When Marcia left the train at Hurst Castle station she was greeted by, a
tall, very slender girl who was waiting on the platform to receive her.
The girl had a sufficiently remarkable face to attract the attention of
each person who saw her. It was never known in her short life that any
one passed Angela St Just without turning to look at her. Most people
looked again after that first glance, but every one, man, woman, and
child, bestowed at least one glance at that most radiant, most lovely
face. It was difficult to describe Angela, for hers was not the beauty
of mere feature; it was the beauty of a very loving, loyal, and noble
soul which seemed, in some sort of way, to have got very close to her
body, so close that its rays were always shining out. It shone in her
eyes, causing them to have a peculiar limpid light, the sort of light
which has been described as "Never seen on land or shore," and the same
spirit caused those smiles round the girl's beautiful lips, and the
kindly words which dropped from her mouth when she spoke, and the
sympathy in her manner. For the rest, she was graceful with an
abundance of chestnut hair, neatly formed and yet unremarkable features
and a creamy white complexion. Her eyebrows were delicately formed,
being long and sweeping, and slightly arched. Her eyes were also long,
almost almond-shaped, of a soft and yet bright hazel. Her eyelashes
were very thick and very dark, making the hazel eyes look almost black
at a distance. The girl had all the advantages which a long train of
noble ancestors could bestow upon her. Her education had been attended
to in the most thorough manner, and now at the age of sixteen and a
half, there could scarcely be seen a more perfect young creature than
Angela St Just.
"Oh, Angela," said Marcia, as she found her hand clasped in that of
Angela, "this is good. I have just been longing to see you."
"And I to see you, Marcia. The carriage is waiting--I don't mean the
ordinary stiff carriage, but the pony trap. Uncle Herbert has lent it
to me for the whole afternoon, and there are some delightful woods just
a little way out of the town, where we can drive and have a picnic tea.
I have brought all the materials for it in a basket in the little pony
trap."
Marcia naturally acceded to this delightful proposition, and the girls
were soon driving rapidly over the country roads.
Marcia almost wondered as she leant back in the luxurious little
carriage and watched her young companion, whether she were in a dream or
not. This morning she had been a member of the Aldworths' untidy,
disorderly house. She herself was the one spirit of order within it.
Now she was by Angela's side, she was close to the most beautiful
creature she had ever met, or ever hoped to meet.
Angela was not one to talk very much, but once or twice she glanced at
her companion. The sweetest smile just broke the lines of her mouth and
then vanished, leaving it grave once more.
They entered the shade of the woods, and presently drew up under a
wide-spreading oak tree. The woods near Hurst Castle were celebrated,
having once been part of the ancient forest which at one time covered
the greater part of England. Here were oaks of matchless size, and of
enormous circumference; here were beech trees which looked as though
they formed the pillars and the roof of a great cathedral; here were
graceful ladies of the forest, with their silvery stems and their
slender leaves. Here, also, were the denizens of the woods--birds,
rabbits, hares, butterflies innumerable. Marcia gave a sigh.
"What is the matter?" said Angela at once.
"Oh, it is so good, so beautiful, but I can spend such a short time with
you."
"I was determined to come all alone, and I wouldn't even let Bob drive
me. He was quite disappointed; but I managed the ponies splendidly.
Here, we will just fasten them to this tree. Now, darlings, you will be
as good as gold, won't you? Jeanette, don't eat your head off. Oh,
yes, you must have a little bit of this tender young furze to nibble.
Coquette, behave yourself, dear." She lightly pressed a kiss on the
forehead of both of her pets, and then taking out the tea basket placed
it under the tree.
Two other girls were having tea at that moment in another wood not very
far away; but Marcia, luckily for her peace of mind, knew nothing of
that. When the meal was half over, Angela turned to her companion.
"Now, I want to hear all about it."
"About what, Angela?"
"Oh, you know--why you suddenly left Aunt Emily; why you gave up the
school where you were doing such wonderful things, and influencing the
girls so magnificently. What does it all mean? You often told me that
you were not wanted at home."
"And I thought so; God forgive me; I was wrong."
"Well, tell me."
"Angela, you know quite well how often you have advocated our direct and
instant obedience to the call of duty."
"I certainly have--I often wish duty would call me. I have such an easy
life. I long to do something great."
"Well, I will tell you all about myself."
