear garden.”