Chapter Thirty Nine.A Meeting in Pain.George Vine sat in his easy chair in front of the fireplace, gazing at the cut paper ornaments and willow shavings, and seeing in them the career of his son, and the dismal scene in the churchyard, with the rain falling and making little pearls on the black coffin cloth.He had not spoken for hours, but from time to time, as Louise laid her hand upon his arm, he had slowly taken and pressed it between his own before raising it with a sigh to his lips.“Don’t speak to me, my darling,” he had pleaded to her when he first took his place there that morning. “I want to think.”She had respected his prayer, and in her endeavours to take her thoughts from the horrors which oppressed her she had stolen into her father’s study, as an idea struck her, but only to come away sadly. Her visit had been too late; the cherished collection of marine objects were one and all dead.Her father looked up as she returned. He had not seemed to notice her, but he knew where she had been, and as he gave her a questioning look Liza entered the room.“Miss Van Heldre, miss.”Vine caught his child’s hand, as if too weak for the encounter; but, as the closely-veiled figure in black crossed the room quickly, and both realised the meaning of those mourning garments, Louise burst into a wild fit of sobbing, and turned away for a moment, but only to be clasped in Madelaine’s arms.There was an earnest, loving embrace, and then Madelaine turned to Vine, laying her hands upon his breast, and kissing him as a child would its parent.“So much better,” she said, in answer to the wistful, inquiring look directed at her. “I have come to fetch you both.”“To fetch us?” faltered Vine with a horrified look.“My father begs you will come to him. I am his ambassador. You will not refuse?”“I cannot meet him,” said Vine in a faint voice full of despair; “and,” he added to himself, “I could not bear it.”“He would come to you, but he is weak and suffering,” said Madelaine as she laid her hand upon the stricken man’s arm. “Tell him ‘I beg he will come to me,’ he said,” she whispered. “You will not refuse, Mr Vine?”“No, I will not refuse. Louise, dear?”“Yes, father, I will go with you,” she said slowly; and in a few minutes she returned, ready for the walk, and crossed to where her father sat holding Madelaine’s hand.As she entered he rose and met her.“Louise, my child, must we go?” he said feebly. “I feel as if it where almost more than I can bear. Must we go?”“Yes,” she replied gravely; “we must go.”Vine bowed his head.“Come, my child,” he said, turning to Madelaine, and he was half way to the door when Aunt Marguerite entered.“Going out?” she said, shrinking from the sombre figure in black.“Yes, aunt.”“You must attend first to what I have to say, Louise. Miss Van Heldre can, I daresay, wait.”Madelaine bent her head and drew back.“I have business with Mr Van Heldre, Marguerite,” said Vine more sternly than he had ever spoken to her before. “You must wait till our return.”Aunt Marguerite’s eyes flashed an indignant look at Madelaine, as the cause of this rebuff, and she drew back with a stiff curtsey and walked slowly before them out of the room.George Vine gazed wildly round him as he walked slowly down the steep way toward the town. It seemed terrible to him that in such a time of suffering and mourning, sea, sky, and earth should be painted in such lovely colours. The heavy rain of the previous days seemed to have given a brilliancy to leaf and flower that before was wanting; and as, from time to time, he glanced wildly at the rocky point, the scene of the tragedy of his life, the waves were curling over, and breaking in iridescent foam upon the rocks, to roll back in silvery cataracts to the sea.He turned away his eyes with a shudder, fighting hard to keep his thoughts from the horrors of that night; but he was doomed to have them emphasised, for, just before reaching the foot of the steep way, the little party came suddenly upon the great burly fisherman, who had undertaken to sail across to Saint Malo with the fugitive that night.“Mornin’, master,” he said.Vine turned ghastly pale, and his brain reeled; but he soon recovered himself.“Louise, Madelaine, my children, go on, and I will follow.”Louise looked at him appealingly; but he was perfectly firm, and she went on with her friend.“I fear, in the midst of my trouble, Perrow, that I had forgotten my engagement with you.”“Like enough, master, no wonder. There was no hurry.”“Yes, but there is,” said Vine slowly. “Will you come to my house to-night or to-morrow morning? and I’ll give you my cheque to take to the bank.”“For how much?” said the man eagerly.“One hundred pounds; the amount I promised you.”