Marcia did give it resume of what had just happened.
"The girls are dreadful at present," she said. "They are--it's the true
word for them, Angela, I cannot help telling you--they are under-bred."
"It must be dreadful, dear; but is it their fault?"
"I fear in a certain measure that this state of things belongs to their
natures."
"But natures can be altered," said Angela. "At least I believe so."
She gave a queer little twitch to her brows, looking up as she did so
for a moment at Marcia.
"I know," said Marcia, "up to a certain point they can; and people can
be made to see their duty and all that; but I think there are certain
natures which cannot rise beyond certain heights, at least in this
world; don't you agree with me, Angela?"
"I have not thought about it. I have always thought that `The best for
the highest' ought to be our motto--it ought to be the motto of every
one--the best for the highest, don't you understand?"
"It is yours," said Marcia.
"Well, anyhow," continued Angela, "I am so interested. I'll come and
see you all some day."
"They'd be ever so proud, and so would my stepmother. They think a
great deal about you."
Angela did not reply.
"I am going to stay here for a little," she said, after a pause.
"Father is quite happy to be with Uncle Herbert, and it is good for him
not to have too much of his roaming life. I will ask him if I may not
come and see you some day. He wouldn't come--he can't bear to go near
Newcastle since dear old Court Prospect was sold."
"I can quite understand that."
"And will you come to see us--are you quite sure you will come during
the summer?"
"I hope so."
"Do you think those girls will keep their compact?"
"I don't know."
"Do you mean to keep yours if they break it? that the point," said
Angela, and now she leant back against the great clump of fern, and
looked at her companion from under the shade of her black hat. Marcia
glanced at her.
"I shall do it," she said.
"It would be somewhat painful for you. Your--your mother has got
accustomed to you."
"She is not my real mother."
"Ought you to think of that, Marcia? Your real mother doesn't want you;
this mother does."
"Yes, I know what you mean, but I will not change; I am determined; I
will help the girls to do their duty; I will not take their burden from
them."
"But ought they to consider the care of a mother a burden?" said Angela.
"I think if I could find my own mother anywhere--"
"Angela, you and they are not made out of the same materials."
"Oh, yes, we are. I should like to talk to them."
"You would have no effect. They would only look at you, and wonder why
your hat looked different on you from their hats on them, and why you
spoke with such a good accent, and why you are so graceful, and they
would be, without knowing it, a little bit jealous."
"You are not talking very kindly of them, are you, Marcia?"
"I don't believe I am; shall we change the subject?"
"Yes, certainly, if you like. What is your plan for the future,
Marcia?"
"I will tell you. I have some hopes; I think I have won my stepmother
round very much to my views. She is the sort of woman who can be very
easily managed, if you only know how to take her. If I had my
stepmother altogether to myself and there was no one to interfere, I
should not be at all afraid. But you see the thing is this--that while
I influence her one day, the others undo all that I have said and done
the next, and this, I fear, will go on for some time. Still, I think I
have some influence, and I have no doubt when I get back to-night that I
shall find Nesta has not transgressed any very open rules."
"Poor Nesta," said Angela, "I understand her point of view a little
bit--at least, I think I do."
"I don't," said Marcia. "A life without discipline is worth nothing,
but we have been very differently trained. Anyhow, I believe that in
three months' time my stepmother will be so much better that she will be
able to go downstairs and take her part in the household. Beyond doubt
her illness is largely fanciful, and when that is the case, and when the
girls have come to recognise the fact that they must devote a portion of
their time to her, things will go well, and I shall be able to return to
Frankfort for another year."
"Oh, delightful," said Angela. "Think of the opera, and the music.
Perhaps we might go to Dresden, or to Leipsic. I do want to see those
places and the pictures, and to hear the music, and to do all that is to
be done."
Marcia smiled; she allowed Angela to talk on. By-and-by it was time for
them to return to the railway station. The train was a little late, and
Marcia and Angela paced up and down the little platform, and talked as
girls will talk, until at last the local train drew up, and Marcia took
her seat.
She found herself alone with one man. At first she did not recognise
him, then she gave a start. It was Dr Anstruther, the medical man who
attended her mother. He came at once towards her, holding out his hand.
"How do you do, Miss Marcia? I am very glad to see you, and to have the
pleasure of travelling with you as far as Newcastle."
