“No,” said Madelaine, quietly; “I do not think that.”
Aunt Marguerite uttered a sigh full of relief.
“I only think,” continued Madelaine in her matter-of-fact, straightforward way, “that you have been very vain, prejudiced, and foolish, but I am wrong to reproach you now.”
“No, no,” whispered Aunt Marguerite clinging to her, and looking at her in an abject, piteous way; “you are quite right, my dear. Come with me, talk to me, my child. I deserve what you say, and—and I feel so lonely now.”
She glanced again at her brother and Leslie, and her grasp of Madelaine’s arm grew painful.
“Yes,” she whispered, with an excited look; “you are right, I must not go to him now. Don’t let them think that of me. I know—I’ve been very—very foolish, but don’t—don’t let them think that.”
She drew Madelaine toward the door, and in pursuance of her helpful rôle, the latter went with her patiently, any resentment which she might have felt toward her old enemy falling away at the pitiful signs of abject misery and dread before her; the reigning idea in the old lady’s mind now being that her brothers would nurture some plan to get rid of her, whose result would be one at which she shuddered, as in her heart of hearts she knew that if such extreme measures were taken, her conduct for years would give plenty of excuse.