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.