‘I expect your aunt will want to come herself, dear, but if she doesn’t, I certainly will,’ answered Mary.
‘Aunt Grace!’ exclaimed Emmeline. ‘Why, she isn’t here. She’s in London!’
‘She’s here now,’ said Mary. ‘Miss Miller telegraphed for her yesterday evening, and when she reached home, about two o’clock this morning, she found a telegram from George to say that both you and Micky were at Eastwich, and that you had had an accident. So she came back here by the seven o’clock train.’
‘How dreadfully tired she must be!’ exclaimed Emmeline. ‘And how could she leave her friend?’
‘The poor lady died yesterday afternoon,’ said Mary in a low voice. ‘The end came much more suddenly than anyone expected.’
‘Oh, Mary, I wish it hadn’t all happened just yesterday!’ said Emmeline, with tears in her eyes.
‘So do I, dear,’ said Mary. ‘But it’s no use crying over spilt milk. The only thing for you to do now is to tell your Aunt Grace how very sorry you are. You’ll find she’ll understand.’
Emmeline heaved herself round and buried her face in the pillow.
‘No, she won’t,’ she muttered. ‘Nobody could, and besides, she never really cared for me. She’ll hate me after this, I expect.’
‘Miss Emmeline, you mustn’t talk of your aunt like that,’ said Mary gently. ‘She loves you all dearly—I never knew how dearly till I saw her this morning, tired to death with the journey and all the worry and anxiety following so quick on her grief at losing her friend, and yet comforting poor little Micky as if she’d been his mother. Now that it is all over, and I shall never misjudge her so again, perhaps there’s no harm in telling you that there was a time when I had my doubts as to how your living with her would turn out, what with her being so young and pretty, and more used to a gay London life than to bringing up children; but I’ve reproached myself many a time this morning for ever having had such uncharitable thoughts, for a better Christian or a more loving-hearted young lady doesn’t walk the earth.’
Poor dear Mary! She little thought that Emmeline had all along been quite aware of those misgivings of hers, which she had been too loyal and good a woman ever to express in words, or that it is far easier to suggest doubts than to put trust and confidence in their place. Emmeline said nothing, but she none the less looked forward with dread to the possible visit from Aunt Grace. Even Mary thought she had done very wrong, dear kind Mary, who always took the best view of things, and as to Aunt Grace, she would never really forgive her, or believe how very sorry she was.