“Ay, but that was for taking the poor boy across. No, Master Vine, we’ve been talking it over, the five on us, and there’s the boat, and one night’s fishing gone as might have been a good one or it mightn’t been nothing; so we’re going to ask you to pay us a pound a-piece.”“But—”“Good-day, Master Vine, busy now. I’ll come on in a day or two.”The man turned away abruptly, and, with his brow heavily wrinkled, as he felt moved by the man’s generosity, Vine walked slowly on, and overtook Louise and Madelaine.Mrs Van Heldre was waiting in the hall as the little party entered, and she hurried forward with extended hands, and her lips parted to speak, but no words would came. She could only press her old friend’s hand before leading him up to where Van Heldre lay, his face ghastly pale beneath his bandaged head.As they entered he held out his hand to Vine, who stood gazing at him without an attempt to accept the friendly grip.“Louise, my child,” said Van Heldre, turning to her; and she stepped quickly across to take the extended hand. “Now leave us,” he said quietly; and, in obedience to his wish, the rest quitted the room.“You did not take my hand, George Vine,” said Van Heldre, as soon as they were alone.“How can I, after the wrong you have received at mine?”“Hah! that is why I sent for you,” said Van Heldre. “I have lain here insensible and ignorant of what was done, else those proceedings would never have been taken. You have much to forgive me, Vine.”“You have much to forgive me,” said the latter slowly.“Then take my hand, and let us forgive, if there is any call for such a proceeding on either side. Vine, old friend, how you must have suffered, and I not there to say one kindly word!”“Van Heldre,” said Vine slowly, as, holding his friend’s hand, he slowly seated himself by the bed’s head, “did you ever know what it was to pray for death?”“Thank Heaven, no,” replied Van Heldre with a slight shudder, for there was something weird and strange about his old friend’s manner. “Since I have regained my senses I have prayed to live. There seems so much to be done at times like this. But, Vine, old friend, what can I say to you? For pity’s sake don’t look at me like that!”“Look at you—like that?” said Vine slowly.“Yes; your eyes seem so full of reproach. I tell you, my dear old fellow, that I would rather have died than that poor boy should have been prosecuted for my sake.”“I know everything,” said Vine slowly. “I do not reproach you, John. I reproach myself, and at times it seems more than I can bear.”“Louise,” said Van Heldre softly.“Louise? Ah, Louise!” said Vine eagerly. “Without her I must have died.”The two old friends sat, hand clasped in hand, in perfect silence for quite an hour before there was a gentle tap at the door, and Madelaine entered.“He is so weak yet, Mr Vine,” she said, taking and separating their hands.“Madelaine—my child!”“Mr Vine may come again in the evening for a little while,” said Madelaine, smiling, as she bent down, and kissed her father’s brow.“So stern and tyrannical,” protested Van Heldre.“Only to make you well, father,” replied Madelaine smiling; and she led their old friend from the room.“He spoke as if he wanted my forgiveness,” said Vine as he walked slowly back, noting as they went the kindly deference paid to them by those they met.“Mr Van Heldre, father?” said Louise gently.“Did I speak aloud, my child?”“Yes, dear.”“Ah, these thoughts are too keen, and will not be crushed down. Yes, child, yes. My forgiveness, when it is I who should plead, for all the honours of the past, plead for his forgiveness, Louise. He must have suffered terribly to be brought down to this.”Louise looked wistfully in her father’s face, whose sunken cheeks and hollow eyes told of mental suffering greater far than that which their friend had been called upon to bear.“Will time heal all this agony and pain?” she asked herself; and it was with a sigh of relief that she reached the gate, and her father went straight to his chair, to sit down and stare straight before him at the unlit grate, as if seeing in the burning glow scene after scene of the past, till he started excitedly, for there was a ring at the gate bell.Louise rose to lay her hand upon his shoulder.“Only some visitors, or a letter,” she said tenderly.“I thought—I thought it might be news,” he said wearily. “But no, no, no. There can be no news now.”“Mr Leslie, miss,” said Liza from the door.“To see me, Liza? Say that—”“No, sir. In the drawing-room, sir. ’Tis to see Miss Louise, if she will give him an interview, he said.”Louise looked wildly at her father.“Must I see him, father?” she said, with her face now ghastly pale.He did not answer for some moments, and then slowly said the one word:—“Yes.”She bent down and kissed him, and then summoning up all her courage, slowly left the room.
