Hitherto Madge had given no explanation to her mother or sister of the rupture, but one morning—nearly two months had now passed—Clara did not appear at breakfast.
‘Clara is not here,’ said Mrs Hopgood; ‘she was very tired last night, perhaps it is better not to disturb her.’
‘Oh, no! please let her alone. I will see if she still sleeps.’
Madge went upstairs, opened her sister’s door noiselessly, saw that she was not awake, and returned. When breakfast was over she rose, and after walking up and down the room once or twice, seated herself in the armchair by her mother’s side. Her mother drew herself a little nearer, and took Madge’s hand gently in her own.
‘Madge, my child, have you nothing to say to your mother?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Cannot you tell me why Frank and you have parted? Do you not think I ought to know something about such an event in the life of one so close to me?’
‘I broke off the engagement: we were not suited to one another.’
‘I thought as much; I honour you; a thousand times better that you should separate now than find out your mistake afterwards when it is irrevocable. Thank God, He has given you such courage! But you must have suffered—I know you must;’ and she tenderly kissed her daughter.
‘Oh, mother! mother!’ cried Madge, ‘what is the worst—at least to—you—the worst that can happen to a woman?’