L.T. Meade (continued 2)

The girls walked on briskly. They had, for some time, to walk along the dusty road, but soon they came to a stile which led across some fields, delightfully green and inviting looking at this time of the year. The fields led again into a wood, and this wood, by an upland path, came at last to Norland’s Cliff. Norland’s Cliff was the highest point in that part of the country, and on this eminence had once been built by an eccentric Sir Guy Norland, a tower. He had built it as a sort of a vantage tower, in order to see as far round him as possible; but in the end, in a fit of madness, he had thrown himself from the tower, and his mangled body was found there on a certain winter’s night. Afterwards no one had gone near the tower except as a sort of show place; and it was, of course, supposed to be haunted, particularly at night, when Sir Guy Norland was said to ride round and round on horseback.

But it was a beautiful summer day on the present occasion, and the girls thought of no ghosts, and when they were in the shelter of the woods Nesta began to recount her wrongs.

“She has come back, the old spitfire,” she said, and she explained the whole situation.

Flossie was full of commiseration.

“She wanted you to give up your delightful time with me—this Saturday to which we have been looking forward for such a long time—just to sit with your mother?”

“That’s it, Floss; that’s the truth, Floss. Oh, Floss, how am I to bear it?”

“And you ran away then?”

“Yes, I ran away, I just could do nothing else; I couldn’t give up my afternoon with you. It is all very well to talk of filial affection, but the deepest affection of my heart is given to you, Floss.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Flossie, but she did not speak with the intense rapture that Nesta expected.

“Aren’t you awfully, awfully shocked about it all?” said Nesta, noticing the tone, and becoming annoyed by it.

“I am dreadfully sorry that anything should have occurred to prevent your coming to me; but it does seem fair that you should sometimes be with your mother. When my darling old mothery has a headache I like to sit with her and bathe her forehead with eau de Cologne.”

“Oh, that’s all very well,” said Nesta, “and so would I like to sit with my dear mothery, if she only had a headache once a month or so; but when it is every day, and all day long, and all night too, you get about tired of it.”

“I expect you do,” said Flossie, who was not at all strong-minded, and was easily brought round to Nesta’s point of view. “Well, at any rate, here you are, and we’ll try and have all the fun we can. Oh, do look at those donkeys down there, and the crowd of men, and girls and boys. Isn’t it gay?”

“I wonder if we can get into the tower,” said Nesta.

“We must get into the tower,” remarked Flossie. “I have determined all along that we will have tea just on the very spot where Sir Guy threw himself over the wall. I know the very niche. It will seem so exciting to-night when we are dropping off to sleep. I do like to have a sort of eerie feeling when I’m in a very snug bedroom, close to my father and mother, with the door just a teeny bit open between us. I love it. I wouldn’t like it if there was anything to be frightened about, but to know that you have been close to something queer and uncanny, it makes you seem to sort of hug yourself up, don’t you know the feeling, Nesta?”

“I do, and I don’t,” said Nesta. “I sleep in the room with Molly and Ethel, and we always jabber and jabber until we drop asleep. That’s what we do, but we have great fun all the same.”

Flossie gave a faint sigh. They approached the tower; but to their surprise a custodian stood at the entrance and informed the two little girls that this was a very special show day, and that no one could be admitted into the tower under the large sum of twopence. Neither Nesta nor Flossie had brought a farthing with them, and they stood back, feeling dismayed.

“Never mind,” said Nesta, “let us go and have tea in the wood, it will be just as good fun.”

“I suppose it will; only I did want to see the donkey races. Where are the races, please?” continued Flossie, turning to the man.

But here again disappointment awaited them. They would not be allowed within sight of the donkey races without paying a penny each.

“I have heaps of money at home,” said Flossie, “a whole little savings bank of pennies.”

“And I have half a crown which I have not broken into yet,” said Nesta. “It’s too bad.”

“Well, we have an excellent tea, and it is very shady and pleasant in the woods, much better than sitting in your mother’s room, getting scolded,” said Flossie, “so do come along and let us enjoy ourselves.”

Chapter Eight.

A Feast to Delight the Eyes.

Meanwhile matters were not going on quite so comfortably at the Aldworths’ house. They began smoothly enough. Mrs Aldworth had spent a morning full of perfect happiness, order, and comfort with her eldest daughter. Marcia had done everything that was possible for the well-being of the invalid. She had given instructions also with regard to the food which she was to be supplied with that afternoon, and last, but not least, had not left her, until she saw her enjoying a delicious little dinner of roast chicken, fresh green peas, and a basket of strawberries.