George Vine sat in his easy chair in front of the fireplace, gazing at the cut paper ornaments and willow shavings, and seeing in them the career of his son, and the dismal scene in the churchyard, with the rain falling and making little pearls on the black coffin cloth.
He had not spoken for hours, but from time to time, as Louise laid her hand upon his arm, he had slowly taken and pressed it between his own before raising it with a sigh to his lips.
“Don’t speak to me, my darling,” he had pleaded to her when he first took his place there that morning. “I want to think.”
She had respected his prayer, and in her endeavours to take her thoughts from the horrors which oppressed her she had stolen into her father’s study, as an idea struck her, but only to come away sadly. Her visit had been too late; the cherished collection of marine objects were one and all dead.
Her father looked up as she returned. He had not seemed to notice her, but he knew where she had been, and as he gave her a questioning look Liza entered the room.
“Miss Van Heldre, miss.”
Vine caught his child’s hand, as if too weak for the encounter; but, as the closely-veiled figure in black crossed the room quickly, and both realised the meaning of those mourning garments, Louise burst into a wild fit of sobbing, and turned away for a moment, but only to be clasped in Madelaine’s arms.
There was an earnest, loving embrace, and then Madelaine turned to Vine, laying her hands upon his breast, and kissing him as a child would its parent.
“So much better,” she said, in answer to the wistful, inquiring look directed at her. “I have come to fetch you both.”
“To fetch us?” faltered Vine with a horrified look.
“My father begs you will come to him. I am his ambassador. You will not refuse?”
“I cannot meet him,” said Vine in a faint voice full of despair; “and,” he added to himself, “I could not bear it.”
“He would come to you, but he is weak and suffering,” said Madelaine as she laid her hand upon the stricken man’s arm. “Tell him ‘I beg he will come to me,’ he said,” she whispered. “You will not refuse, Mr Vine?”
“No, I will not refuse. Louise, dear?”
“Yes, father, I will go with you,” she said slowly; and in a few minutes she returned, ready for the walk, and crossed to where her father sat holding Madelaine’s hand.
As she entered he rose and met her.
“Louise, my child, must we go?” he said feebly. “I feel as if it where almost more than I can bear. Must we go?”
“Yes,” she replied gravely; “we must go.”
Vine bowed his head.
“Come, my child,” he said, turning to Madelaine, and he was half way to the door when Aunt Marguerite entered.
“Going out?” she said, shrinking from the sombre figure in black.
“Yes, aunt.”
“You must attend first to what I have to say, Louise. Miss Van Heldre can, I daresay, wait.”
Madelaine bent her head and drew back.
“I have business with Mr Van Heldre, Marguerite,” said Vine more sternly than he had ever spoken to her before. “You must wait till our return.”
Aunt Marguerite’s eyes flashed an indignant look at Madelaine, as the cause of this rebuff, and she drew back with a stiff curtsey and walked slowly before them out of the room.
George Vine gazed wildly round him as he walked slowly down the steep way toward the town. It seemed terrible to him that in such a time of suffering and mourning, sea, sky, and earth should be painted in such lovely colours. The heavy rain of the previous days seemed to have given a brilliancy to leaf and flower that before was wanting; and as, from time to time, he glanced wildly at the rocky point, the scene of the tragedy of his life, the waves were curling over, and breaking in iridescent foam upon the rocks, to roll back in silvery cataracts to the sea.
He turned away his eyes with a shudder, fighting hard to keep his thoughts from the horrors of that night; but he was doomed to have them emphasised, for, just before reaching the foot of the steep way, the little party came suddenly upon the great burly fisherman, who had undertaken to sail across to Saint Malo with the fugitive that night.
