They stood for a few moments clasped in each other’s arms, and then in a slow, sad way went hand in hand towards the door. As she opened it for her friend to pass through, Louise shrank back from the burst of sunshine that flooded the passage, and placed her hand across her eyes. It was a momentary act, and then she drew a long breath and followed her friend, as if her example had given the needed strength, and acted as an impetus to raise her from the lethargic state into which she had fallen.
In this spirit she went down with her to the door, when, as their steps sounded on the hall floor, the dining-room door was thrown open quickly, and Vine stood in the darkened opening, gazing wildly at the veiled figure of Madelaine.
“Van Heldre?” he said, in an excited whisper; “not—not—” He could not finish his speech, but stood with his hand pressed to his throat.
“My father’s state is still unchanged,” said Madelaine gently.
“Then there may yet be hope, there may yet be hope,” said Vine hoarsely as he shrank once more into the darkened room.
“Mr Vine,” said Madelaine piteously, as she stood with extended hands asking sympathy in her grievous trouble.
“My child!” he cried, as he caught her to his breast, and she clung there sobbing bitterly. Then he softly disengaged her hands from his neck. “No, no,” he said dreamily, “I am guilty too; I must never take you to my heart again.”
“What have I done?” sobbed Madelaine, as she clung to him still.
“You?” he said fondly. “Ah! it was once my dream that you would be more and more my child. Little Madelaine!”
He drew her to his breast again, kissed her with spasmodic eagerness, and then held out a hand to Louise, who flew to his breast as with an angry, malicious look, Aunt Marguerite advanced to the end of the landing and looked down at the sobbing group.