Mrs Aldworth was already beginning to feel the benefit of the change. Until Marcia arrived on the scene she had been, not nursed, but fussed over, often left alone for long hours together to fret and bemoan herself, to make the worst of her trials, and the least of her blessings. Her girls did not mean to be unkind, but they were very often all out together, and the one who was in, was always in a state of grumbling. Now the house seemed suddenly to have the calm and sweet genius of order and love presiding over it. Mrs Aldworth was conscious of the agreeable change, without analysing it too closely. She was glad, yes, quite glad, that dear Marcia should have a happy time with the St. Justs. She knew all about her husband’s first marriage. He had married a penniless girl of very good family, who had been a governess in a nobleman’s house. He had come across her when he was a poor lawyer, before he rose to his present very comfortable position. He had married her and she had loved him, and as long as she lived he had been a very happy man. But Marcia’s mother had died, and Mrs Aldworth was his second wife. She had been jealous of the first wife in a way a nature like hers would be jealous, jealous of a certain grace and charm about her, which the neighbours had told her of, and which she herself had perceived in the beautiful oil portrait which hung in Marcia’s room. She had always hated that portrait, and had longed to turn it with its face to the wall. But these sort of petty doings had gone out of fashion, and the neighbours would be angry with her if they knew. Then her own children had come, and ill health had fallen upon her, and she had sunk beneath the burden.

Yes, she knew all these things. Her past life seemed to go before her on this pleasant summer’s afternoon like a phantasmagoria. She was not agitated by any reminiscences that came before her eyes, but she was conscious of a sense of soothing. Marcia was nice—Marcia was so clever, and Marcia was wise. She was glad Marcia was out. She too would vie with her in being unselfish; she too would become wise; she too would be clever.

She thought of Marcia’s promise, that whatever happened she would visit her for a few moments that evening just to tell her about Angela. Mrs Aldworth, with all the rest of the inhabitants of the little suburb, had worshipped the St. Justs. She had seen Angela occasionally, and had craned her neck when the girl passed by in their open carriage with her aristocratic-looking father by her side. She had felt herself flushing when she mentioned the name. She had been conscious, very conscious on a certain day when Angela had spoken to her. On that occasion it was to inquire for Marcia, and Mrs Aldworth had been wildly proud of the fact that she was Marcia’s stepmother. But Marcia could talk about Angela in the calmest way in the world, evidently being fond of her, but not specially elated at the thought of her friendship.

“I suppose that is called breeding,” thought the good woman. “Well, well, I mustn’t grumble. My own dear children are far prettier, that is one thing. Of course, whatever advances Marcia’s welfare she will share with them, for she is really quite unselfish. Now, I wonder why my little Nesta doesn’t come. I am quite longing to kiss my darling girl.”

Mrs Aldworth was not angry with Nesta for being a bit late.

“It is her little way,” she thought. “The child is so forgetful; she is certain to have to run out to the garden twenty times, or to stroke pussie, or to remember that she has not given old Rover his bone, or to do one hundred and one things which she knows I would be annoyed at if she forgot.”

So for the first half-hour after dinner, Mrs Aldworth was quite happy. But for the next quarter of an hour she was not quite so calm. The sun had come round, and it was time to have the blind rearranged. It was also time for Nesta, who had been given explicit instructions by Marcia, to wheel her mother on to the balcony. Mrs Aldworth felt hot; she felt thirsty; she longed to have a drink of that cold water which was sparkling just beyond her reach. Even the penny paper was nowhere in sight; her fancy work had dropped to the floor, and she had lost her thimble. How annoying of naughty little Nesta—why, the child was already an hour late!

Mrs Aldworth managed in her very peevish way to ring her bell, which was, of course, within reach. The first ring was not attended to; she rang twice, with no better result. Then with her finger pressed on the electric button, with her face very red and her poor hand trembling, she kept up a continued peal until Susan opened the door.

Susan had been busy rushing backwards and forwards to the garden, putting everything in order for the advent of the Carters.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” she said. “I am sorry I kept you waiting; but isn’t Miss Nesta here?”

“No, she is not; why didn’t you answer my ring at once?”

“The young ladies, ma’am, are expecting one or two friends in the garden, and I was helping them. I thought, of course, Miss Nesta was with you.”

“She is not; I have been shamefully neglected. Tell Miss Nesta to come to me at once.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Before you go, Susan, please pull down that blind.”