“Mornin’, master,” he said.
Vine turned ghastly pale, and his brain reeled; but he soon recovered himself.
“Louise, Madelaine, my children, go on, and I will follow.”
Louise looked at him appealingly; but he was perfectly firm, and she went on with her friend.
“I fear, in the midst of my trouble, Perrow, that I had forgotten my engagement with you.”
“Like enough, master, no wonder. There was no hurry.”
“Yes, but there is,” said Vine slowly. “Will you come to my house to-night or to-morrow morning? and I’ll give you my cheque to take to the bank.”
“For how much?” said the man eagerly.
“One hundred pounds; the amount I promised you.”
“Ay, but that was for taking the poor boy across. No, Master Vine, we’ve been talking it over, the five on us, and there’s the boat, and one night’s fishing gone as might have been a good one or it mightn’t been nothing; so we’re going to ask you to pay us a pound a-piece.”
“But—”
“Good-day, Master Vine, busy now. I’ll come on in a day or two.”
The man turned away abruptly, and, with his brow heavily wrinkled, as he felt moved by the man’s generosity, Vine walked slowly on, and overtook Louise and Madelaine.
Mrs Van Heldre was waiting in the hall as the little party entered, and she hurried forward with extended hands, and her lips parted to speak, but no words would came. She could only press her old friend’s hand before leading him up to where Van Heldre lay, his face ghastly pale beneath his bandaged head.
As they entered he held out his hand to Vine, who stood gazing at him without an attempt to accept the friendly grip.
“Louise, my child,” said Van Heldre, turning to her; and she stepped quickly across to take the extended hand. “Now leave us,” he said quietly; and, in obedience to his wish, the rest quitted the room.
“You did not take my hand, George Vine,” said Van Heldre, as soon as they were alone.
“How can I, after the wrong you have received at mine?”
“Hah! that is why I sent for you,” said Van Heldre. “I have lain here insensible and ignorant of what was done, else those proceedings would never have been taken. You have much to forgive me, Vine.”
“You have much to forgive me,” said the latter slowly.
“Then take my hand, and let us forgive, if there is any call for such a proceeding on either side. Vine, old friend, how you must have suffered, and I not there to say one kindly word!”
“Van Heldre,” said Vine slowly, as, holding his friend’s hand, he slowly seated himself by the bed’s head, “did you ever know what it was to pray for death?”
“Thank Heaven, no,” replied Van Heldre with a slight shudder, for there was something weird and strange about his old friend’s manner. “Since I have regained my senses I have prayed to live. There seems so much to be done at times like this. But, Vine, old friend, what can I say to you? For pity’s sake don’t look at me like that!”
“Look at you—like that?” said Vine slowly.
“Yes; your eyes seem so full of reproach. I tell you, my dear old fellow, that I would rather have died than that poor boy should have been prosecuted for my sake.”
“I know everything,” said Vine slowly. “I do not reproach you, John. I reproach myself, and at times it seems more than I can bear.”
“Louise,” said Van Heldre softly.
“Louise? Ah, Louise!” said Vine eagerly. “Without her I must have died.”
The two old friends sat, hand clasped in hand, in perfect silence for quite an hour before there was a gentle tap at the door, and Madelaine entered.
“He is so weak yet, Mr Vine,” she said, taking and separating their hands.
“Madelaine—my child!”
“Mr Vine may come again in the evening for a little while,” said Madelaine, smiling, as she bent down, and kissed her father’s brow.
“So stern and tyrannical,” protested Van Heldre.
“Only to make you well, father,” replied Madelaine smiling; and she led their old friend from the room.
“He spoke as if he wanted my forgiveness,” said Vine as he walked slowly back, noting as they went the kindly deference paid to them by those they met.
“Mr Van Heldre, father?” said Louise gently.
“Did I speak aloud, my child?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Ah, these thoughts are too keen, and will not be crushed down. Yes, child, yes. My forgiveness, when it is I who should plead, for all the honours of the past, plead for his forgiveness, Louise. He must have suffered terribly to be brought down to this.”
