to mention the fact with public opinion what it is in regard to it—and after all it did'nt detract a mite from their beauty—with just a tinge of the same colour about the regions of their noses; and their hair, down, of course—and ruffled, till Madge's was like a furze bush in the shine of sunset.
But soon Violet recovered herself, smoothing her tresses and wiping away the tear streaks on her cheeks; fanning herself with her handkerchief to cool her flushed face. Something of her customary calmness returned, while to it was added an earnestness that was new to her.
"Mind, Madge, dearest, you must never reveal a syllable of this to anyone."
"No, Vi, I never will. I solemnly promise."
"Not to anyone; not even papa—certainly not to—to Wilford. I would not have him know it for the world."
"I'll be very careful, Vi."
"Thank you, Madge. Are my eyes very red? Do I look as though I'd been crying? I'll go up-stairs and bathe my face. Take great care, Madge, darling, what you say and do."
"I will; I will."
And Madge sauntered into the garden. Indeed there hardly seemed to be room for her in the house—she had grown so much taller during the last half-hour—such a sense of importance had come upon her. She was the depository of so tremendous a secret; she had passed from childhood to womanhood at one bound. She was a woman quite now—the confidant of another woman, and the other woman in love; and the other woman Vi, her elder sister; and she, Madge, had discovered her sister's secret unassisted, all by herself, entirely of her own superior sagacity. She quite glowed with pleasure at this evidence of her cleverness. Vi in love! How strange—how nice—for all the world like a story-book—really in love—a romance in three volumes carrying on in the cottage, and she, Madge, a character in it—a sharer in the plot—an important person in the novel—the sister of the heroine—it was almost as good as being the heroine herself.
"And how will it end?" Madge asked herself. "Oh, in the proper way, of course. If Vi loves him, why of course he must love Vi. How can he help it; and she so nice-looking and clever as she is? I'm sure there isn't a prettier girl about here for miles than my sister Vi, bless her. Why, there's Wilford in the garden! He's certainly handsome, though he is so thin. Well, I almost think that if Vi hadn't fallen in love with him, I should have."
What is the fascination about risk? Why do people love to skate on dangerous ice; to hover near the brink of precipices? Why did Madge, full of her sister's secret, long to prattle to Wilford Hadfield, and hover in her converse so close upon the confines of the secret? Yet there was an extraordinary charm for her in this. There was a consciousness of power and importance in thus talking with a man concerning whom she was in possession of information so important. It was unwise sport. Because the sense of her position was so new to her, it made her quite giddy; the secret was effervescing terribly; it was difficult to stop babbling. She was like a bottle of sparkling Moselle with the wire off; the cork might fly out at any moment; her red lips might part, and the secret might be bubbling all over the place in no time.
She looked at Wilford and thought that he really ought to love sister Vi; and then came a tangle of thoughts. What relation would he be to her, Madge, supposing he married Vi? Oh, yes; why, brother-in-law, of course. And where would they live? and who would perform the ceremony? Oh, Mr. Mainstone of course, at Grilling Abbots church. And how many bridesmaids ought there to be?—and would the bride wear a veil, or a watered silk bonnet and orange blossoms—how pretty! and so on.
"You're not going to leave us, Mr. Wilford?"
"Yes, indeed, Miss Madge, I am."
"I heard you say so in the parlour, but I don't believe a word of it. Papa won't let you go, and I won't let you go; and I'm quite sure that V" and then she stopped suddenly, and turned down her eyes, for Wilford's were fixed upon her rather curiously.
"Quite sure of what, Madge?"
"Nothing, only that you shan't go away" (and she thought she had recovered from her trip rather cunningly), "why should you? you're not well yet, for one thing; you're not half strong enough yet."
"But I cannot stay here for ever, you know, Madge."
"Why not? Ain't you happy here? Can we do more to make you comfortable? Can I? can—" she stopped, blushing terribly.
"What does the child mean?" Wilford asked himself; "does she suspect me?"
"Should you miss me, Madge, if I were to go?"
"You know I should."
"And be sorry?"
"Very sorry. But you'd come back, wouldn't you, come back very soon?" Wilford shook his head.
"Never, Madge," he said.
"Never! You don't mean that? Never? Oh, how shameful, how cruel, how unkind," and the tears glistened in her great, blue eyes. "You'll leave us for ever? Oh, don't say that—don't say that—no—" and Madge forgot all caution—"no, not to Vi—not to Vi. Why, it would kill her. You cruel man."
"Not to Violet? Again Violet," Wilford murmured, and he grasped Madge's hands and drew her towards him. "Why not to Violet?" he asked eagerly, trying to look into her face, which she hung down, burying her chin in her neck. "Tell me, Madge, quick."
"Don't ask me, please don't. Oh, what have I said? and let go my hands; and let me go, do, there's a good, kind Mr. Wilford."
"Tell me, Madge. No, I won't let you go, till you tell me."
"Oh, I mustn't—I mustn't."
"Would Violet be sorry?"
"Please don't ask me; please don't."
"Would Violet be sorry? quick, quick."
"Yes, I—I think she would.
"More so than you—than any one?"