“Yes, ma’am, of course. I am sorry—the room is much too ’ot. Whatever would Miss Marcia say?”

Susan, who was exceedingly good-natured, did all in her power for her mistress; picked up her fancy work, found the thimble, moved the sofa a little out of the sun’s rays, and then saying she would find Nesta in a jiffy and bring her to her mother in double haste, she left the room.

But the jiffy, if that should be a measurement of time, proved to be a long one. When Susan did come back it was with a face full of concern.

“I’m ever so sorry, ma’am, but Miss Nesta ain’t anywhere in the house. I’ve been all over the house and all over the garden, and there ain’t a sign of her anywhere. Shall I call Miss Marcia, ma’am?”

“Nonsense, Susan, you know quite well that Miss Marcia has gone to Hurst Castle. She has gone to see the St. Justs.”

Susan was not impressed by this fact.

“Whatever is to be done?” she said.

“Send one of the other young ladies to me. Send Miss Molly, it is her turn, I think, but send one of them.”

Now this was exactly what naughty Nesta had prophesied would happen, Molly, dressed in a pale blue muslin, which she had made herself, a pale blue muslin with little bows of forget-me-not ribbon all down the front of the bodice, her hair becomingly dressed, her hands clean and white, with a little old-fashioned ring of her mother’s on one finger, was waiting to greet the Carters. The Carters were to come in by the lower gate; they were to come right through the garden and straight along the path to the summerhouse. Ethel was in the summerhouse. She was in white; she was giving the final touches to the feast. It was a feast to delight the eyes of any tired guest, such strawberries, so large, so ripe, so luscious; a great jug of cream, white, soft sugar, a pile of hot cakes, jam sandwiches, fragrant tea, the best Sèvres china having been purloined from the cupboard in the drawing room for the occasion.

“They haven’t china like that at the Carters’, rich as they are,” said Molly.

Oh, it was a time to think over afterwards with delight; a time to enjoy to the full measure of bliss in the present. And they were coming—already just above the garden wall Molly could see Clara’s hat with its pink bow and white bird-of-paradise feather, and Mabel’s hat with its blue bow and seagull’s wings. And beside them was somebody else, some one in a straw hat with a band of black ribbon round it. Why, it was Jim! This was just too much; the cup of bliss began to overflow!

Molly rushed on tiptoe into the summerhouse.

“They’re coming!” she whispered, “and Jim is with them! Have we got enough cups and saucers? Oh, yes, good Susan! Now I am going to stand at the gate.”

The gate was opened and the three visitors appeared. Molly shook hands most gracefully; Jim gave her an admiring glance.

It was just then that Susan, distracted, her face crimson, hurried out.

“Miss Molly,” she said, “Miss Molly!”

“Bring the tea, please,” said Molly, in a manner which seemed to say—“Keep yourself at a distance, if you please.”

“Miss Molly, you must go to the missus at once.”

“Why?” said Molly.

“She’s that flustered she’s a’most in hysterics. That naughty Miss Nesta has gone and run away. She ain’t been with her at all. Missus has been alone the whole blessed afternoon.”

“I can’t go now,” said Molly, “and I won’t.”

“Miss Molly, you must.”

“Go away, Susan. Clara, dear, I’m sorry that the day should be such a hot one, but you will it so refreshing in the summerhouse.”

“You have quite a nice garden,” said Clara, in a patronising voice, but Mabel turned and looked full at Molly.

“Did your servant say your mother wanted you?”

“Oh, there’s no hurry,” said Molly, who felt all her calm forsaking her, and crimson spots rising to her cheeks.

“Oh, do go, please,” said Clara. “Here’s Ethel; she will look after us. Oh, what good strawberries; I’m ever so thirsty! Run along, Molly, you must go if your mother wants you.”

“Of course you must,” said Jim.

“You must go at once, please,” said Clara. “Do go. I heard what the servant said, she was in quite a state, poor thing.”

Thus adjured Molly went away. It is true she kept her temper until she got out of sight of her guests; but once in the house her fury broke bounds. She was really scarcely accountable for her actions for a minute or two. Then she went upstairs and entered her mother’s room with anything but a soothing manner to the poor invalid.

“Is that you, Nesta?” said Mrs Aldworth, who from her position, on the sofa could not see who had entered the room.

“No,” said Molly, “it’s not Nesta, it is I, Molly, and it is not my day to be with you, mother. We have friends in the garden. Please, what is the matter? I can’t stay now, really; I can’t possibly stay.”