Louise looked wistfully in her father’s face, whose sunken cheeks and hollow eyes told of mental suffering greater far than that which their friend had been called upon to bear.
“Will time heal all this agony and pain?” she asked herself; and it was with a sigh of relief that she reached the gate, and her father went straight to his chair, to sit down and stare straight before him at the unlit grate, as if seeing in the burning glow scene after scene of the past, till he started excitedly, for there was a ring at the gate bell.
Louise rose to lay her hand upon his shoulder.
“Only some visitors, or a letter,” she said tenderly.
“I thought—I thought it might be news,” he said wearily. “But no, no, no. There can be no news now.”
“Mr Leslie, miss,” said Liza from the door.
“To see me, Liza? Say that—”
“No, sir. In the drawing-room, sir. ’Tis to see Miss Louise, if she will give him an interview, he said.”
Louise looked wildly at her father.
“Must I see him, father?” she said, with her face now ghastly pale.
He did not answer for some moments, and then slowly said the one word:—
“Yes.”
She bent down and kissed him, and then summoning up all her courage, slowly left the room.
Chapter Forty.Duncan Leslie Speaks Out.Duncan Leslie was standing at a table on which was a photograph of Louise, as she entered the room silently; and as, after a long contemplation of the counterfeit, he drew a long breath, and looked up to see the object of his thoughts standing just inside the doorway, too much agitated to give notice of her presence, he coloured like a boy caught in some act of which he was ashamed.“Miss Vine,” he cried, advancing quickly with extended hands.Louise did not speak, but slowly raised one hand for him to take, and suffered him to lead her to a chair.He remained standing before her as she looked up at him in a wild, frightened manner, as if imploring him not to speak, and for a few moments silence reigned.“You will forgive me,” said Leslie, at last, “if my visit is ill-timed, for I am a busy man, ill-versed in the etiquette of such matters. I was in a dilemma. I wished to try and show my sympathy, and I was afraid to stay away for fear of seeming neglectful.”“Mr Leslie need have been under no apprehension,” said Louise slowly, and speaking as if sorrow had exhausted itself, and there was nothing left but resignation. “My father and I have thought very deeply, and can never be sufficiently grateful for all that has been done.”“You have suffered so,” he said in a low voice, “that I am going to beg of you not to refer to the past. Of course, I know,” he added quickly, “how easy it is to speak platitudes—how hard to express what one feels at a time like this.”“Mr Leslie need not speak,” said Louise quietly. “He has shown his sympathy in a way that no words can express.”Leslie gazed down at the piteous, sorrow-stricken face before him; and, as if wrenching himself away, he walked to the window, and stood gazing out for a few moments while Louise sat watching him, and fighting hard with her emotions. She felt weakened by all that had gone by, and as if, had he extended his arms to her, she could have flown to him, nestled in his breast, and begged him to help her in this terrible strait. And yet all the time her sorrow had strengthened, as well as enfeebled, for she was able to master her weakness and follow out the course she had planned.Leslie returned to her side.“I must speak,” he said hoarsely. “It is not cruelty at a time like this; it is the desire to help, to console, to be near you in distress, Miss Vine—Louise—you—forgive me for saying it—you must have known that for months past I have loved you.”She looked up at him wistfully, and there was a look of such pain and sorrow in her eyes that he paused, and took the hand which she resigned to him without shrinking, but only to send a thrill of pain through him, for the act was not that of one accepting the offer of his love.“Yes,” she said after a painful pause, “I did think that you must care for me.”“As I do,” he whispered earnestly, “and is this my excuse for speaking now? No; don’t shrink from me. I only ask you to think of me as one whose sole thought is of you, and of how he may help and serve you.”“You have helped us in every way,” she said sadly.