“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.”