“Oh, Molly, oh, I am ill, I am ill,” said Mrs Aldworth. “Oh, this is too much. Oh, my head, my head! The salts, Molly, the salts! I am going to faint; my heart is stopping! Oh, let some one go for the doctor—my heart is stopping!”

Molly knelt by her parent; for a minute or two she was really alarmed, for the flush had died from Mrs Aldworth’s face, and she lay panting and breathless on her sofa. But when Molly bent over her and kissed her, and said: “Poor little mother, here are the salts; now you are better, are you not? Poor mother!” Mrs Aldworth revived; tears rose to her eyes, she looked full at her child.

“You do look pretty,” she said, “very, very pretty. I never saw you in that dress before.”

“Oh, mothery, it is too bad,” said Molly, her own grievances returning the moment she perceived that her mother was better. “It’s that wicked little Nesta. Oh, mother, what punishment shall we give her?”

“But tell me,” said Mrs Aldworth earnestly, “what is the matter? What are you doing?”

“Mother, you won’t be angry—you know you are so fond of us, and we are so devoted to you. Oh, if you would excuse me, and let me go down and pour out tea for them. They are, my dear darling, Clay and Mabel Carter, and we have tea in the summerhouse, and it’s so nice.”

“Dear me,” said Mrs Aldworth, “tea in the summerhouse, and you never told me?”

“It was our own little private tea, mother. We thought it was our day off, and that you wouldn’t want us.”

“And you didn’t want me,” said Mrs Aldworth.

“Oh, mother, it isn’t that we don’t want you, but we do want to have our fun. We can’t be young twice, you know.”

“Nesta said that—Nesta is tired of me, too.”

“We are none of us tired of you.”

“Yes, you are,” said Mrs Aldworth. “You know you are, you are all tired of me; Marcia is right. You may go, Molly.”

At that strange new tone, that look on the invalid’s white face, a girl with a better heart, with any sort of real comprehension of character, with any sort of unselfishness, would immediately have yielded; but Molly was shallow, frothy, selfish, unreliable.

“If you really mean it,” she said—“we could quite well spare Susan.”

“It doesn’t matter; you can go.”

“I’ll send Ethel up presently, mother. It seems so rude just when they have come from such a long way off, in the burning sun and by special invitation. And there is Jim—you know, you always like us to chat with Jim.”

“You can go,” said Mrs Aldworth. “I would not stand in your way for anything. It’s all right.”

The sun was pouring in at the window. Mrs Aldworth’s head was hot, her feet were cold; her fancy work had fallen to the ground; all her working materials were scattered here, there and everywhere, but she rather hugged her own sense of discomfort.

“Go, dear, go,” she said, speaking as gently as she could, and closing her eyes.

“You’d like to have a nap, wouldn’t you?” said Molly, her face brightening. “I’ll put this shawl over your feet.”

“No, thank you, I’m too hot.”

The shawl was wrenched with some force from Molly’s hand.

“Oh, mothery, don’t get into a temper. You are not really vexed with your Molly, are you? I’ll be up again soon. I will, really.”

“Go,” said the weak, querulous voice, and Molly went.

“Is she all right?” asked Ethel when Molly rushed down to the summerhouse.

“Oh, yes,” said Molly in a cheerful tone. “She is going to sleep.”

“To sleep?” said Ethel in astonishment.

“Yes, she didn’t wish me to stay. Dear old mother, she is so unselfish. I made her very comfy and I’ll go back again presently. Now, I can look after you; I’m going to help you. Sit down there, Ethel, and let me pour out the tea. Fie, Ethel, you have not given Jim anything.”

But for some reason Jim had darted a glance into Molly’s eyes, and Molly thought she read disapproval in it. It seemed to her that he did not quite approve of her. But she could not long entertain that feeling, for she was always satisfied with herself. In a few minutes the whole five were laughing and talking, playing games, passing jests backwards and forwards as though there were no invalid mother in the world, no duties in the world to be performed, no naughty Nesta not very far off.

“Now,” said Clara, “we must be trotting home, and you may as well walk back with us.”

“Are you certain you can be spared?” said Jim.

“Yes, I’m positive,” said Molly; “but to make sure I’ll go in and see Susan.”

Molly went into the house; but she did not go to Susan. She would be too much afraid to inquire of Susan, who, with all her good nature, could be cross enough at times, that is, when she thoroughly disapproved of the young ladies’ racketings, as she called them.