“I have tried so hard,” he said huskily; “but everything has seemed little compared to what I wished; and now—it is all I ask: you will let this formal barrier between us be cast away, so that in everything I may be your help and counsellor. Louise, it is no time to talk of love,” he cried earnestly, “and my wooing is that of a rough, blunt man; and—don’t shrink from me—only tell me that some day, when all this pain and suffering has been softened by time, I may ask you to listen to me; and now that I may go away feeling you believe in my love and sympathy. You will tell me this?”She softly drew away her hand, giving him a look so full of pity and sorrow that a feeling akin to despair made his heart swell within his breast. He had read of those who resigned the world with all its hopes and pleasures from a feeling that their time was short here, and of death bed farewells, and there was so much of this in Louise’s manner that he became stricken and chilled.It was only by a tremendous effort over self that he was able to summon up the strength to speak; and, in place of the halting, hesitating words of a few minutes before, he now spoke out earnestly and well.“Forgive me,” he said; and she trembled as she shrank away to cover her eyes with her hand. “It was folly on my part to speak to you at such a time, but my love is stronger than worldly forms, and though I grieve to have given you pain, I cannot feel sorry that I have spoken the simple, honest truth. You are too sweet and true to deal lightly with a man’s frank, earnest love. Forgive me—say good-bye. I am going away patiently—to wait.”His manner changed as he took her disengaged hand and kissed it tenderly and respectfully.“I will not ask to see your father to-day. He is, I know, suffering and ill; but tell him from me he has only to send a messenger to bring me here at once. I want to help him in every way. Good-bye.”“Stop!”He was half way to the door when that one word arrested him, and with a sense of delicious joy flooding his breast, he turned quickly to listen to the words which would give him a life’s happiness. The flash of joy died out as quickly as that of lightning, and in the same way seemed to have the hope that had arisen scathed and dead. For here was no mistaking that look, nor the tone of the voice which spoke what seemed to him the death warrant of his love.“I could not speak,” she said in a strange low voice full of the pain she suffered. “I tried to check you, but the words would not come. What you ask is impossible; I could not promise. It would be cruel to you—unjust, and it would raise hopes that could never be fulfilled.”“No, no. Don’t say that,” he cried appealingly. “I have been premature. I should have waited patiently.”“It would have been the same. Mr Leslie, you should not have asked this. You should not have exposed yourself to the pain of a refusal, me to the agony of being forced to speak.”“I grant much of what you say,” he pleaded. “Forgive me.”“Do not misunderstand me,” she continued, after a brave effort to master her emotion. “After what has passed it would be impossible. I have but one duty now: that of devoting myself to my father.”“You feel this,” he pleaded; “and you are speaking sincerely; but wait. Pray say no more—now. There: let me say good-bye.”“No,” she said sternly; “you shall not leave me under a misapprehension. It has been a struggle that has been almost too great; but I have won the strength to speak. No; Mr Leslie, it is impossible.”“No, Mr Leslie, it is impossible!” The words were like a thin, sharp echo of those spoken by Louise, and they both started and turned, to see that Aunt Marguerite had entered the room, and had not only heard her niece’s refusal of Leslie, but gathered the full import of the sentence.She stood drawn up half way between them and the door, looking very handsome and impressive in her deep mourning; but there was the suggestion of a faint sneering smile upon her lip, and her eyes were half-closed, as with hands crossed over her breast, she seemed to point over her shoulder with her closed black fan.“Aunt!” exclaimed Louise. “How could—”Her strength was spent. She could say no more. Her senses seemed to reel, and with the impression upon her that if she stayed she would swoon away, she hurried from the room, leaving Leslie and the old woman face to face.He drew a long breath, set his teeth, and meeting Aunt Marguerite’s angry look firmly, he bowed, and was about to quit the house.“No, not yet,” she said. “I’m no eavesdropper, Mr Leslie; but I felt bound to watch over that poor motherless girl. It was right that I should, for in spite of all my hints, I may say my plain speaking regarding my child’s future, you have taken advantage of her helplessness to press forward your suit.”“Miss Vine.”“Miss Marguerite Vine, if you please, Mr Leslie,” said the lady with a ceremonious bow.