Presently her mind was made up. Going straight to her mother's
dressing room, whither the latter had retreated in a state bordering
on madness, Marguerite threw her arms out in imploring gesture and
stood for a moment, then exclaimed between tears and sobs, "Mamma,
do not judge me harshly, I want to do what is right--but it is so
hard."
Mrs. Verne saw that her daughter was relenting, and uttered not a
word.
"Mamma, dear, give me time and I will prove a dutiful daughter." She
was going to say more when a servant entered with a note, which from
its negligent appearance was evidently written in much haste. It was
from Mrs. Montague Arnold, and contained only a few hurried
sentences, so unintelligible that Marguerite did not attempt to
interpret them.
"I will go at once, mamma," said the latter, "and see what is the
trouble. Poor Eve, she seems always in some fuss."
As Mr. Arnold's residence was only a short distance, Marguerite was
there in a very few minutes after the delivery of the note.
"Oh, Madge, how can I tell you; I know it will break your heart. Oh,
poor papa? Oh! Madge--is it not dreadful?"
"What do you mean, Eve?" cried Marguerite, her ashen face sufficient
proof of the shock she had already undergone.
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