What Molly really did was to slip up to her own bedroom, put on her most becoming hat, catch up her white parasol, take up a similar parasol and hat for Ethel, with a pair of gloves for each, and rush swiftly downstairs. No one heard her enter the house, and no one heard her go downstairs again.

“Thanks,” said Ethel, when she saw her hat with its accompanying pins, observed the parasol, and welcomed the gloves. “Is mother all right?” she said.

“Yes, she is having a lovely sleep. Now do let us come along.”

“You may as well stay and have a game of tennis,” said Jim, who after Molly’s return to the house concluded that things must be all right.

“Yes, that would be splendid,” said Clara, “and you could stay to supper if you liked.”

How very nearly had that delightful afternoon been spoiled. This was Molly’s thought; but it was the mother herself who had saved it. The dear little mother who wouldn’t like her children to be put out. And of course she was in such a lovely sleep. That queer attack she had had when Molly was in the room! But Molly would not let herself think of that. Mother was queer now and then, and sometimes the doctor had to be sent for in a hurry; but it was nothing serious. All mother’s attacks were just nervous storms, so the doctor called them. Signs of weakness, was Molly’s explanation. Oh, yes, the attack was nothing, nothing at all, and what a splendid time she and Ethel were having.

Chapter Nine.

The Truth about Mrs Aldworth.

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 résumé 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.”

Chapter Ten.

An Alarming Attack.

Marcia did not know why her heart felt like lead as she walked back the short distance between the railway station and her father’s house; why all the joy seemed to have gone out of her, when there was no apparent reason. It was a glorious summer evening, the sky was studded with innumerable stars, which would shine more brightly in an hour or so, as soon as the rays of the sun had quite departed from the western horizon. There was not a cloud anywhere. Nevertheless, a very dense cloud rested over the girl’s heart.

She went into the house, and the first thing she noticed was the fact that there were no lights burning anywhere. She glanced up at the invalid’s room; there was no light in the window, no brightness. What could be wrong? Oh, nothing, of course. Nesta might not be a good nurse, but she could not be so careless as that.

She let herself in with her latch key, and was met by Susan in the hall. Susan had her hat on.

“What is it, Susan?”

“I beg your pardon, Miss? I have only just come in. It was my evening out. I came back a whole hour before my time because I was anxious about Missis. I suppose cook has seen to her.”

“Cook? But where are the young ladies? Where is Miss Nesta?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? And where are the other young ladies?”

“I don’t know either. Oh, yes, though, they had tea in the garden with the Misses Carter and young Mr Carter, and then they went a bit of the way home with them. I ran down the garden and brought in the best china, they would have it from the drawing room, and then I slipped out, for I didn’t want to lose any of my time. It was such a good opportunity, you see, Miss, for master and Mr Horace were both dining out at the Club this evening, and I thought the young ladies could manage to light up for themselves.”

“They don’t seem to have done so. How is my mother? How long has she been alone?”

“I don’t know, Miss. Shall I run up and see?”

“No, light up as quickly as you can, please. Get cook to help you if necessary. Don’t be out of the way. I will go to my mother.”

Marcia had called Mrs Aldworth mother on many occasions; but there was a new tone in the way in which she said “my mother,” which fell upon the servant’s ears with a feeling of reproach.

“I wonder now—” she thought. “I wouldn’t have gone out, but she was in such a beautiful sleep; I just crept in on tiptoe and there she was smiling in her sleep and looking as happy as happy could be. So I said to myself—‘Miss Nesta’ll be in in no time, and if not there are the other young ladies.’ So I went to cook and said—‘Cook, be sure you run up to Missis when she rings her bell.’”

Susan had now returned to the kitchen.

“You didn’t hear Missis ring by any chance, did you, Fanny?” she said to her fellow servant.

“No, I said I’d go up to her if she did ring.”

“Then it’s all right,” said Susan.

“Why, what’s the matter? How white you are.”

“I—I don’t quite know. But Miss Marcia came back and seemed in no end of a taking, at the house not being lit up.”

“Let Miss Marcia mind her own business,” said Fanny, in a temper.

“Don’t you say anything against her, Fanny. Oh, my word, there’s the bell, now. I hope to goodness there’s nothing wrong.”

Susan rushed upstairs; her knees, as she expressed it, trembling under her. She burst open the door.

“Send Fanny for the doctor at once. Get me some hot water and some brandy. Be quick; don’t wait a moment. Above all things, send Fanny for the doctor. Tell her to take a cab and drive to Dr Anstruther’s house. Be as quick as ever you can.”