“Miss Marguerite Vine then,” cried Leslie angrily, “I cannot discuss this matter with you: I look to Mr Vine.”“My brother is weak and ill. I am the head of this family, sir, and I have before now told you my intentions respecting my niece.”“Yes, madam, but you are not her father.”“I am her father’s sister, and if my memory serves me rightly, I told you that Monsieur de Ligny—”“Who is Monsieur de Ligny?” said Vine entering the room slowly.“Mr Vine, I must appeal to you,” cried Leslie.“No. It would be indecorous. I have told Mr Leslie, who has been persecuting Louise with his addresses, that it is an outrage at such a time; and that if our child marries there is a gentleman of good French lineage to be studied. That his wishes are built upon the sand, for Monsieur de Ligny—”“Monsieur de Ligny?”“A friend of mine,” said Aunt Marguerite quickly.“Mr Vine,” said Leslie hotly, “I cannot stay here to discuss this matter with Miss Vine.”“Miss Marguerite Vine,” said the old lady with an aggravating smile.Leslie gave an impatient stamp with one foot, essayed to speak, and choking with disappointment and anger, failed, and hurried out of the house.“Such insufferable insolence! And at a time like this,” cried Aunt Marguerite, contemptuously, as her brother with a curiously absorbed look upon his face began to pace the room.“He has sent the poor girl sobbing to her room.”“Louise has not engaged herself to this man, Marguerite?”“Engaged herself. Pah! You should have been here. Am I to sit still and witness another wreck in our unhappy family through your weakness and imbecility? Mr Leslie has had his answer, however. He will not come again.”She swept out of the room, leaving her brother gazing vacantly before him.“She seems almost to have forgotten poor Harry. I thought she would have taken it more to heart. But Monsieur de Ligny—Monsieur de Ligny? I cannot think. Another time I shall remember all, I daresay. Ah, my darling,” he cried eagerly, as Louise re-entered the room. “You heard what Mr Leslie said?”“Yes, father.”“And refused him?”“Yes.”Her father took her hand, and stood trying to collect his thoughts, which, as the result of the agony from which he had suffered, seemed now to be beyond control.“Yes,” he said at last, “it was right. You could not accept Mr Leslie now. But your aunt said—”He looked at her vacantly with his hand to his head.“What did your aunt say about your being engaged?”“Pray, pray, do not speak to me about it, dear,” said Louise, piteously. “I cannot bear it. Father, I wish to be with you—to help and comfort, and to find help and comfort in your arms.”“Yes,” he said, folding her to his breast; “and you are suffering and it is not the first time that our people have been called upon to suffer, my child. But your aunt—”“Pray dearest, not now—not now,” whispered Louise, laying her brow against his cheek.“I will say no more,” he said tenderly. “Yes, to be my help and comfort in all this trouble and distress. You are right, it is no time for thinking of such things as that.”
Duncan Leslie was standing at a table on which was a photograph of Louise, as she entered the room silently; and as, after a long contemplation of the counterfeit, he drew a long breath, and looked up to see the object of his thoughts standing just inside the doorway, too much agitated to give notice of her presence, he coloured like a boy caught in some act of which he was ashamed.
“Miss Vine,” he cried, advancing quickly with extended hands.
Louise did not speak, but slowly raised one hand for him to take, and suffered him to lead her to a chair.
He remained standing before her as she looked up at him in a wild, frightened manner, as if imploring him not to speak, and for a few moments silence reigned.
“You will forgive me,” said Leslie, at last, “if my visit is ill-timed, for I am a busy man, ill-versed in the etiquette of such matters. I was in a dilemma. I wished to try and show my sympathy, and I was afraid to stay away for fear of seeming neglectful.”
“Mr Leslie need have been under no apprehension,” said Louise slowly, and speaking as if sorrow had exhausted itself, and there was nothing left but resignation. “My father and I have thought very deeply, and can never be sufficiently grateful for all that has been done.”
“You have suffered so,” he said in a low voice, “that I am going to beg of you not to refer to the past. Of course, I know,” he added quickly, “how easy it is to speak platitudes—how hard to express what one feels at a time like this.”
“Mr Leslie need not speak,” said Louise quietly. “He has shown his sympathy in a way that no words can express.”
