“How can we help her, Monica? Won’t you make a sacrifice for the poor girl’s sake? Cannot I persuade you, dear? Your position has a bad influence on her; I can see it has. She worries so about you, and then tries to forget the trouble—you know how.”
Not that day, nor the next, could Monica listen to these entreaties. But her sister at length prevailed. It was late in the evening; Virginia had gone to bed, and the others sat silently, without occupation. Miss Madden, after several vain efforts to speak, bent forward and said in a low, grave voice,—
“Monica—you are deceiving us all. You are guilty.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I know it. I have watched you. You betray yourself when you are thinking.”
The other sat with brows knitted, with hard, defiant lips.
“All your natural affection is dead, and only guilt could have caused that. You don’t care what becomes of your sister. Only the fear, or the evil pride, that comes of guilt could make you refuse what we ask of you. You are afraid to let your husband know of your condition.”
Alice could not have spoken thus had she not believed what she said. The conviction had become irresistible to her mind. Her voice quivered with intensity of painful emotion.
“That last is true,” said her sister, when there had been silence for a minute.
“You confess it? O Monica—”