Marcia had turned on the gas in her mother’s room and lit it, and now she was bending over that mother and holding her hand. The poor woman was alive, but icy cold and apparently quite unconscious. The girl felt herself trembling violently.

“They have neglected her; I can see that by the look of the room,” she thought. “The window still open, the blinds still up, the position of this sofa—all show that she was neglected. And I, too, left her. Why did I go? Oh, poor mother; poor mother.”

Tears streamed from Marcia’s eyes; they fell upon the cold hand. Marcia put her fingers on the pulse; it was still beating, but very feebly.

Susan hurried up with a great jug of hot water, and the brandy bottle.

“Mix some brandy quickly for me, Susan; make it strong. Now, then, give it to me.”

With some difficulty Marcia managed to put a few drops between the blue lips, and the next minute the invalid opened her eyes. She fixed them on Marcia, smiled, shuddered, and closed them again, collapsing once more into unconsciousness.

It was in this condition that Dr Anstruther found her when he entered the house a quarter of an hour later.

“I feared it,” he paid, just glancing at Marcia.

“No, it is not death,” he added, seeing the look of appeal and self-reproach in the girl’s eyes; “but it might have been. Had you been a few minutes later we could have done nothing. Now, then, we will get her into bed.”

He managed very skilfully, with Marcia’s help and with that of the repentant and miserable Susan, to convey the poor invalid to a bed, which had already been warmed for her. She then sat by her, administering brandy and water at short intervals, and holding her wrist between his fingers and thumb.

“That’s better,” he said, after a time. “Now, then, Miss Marcia, will you go downstairs and prepare a nice cup of bread and milk and bring it up to me? she must manage to eat it. She has been absolutely starved; she has had nothing at all since her early dinner.”

Marcia flew out of the room.

“Susan,” she said, “Susan, what is the meaning of this?”

“Don’t ask me, Miss; ’tain’t my fault. When young ladies themselves are born without natural affection, what can a poor servant gel do? Do you think I’d leave my mother? No, that I wouldn’t. Poor lady, and she that devoted to them. To be sure she have her little fads and fancies, and her little crotchets, as what invalid but wouldn’t have? But, oh, Miss, to think of their unkindness.”

“Don’t think of it now; they will be sorry enough by-and-by,” said Marcia. “Help me to get some bread and milk ready.”

She brought it up a few minutes later, steaming hot and tempting looking. The invalid was conscious again now, and her cheeks were flushed with the amount of brandy she had taken. She began to talk in a weak, excited manner.

“I had such a long sleep and got so dreadfully cold,” she said. “I thought I was climbing up and up a hill, and I could never get to the top. It was a horrid dream. Marcia, dear, is that you? How nice you look in your grey dress, so quiet looking.”

“Hush, Mrs Aldworth,” said the doctor, in a cheerful voice, “you must not talk too much just now. You must lie quiet.”

“Oh, doctor, I’ve been lying quiet so long, so many hours. Oh, yes, I remember—it was Molly. She had on a blue dress, a blue muslin and forget-me-not bows, and she looked so sweet, and she said the Carters were here—the Carters and—and—she was very anxious to go down to them. It was natural, wasn’t it, doctor?”

“Yes, yes. Aren’t you going to eat your bread and milk?”

“I’ll feed you, mother,” said Marcia.

She knelt by her and put the nourishment between the blue lips.

“You are such a good girl, Marcia; so kind to me.”

“Everybody ought to be kind to you,” said Marcia, “and everybody will be,” she murmured under her breath.

“Marcia is an excellent girl; you have never said a truer word, Mrs Aldworth,” remarked the doctor.

“It was very disagreeable—that dream,” continued the invalid, her thoughts drifting into another quarter. “I thought—I thought I was climbing up and up, and it was very cold as I climbed, and I thought I was amongst the ice, and the great snows, and Molly was there, but a long way down, and I was falling, and Molly would not come to help me. Then it was Nesta, and she would not help me either, Nesta only laughed, and said something about Flossie—Flossie Griffiths. Marcia, have you seen Flossie Griffiths? You know I don’t like her much, do you?”

“I have not seen her, dear. Don’t talk too much. It weakens you.”

“But I’m not really ill, am I?”

“Oh, no, Mrs Aldworth,” said the doctor. “You have just had an attack of weakness, but you are better; it is passing off now, and you have a grand pulse. I wish I had as good a one.”

He smiled at her in his cheery way, and by-and-by he went out of the room. Marcia followed him.

