Madge’s grasp on her hand tightened, but she did not speak.
“Go back and be a good wife to him,” Anne went on. “My dear,” she said sadly, “you don’t know your blessings. You have married a man with a faithful steadfast nature. His love will never fail you, and in that, thousands of women might envy you. All the material for happiness is within your reach. Happiness for the lack of which many women starve all their days. It never comes to them. It’s never offered. And if they can’t bear to be utterly without the joy of love, before the earth covers them, they have to take it at a great price.”
Her smile brought the tears again to Madge’s eyes.
“Such a price, my dear little Madge, as I’m glad you know nothing about.”
“Dear Miss Page!” she whispered. A moment’s half-awed revelation came to her of all that her friend’s words implied. In the light of it, her own fears and regrets, her whole mental attitude towards the past, later as well as immediate, seemed incredibly petty, mean, and trivial. She was ashamed with a nobler less selfish shame than she had ever experienced.
Her cheeks burnt, and her tears ceased to flow.
“Oh! I’ve been a beast!” she cried involuntarily. “I’ve always been so selfish and hateful to Harry. I’ve taken everything as my right. I’ve never thought of any one but myself. I’ve never thought of the lives of other women. You are right. It would only be one more selfishness to tell him. I won’t. I’ll love him instead.”
“Do that, my dear, and you’ll make him the happiest of men,” returned Anne simply. “And don’t refuse him children, Madge,” she added softly. “You owe him that. Besides, you’re refusing the greatest happiness for yourself. The blessing that women—women like me, can never have. That’s part of the price, you see. Not the least part of the price,” she added as though to herself.
She rose, and Madge stood up too, still holding her hand.
The firelight fell on Anne’s face, and the younger woman looked at her as though she had never seen her before,—with a tender surprised admiration.