"I feel this! O Maurice, I feel this! My aunt has never had power to make me feel so much since that day in the little châlet when my eyes were opened,—when she cast me off, and I stood alone in the world."
"Ah Madeleine, dearest and best beloved, if you had only loved me then,—if I could only have taught you to love me,—you would not have stood alone! I should have battled against every sorrow that could come near you; or, at least, have borne it with you. O Madeleine, why could you not love me?"
For one instant Madeleine was tempted to throw herself in his arms and confess all. The high resolves of years of self-denial were on the verge of being broken in one weak moment; but the very peril, the very temptation calmed her suddenly. She brushed away her tears, and, gently withdrawing the hand Maurice held, said, in broken accents,—
"I have caused you too much pain in other days, Maurice. I should not have added more by allowing you to witness my weakness. Help me to be strong; for you see I have sore need of help."
"All that I can offer, Madeleine, you reject," said Maurice, reproachfully. "My heart and life are yours, and you fling them from you."
"Maurice, my cousin, my best friend, spare me! I have no right to listen to this language."
"But the right to hear it from the lips of another," retorted Maurice bitterly.
"Be generous, Maurice. For pity's sake, do not speak on that subject."
There was so much anguish depicted in Madeleine's face that Maurice was conscience-stricken by the conviction that his rashly selfish words had caused her additional pain.
"This is a poor return, Madeleine, for all the good you have done my father,—all the good you have done me,—you have done us all. You see what a selfish brute I am! My very love for you, which should shield you from all suffering, has, through that fatal selfishness, added to your sorrow. Can you pardon me?"