“Some one must sit up with her all night,” said the doctor, “and I will stay in the house.”

“Oh, doctor,” said Marcia, “is it as bad as all that?”

“It is so bad that if she has another attack we cannot possibly pull her through. If she survives until the morning, I will call in Dr Benson, the first authority in Newcastle. The thing is to prevent a recurrence of the attack. The longer it is stared off the greater probability there is that there will be no repetition.”

“I will sit up with her, of course,” said Marcia. “She would rather have me than any hired nurse.”

“I know that. I am glad. But some one must see your sisters when they come in.”

It was just at that moment that a girl, somewhat fagged, somewhat shabby looking, with a face a good deal torn, for she had got amongst briars and thorns and underwood on her way home, crept up the narrow path towards the house. This girl was her mother’s darling, Nesta, the youngest of the family, the baby, as she was called. Her time with Flossie had, after all, been the reverse of agreeable. They had begun their tea with every prospect of having a good time; but soon the mob of rough people who had come to witness the donkey races discovered them, and so terrified both little girls that they ran away and hid, leaving all Flossie’s property behind them.

This was thought excellent fun by the roughs of Newcastle; they scoured the woods, looking for the children, and as a matter of fact, poor Nesta had never got a greater fright than when she crouched down in the brambles, devoutly hoping that some of the rough boys would not pull her out of her lair.

Eventually she and Flossie had escaped with only a few scratches and some torn clothes, but she was miserably tired and longing for comfort when she approached the house. So absorbed was she with her own adventures that she absolutely forgot the fact that she had run away and left her mother to the care of the others. As she entered the house, however, it flashed upon her what might be thought of her conduct.

“Dear, dear!” she thought, “I shall have a time of it with Molly to-night; but I don’t care. I’m not going to be bullied or browbeaten. I’ll just let Miss Molly see that I’m going to have my fun as well as another. I wish though, I didn’t sleep in the room with them; they’ll be as cross and cantankerous as two tabby cats.”

Nesta entered the house. Somehow the house did not seem to be quite as usual; the drawing room was not lit up; it had not been used that evening. She poked her head round the dining-room door. There was no appetising and hearty meal ready for tired people when they returned home. What was the matter? Why, her father must be back by this time. She went into the kitchen.

“Cook!” she said.

“Keep out of my way, Miss Nesta,” said the cook.

“What do you mean? Where is my supper? I want my supper. Where are all the others? Where’s Molly? Where’s Ethel? I suppose that stupid old Marcia is back now? Where are they all?”

“That’s more than I can tell you,” said cook, and now he turned round and faced the girl. “I only know that it’s ten o’clock, and that you have been out when you ought to be in, and as to Miss Molly and Miss Ethel, I don’t want to have anything to do with them in the future. Here’s Susan—she’ll tell you why there ain’t no supper for you—she’ll speak a bit of her mind. Susan, here’s Miss Nesta, come in as gay as you please, and asks for her supper. And where are the others, says she, and where’s Marcia, says she. And is she back, says she. Miss Marcia is back, thank the Lord; that’s about the only thing we have to be thankful for in this house to-night.”

“Dear me, cook, I think you are remarkably impertinent. I shall ask mother not to keep you. Mother never would allow servants to speak to us in that tone. You forget yourself, Susan.”

“It’s you that forgets yourself, Miss Nesta,” said Susan. “There; where’s the use of stirring up ill will? Ain’t there sorrow enough in this house this blessed night?”

“Sorrow,” said Nesta, now really alarmed. “What is it?”

“It’s your mother, poor soul,” said Susan. She looked into Nesta’s face and there and then determined not to spare her.

“Mother? Mother?”

For the first time the girl forgot herself. There fell away from her that terrible cloak of selfishness in which she had wrapped herself.

“Mother? Is anything wrong with her?”

“Dr Anstruther is upstairs, and he is going to spend the night here, and Miss Marcia is with her, and not a living soul of you is to go near her; you wouldn’t when you might, and now you long to, you won’t be let; so that’s about the truth, and if the poor darling holds out till the morning it’ll be something to be thankful for. Why, she nearly died, and for all that I can tell you, she may be dying now.”

“Nonsense!” said Nesta. “What lies you tell!”