Marcia replied that the pleasure was also hers, and then she began to
ask him one or two questions with regard to her stepmother.
"I cannot tell you how thankful I am," he said, "that you have returned;
her case perplexes me a good deal."
"Her case perplexes you, doctor?"
"Well, yes. Things are going from bad to worse."
"But surely," said Marcia, with a little gasp and a tightening at her
heart, "you are not seriously alarmed about my stepmother."
"Not seriously alarmed at present, but I soon should be if the present
state of things went on."
"I always thought," said Marcia, "and I gathered that opinion partly
from your words, that her case was not at all serious, and that you
believed most of her symptoms to be purely imaginary."
"On purpose I always encouraged her to think so, and a good many of her
symptoms are imaginary, or rather they are only the consequence of
weakened nerves; her nerves are very weak."
"But that kind of thing is never dangerous, is it?" said Marcia, who
with her twenty years on her shoulders, and her buoyant strength and
youth, had a rooted contempt for what people called nerves.
"Nervous diseases in themselves are scarcely dangerous, but in your
mother's case there is a serious heart affection, which requires and
must always require, an immensity of care. She has not the slightest
idea of that herself, and I should be very sorry to enlighten her on the
point. I could not tell your sisters, who would not comprehend me if I
did, but I have often been on the point of mentioning the fact to your
father, or to your brother."
"How long," said Marcia, in a low, strained voice, "how long have you
known this?"
"I have suspected it for a year, but I have been positively certain only
within the last three months. I was then called in to attend on your
mother when she had had a very serious collapse. She was quite
unconscious when I got to the house and for a short time I despaired of
her life. She came to, however, and I made as lightly as I could of the
attack; but it was then that I told your father I thought he ought to
have somebody more capable of looking after his wife than his young
daughters. The next day I examined my patient's heart very carefully,
and I found that the mischief which would cause such an attack did exist
to a larger extent than I had the least idea of before."
"When you asked my father to get a more competent nurse for her, what
did he say?"
"He said he would not have a hired nurse in the house on any terms, and
immediately mentioned you."
"Dr Anstruther, I will also speak plainly to you. There is time
enough, may I?"
"Certainly, Miss Aldworth."
"I am not her real daughter."
"Does that count? She came to you when you were a very little child."
"That is true, and had she no daughter of her own, I should never
mention the fact. I would attend to her as I would my real mother, and
be glad to do so; but she has three daughters of her own; two grown-up
and the other quite old enough to be useful."
"That is true."
"They should have taken care of her."
"They do not know how to, Miss Aldworth. I cannot express to you the
neglect that poor woman suffered. She is not very strong-minded
herself, and she never knew how to command, how to order, how to force
those girls to do their duty. They need some one with a head on her
shoulders to guide them. The poor thing drifted and let them drift, and
the state of things was disgraceful. It could not have gone on. Had
you failed to come, you would soon have had no stepmother to trouble
you."
"I am glad I came," said Marcia, and the tears started to her eyes.
"I knew you would be."
"And yet," continued the girl, "it means a great deal of self-sacrifice
on my part."
"I thought you were a teacher in a school."
"In one sense you are right, in another wrong. I am a teacher, or I was
a teacher, in Mrs Silchester's school at Frankfort. Mrs Silchester is
Miss St Just's aunt, and Angela St Just has been my dearest friend for
some years."
"Indeed?"
"Yes."
"I saw you together just now."
"I was happy at the school. I was paid nothing, for I have sufficient
money of my own. I did what teaching I could, and received instruction
in return. _No_ girl could have been happier. I had many friends about
me; my life was full. To be with Mrs Silchester alone was a happiness
unspeakable, and Angela was, and is to be again, a member of the school.
Think what I have lost."
"I am sorry for you, but the path of duty."
"I will walk on it, Dr Anstruther; but the girls must help me."
"Ah, that is quite right, if only you will superintend them and make
them do their duty. Oh, here we are slowing into Newcastle. You go on,
of course, to the West Station. I get out here. You won't mention a
word of what I have said."
"Not even to my father?"
"To no one at present. The fewer who know, the better for her. She is
so weak, poor soul; so nervous, that even if she guessed at her true
condition, she would have a very serious attack. Good-night, for the
present. Be assured of my sympathy. I am glad we have had this talk."