Clara Hopgood

He resisted with all his might this dreadful sweep of the

imagination, tried to bring himself back into sanity and to devise

schemes by which, although he was prohibited from writing to Madge,

he might obtain news of her. Her injunction might not be final.

There was but one hope for him, one possibility of extrication, one

necessity--their marriage. It MUST be. He dared not think of what

might be the consequences if they did not marry.

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?'

Mrs Hopgood did not speak; something presented itself which she

refused to recognise, but she shuddered. Before she could recover

herself Madge broke out again, 'It has happened to me; mother, your daughter has wrecked your peace for ever!'

'And he has abandoned you?'

'No, no; I told you it was I who left him.'

It was Mrs Hopgood's custom, when any evil news was suddenly

communicated to her, to withdraw at once if possible to her own room.

She detached herself from Madge, rose, and, without a word, went

upstairs and locked her door. The struggle was terrible. So much

thought, so much care, such an education, such noble qualities, and

they had not accomplished what ordinary ignorant Fenmarket mothers

and daughters were able to achieve! This fine life, then, was a

failure, and a perfect example of literary and artistic training had

gone the way of the common wenches whose affiliation cases figured in

the county newspaper. She was shaken and bewildered. She was

neither orthodox nor secular. She was too strong to be afraid that

what she disbelieved could be true, and yet a fatal weakness had been

disclosed in what had been set up as its substitute. She could not

treat her child as a sinner who was to be tortured into something

like madness by immitigable punishment, but, on the other hand, she

felt that this sorrow was unlike other sorrows and that it could

never be healed. For some time she was powerless, blown this way and

that way by contradictory storms, and unable to determine herself to

any point whatever. She was not, however, new to the tempest. She

had lived and had survived when she thought she must have gone down.

She had learned the wisdom which the passage through desperate

straits can bring. At last she prayed and in a few minutes a message

was whispered to her. She went into the breakfast-room and seated

herself again by Madge. Neither uttered a word, but Madge fell down

before her, and, with a great cry, buried her face in her mother's

lap. She remained kneeling for some time waiting for a rebuke, but

none came. Presently she felt smoothing hands on her head and the

soft impress of lips. So was she judged.