She stalked out of the kitchen. For the life of her she could not have gone out in any other fashion. Had she attempted any other than the utmost bravado, she must have fallen. In the hall she met Molly and Ethel coming in; their faces were bright, their eyes were shining. What a good time they had had. That supper! That little impromptu dance afterwards! The tennis before supper! The walk home with Jim and Harry. Jim escorted Molly home; he had quite forgiven her, and Harry was untiring in his attentions to Ethel. Oh, what a glorious, glorified world they had been living in. But, now, what was the matter! They saw Nesta and looked into her face. Full of wrath they pounced upon her.

“Don’t,” said Nesta. “Don’t speak. Come in here.”

She took both their hands, dragged them into her father’s study, and shut the door.

“Look here, both of you,” she said, “I’ve been beast; I’ve been the lowest down sort of a girl that ever lived, but you have been a degree worse, and we have killed mother. Yes, we have killed her.”

Ethel dropped into a chair and clasped her side with one hand.

“You needn’t believe me, but it’s true. She was alone all the afternoon, and Marcia came home, and she saw mother, who was nearly gone, and the doctor is here and he is going to stay all night, and perhaps she’ll be dead in the morning, and we have done it—we are her own children and we have done it. You and Molly and I; we have all done it; we are monsters; we are worse than beasts. We are horrors. I hate us! I hate us! I hate us!”

Each hate as it was hurled from her young lips was uttered with more emphasis than the last, and now she flung herself full length on the carpet—the dirty, faded carpet, and sobbed as though her heart would break.

“We’re not to go to her—she won’t have any of us near her. She won’t have us now—we gave her up—she was alone all the afternoon, and now we are not to go to her, we are to stay away; that’s what we are to do.”

Molly was the first to recover her voice.

“It can’t be as bad as that,” she said.

Ethel looked up with a scared face. Molly’s face was just as scared as her sisters’. As she uttered the words she sank, too, in a limp fashion, on the nearest chair. Then she unpinned her hat and flung it from her to the farthest end of the room.

“You may stay there, you horrid thing,” she said. Her gloves were treated in the same manner. She looked down at the bows on her dress and began unfastening them.

“I hate them,” she said. “Mother called them pretty. I hate them!”

“What’s the good of undressing yourself in that fashion?” said Ethel.

“She had the beginning of the attack when I was with her,” said Molly. “I am worse than you, Nesta, worse than you, Ethel, for you did not see her. I gave her some sal volatile, and she got sleepy, and I put a shawl over her and left her. I am worse than either of you.”

“Well,” said Ethel, rousing herself, “I don’t believe it is as bad as this. I don’t think it can be. I’ll go up and find out.”

She went out of the room, but she tottered very badly as she went up the stairs, glancing behind her as though fearful of her own shadow. There was a light in the spare room; the door was partly open. She peeped in. Dr Anstruther was there. He was pacing up and down.

“Ah!” he said, when he saw Ethel’s face. “Come in.”

He looked at her again, and then said quietly—“Sit down.”

He went to the table, poured something into a glass, mixed it with water, and brought it to the girl.

“Drink this,” he said.

“I don’t want to,” replied Ethel.

“Drink it at once,” said the doctor.

She obeyed; it was strong sal volatile and water.

“Now,” he said, “you clearly understand that the duty you have to perform to-night in this house, is absolutely to forget yourself—obliterate yourself if necessary. Don’t do one single thing that you are told not to do, and if you can, keep your sisters in the background. You may all be wanted at any moment, or you may not. You are not, any of you, to go to your mother’s room without my permission. Don’t think of yourselves at all. If there is any way in which you can help the servants, do it, but do it quietly, and don’t become hysterical; don’t add to the trouble in the house to-night.”

“But we have all neglected her—”

“You can tell your clergyman that in the morning—you can tell your God to-night—it is not my affair. I have to do with the present. Act now with obedience, with utter quiet, with calm, with self-restraint. Go down now and tell your sisters what I have said.”

“I will,” said Ethel. She went out of the room.

“Poor child!” thought Dr Anstruther. “I had to be hard on her to keep her up; she’d have broken down otherwise. God grant that those girls have not a rude awakening—they very nearly did have it—God help them, poor things.”

When Mr Aldworth and Horace returned late that evening, it was the doctor who drew the poor husband into his own study and told him the truth. He concealed as much as possible of the girls’ conduct; he admitted that Mrs Aldworth had been neglected during the day, but he made the best of it.

“In any case,” he said, “this attack was quite likely to come. Had there been any one near her it might not have been so prolonged, and the consequences would not have been so serious; but it was bound to come.”

“And Marcia?” said the father then.

“Oh, she is all right, she is a brick—she is one in a thousand.”

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.

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.