“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.”