“Yes?” said Madelene eagerly, her face flushing, and her large soft eyes lighting up.
But her aunt hesitated. She knew the extreme disappointment her next words must convey, and though her manner was abrupt, her heart was tender and sympathising.
“It is no use, Maddie. I said everything I could think of yesterday to poor Ellen. And your father, as we know, agrees with us. But of course he cannot but give in now to that poor child of a wife of his. It would be brutal not to do so.”
Madelene did not speak, but her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, auntie,” she said at last.
“You must be truly unselfish, my dear, and not take it to heart too much.”
“I had thought it would have been a comfort to poor mamma, for she has been very good to Ermine and me. I think—I do think, considering she has had us herself since we were quite little, that she might trust us,” said Madelene in a tremulous voice.
“She does—thoroughly,” said Lady Cheynes, “don’t make it more painful for yourself by any doubts of that kind, my dear child. And there is reason in what she says, too. Ellen is not a foolish woman.”
“No,” said Madelene, “I did not mean—”
“You are very young, you know, my dear, though older than your years. And even as it is, things will not be easy for you. That is what poor Ellen feels. There is your father—it is very hard upon him, still a young man, to be a second time left a widower. And he will never marry again—not a third time.”