There was no reply to the repeated knocks. There was a smile of satisfaction on Aunt Marguerite’s face as she drew herself up, and opened her fan as if at some presentation, or about to dismiss an intruder; but her countenance changed directly, and, forgetting her dignity, she craned forward, for all at once a pleading voice arose.
“Louise, Louise, for pity’s sake let me in.”
There was a short pause, and then the sharp sound of the shooting back of a bolt and the creaking of a door. Then it was closed again, and as the listener threw her own open there came the faint sound of a passionate cry and a low sobbing.
Aunt Marguerite stepped out into the passage, her head erect, and her stiff silk training noisily behind her, to go to her own room, but the way was barred by the presence of Liza, who was down on the floor crouched in a heap, sobbing passionately, with her apron up to her eyes.
“Get up!” said Aunt Marguerite imperiously, as she struck at the girl’s hand with her fan.
Liza leaped to her feet, looked aghast at the figure before her, and fled, while Aunt Marguerite strode into her room, and loudly closed the door. As she passed her niece’s chamber, Louise was clasped tightly in Madelaine’s arms, and it was long before the two girls were seated, hand in hand, gazing wonderingly at the inroads made so soon by grief.
“It is so horrible—all so horrible,” whispered Madelaine at last, for the silence was for long unbroken, save by an occasional sob.
Louise looked at her wildly, and then burst into a passion of tears.
“Maddy!” she cried at last, “is it all true?”
They could say no more, but sat gathering comfort from the sympathetic grasp of each other’s hands.