“Mayn’t I take her a word of forgiveness?”
“Yes, say I forgive her. She doesn’t wish me to go to her?”
Alice shook her head.
“Then say I forgive her.”
As he directed so it was done; and in the course of the morning Miss Madden brought word to him that her sister had experienced great relief. She was sleeping.
But the doctor thought it necessary to make two visits before nightfall, and late in the evening he came again. He explained to Widdowson that there were complications, not unlikely to be dangerous, and finally he suggested that, if the morrow brought no decided improvement, a second medical man should be called in to consult. This consultation was held. In the afternoon Virginia came weeping to her brother-in-law, and told him that Monica was delirious. That night the whole household watched. Another day was passed in the gravest anxiety, and at dusk the medical attendant no longer disguised his opinion that Mrs. Widdowson was sinking. She became unconscious soon after, and in the early morning breathed her last.
Widdowson was in the room, and at the end sat by the bedside for an hour. But he did not look upon his wife’s face. When it was told him that she had ceased to breathe, he rose and went into his own chamber, death-pale, but tearless.
* * *
On the day after the funeral—Monica was buried in the cemetery, which is hard by the old church—Widdowson and the elder sister had a long conversation in private. It related first of all to the motherless baby. Widdowson’s desire was that Miss Madden should undertake the care of the child. She and Virginia might live wherever they preferred; their needs would be provided for. Alice had hardly dared to hope for such a proposal—as it concerned the child, that is to say. Gladly she accepted it.
“But there’s something I must tell you,” she said, with embarrassed appeal in her wet eyes. “Poor Virginia wishes to go into an institution.”