Do not tell her what I have told you—merely say I must see her at once. If she makes real objection, say it is on a gravely serious matter and is imperative.”
And then Andrew Barham paced Madeleine’s boudoir, until Claudine returned to tell him Mrs. Selden was ready to see him.
He found her sitting up in a chair, robed in peignoir and cap.
“What is it, Drew?” she asked. “Has anything happened? I’m sure you wouldn’t rout me out of bed otherwise.”
“Yes, Mother,” and Andrew Barham felt nearer her now than he ever had before. “Yes, something has happened—and we must bear it together, you and I. Something has happened to Madeleine—our little Maddy.”
“What is it? Tell me!”
She must have sensed it in part from his face, for her own countenance turned ashen, and she shook like a leaf.
“She was hurt—” he began—“badly hurt—and”
“And she is dead!” the mother said; “you needn’t say it, I know. How was she hurt?”
Relieved at her calmness, Barham began very gently to tell her the details, when, suddenly gleaning the whole truth, she gave a scream and flinging out her arms, slipped down in her chair, unconscious.
Hastily summoning Claudine, Barham lifted her back to her bed, and by the use of violet salts she soon recovered her wavering consciousness.
And then she became violently vituperative.
“My child!” she moaned, “my baby—my little Madeleine!” Then, with a wild shriek, “Don’t you sit there, sobbing. You never loved her! You never understood her! Leave me, Drew—I can’t bear to look at you