Leslie gazed down at the piteous, sorrow-stricken face before him; and, as if wrenching himself away, he walked to the window, and stood gazing out for a few moments while Louise sat watching him, and fighting hard with her emotions. She felt weakened by all that had gone by, and as if, had he extended his arms to her, she could have flown to him, nestled in his breast, and begged him to help her in this terrible strait. And yet all the time her sorrow had strengthened, as well as enfeebled, for she was able to master her weakness and follow out the course she had planned.
Leslie returned to her side.
“I must speak,” he said hoarsely. “It is not cruelty at a time like this; it is the desire to help, to console, to be near you in distress, Miss Vine—Louise—you—forgive me for saying it—you must have known that for months past I have loved you.”
She looked up at him wistfully, and there was a look of such pain and sorrow in her eyes that he paused, and took the hand which she resigned to him without shrinking, but only to send a thrill of pain through him, for the act was not that of one accepting the offer of his love.
“Yes,” she said after a painful pause, “I did think that you must care for me.”
“As I do,” he whispered earnestly, “and is this my excuse for speaking now? No; don’t shrink from me. I only ask you to think of me as one whose sole thought is of you, and of how he may help and serve you.”
“You have helped us in every way,” she said sadly.
“I have tried so hard,” he said huskily; “but everything has seemed little compared to what I wished; and now—it is all I ask: you will let this formal barrier between us be cast away, so that in everything I may be your help and counsellor. Louise, it is no time to talk of love,” he cried earnestly, “and my wooing is that of a rough, blunt man; and—don’t shrink from me—only tell me that some day, when all this pain and suffering has been softened by time, I may ask you to listen to me; and now that I may go away feeling you believe in my love and sympathy. You will tell me this?”
She softly drew away her hand, giving him a look so full of pity and sorrow that a feeling akin to despair made his heart swell within his breast. He had read of those who resigned the world with all its hopes and pleasures from a feeling that their time was short here, and of death bed farewells, and there was so much of this in Louise’s manner that he became stricken and chilled.
It was only by a tremendous effort over self that he was able to summon up the strength to speak; and, in place of the halting, hesitating words of a few minutes before, he now spoke out earnestly and well.
“Forgive me,” he said; and she trembled as she shrank away to cover her eyes with her hand. “It was folly on my part to speak to you at such a time, but my love is stronger than worldly forms, and though I grieve to have given you pain, I cannot feel sorry that I have spoken the simple, honest truth. You are too sweet and true to deal lightly with a man’s frank, earnest love. Forgive me—say good-bye. I am going away patiently—to wait.”
His manner changed as he took her disengaged hand and kissed it tenderly and respectfully.
“I will not ask to see your father to-day. He is, I know, suffering and ill; but tell him from me he has only to send a messenger to bring me here at once. I want to help him in every way. Good-bye.”
“Stop!”
He was half way to the door when that one word arrested him, and with a sense of delicious joy flooding his breast, he turned quickly to listen to the words which would give him a life’s happiness. The flash of joy died out as quickly as that of lightning, and in the same way seemed to have the hope that had arisen scathed and dead. For here was no mistaking that look, nor the tone of the voice which spoke what seemed to him the death warrant of his love.
“I could not speak,” she said in a strange low voice full of the pain she suffered. “I tried to check you, but the words would not come. What you ask is impossible; I could not promise. It would be cruel to you—unjust, and it would raise hopes that could never be fulfilled.”
“No, no. Don’t say that,” he cried appealingly. “I have been premature. I should have waited patiently.”
“It would have been the same. Mr Leslie, you should not have asked this. You should not have exposed yourself to the pain of a refusal, me to the agony of being forced to speak.”
“I grant much of what you say,” he pleaded. “Forgive me.”
“Do not misunderstand me,” she continued, after a brave effort to master her emotion. “After what has passed it would be impossible. I have but one duty now: that of devoting myself to my father.”
“You feel this,” he pleaded; “and you are speaking sincerely; but wait. Pray say no more—now. There: let me say good-bye.”
“No,” she said sternly; “you shall not leave me under a misapprehension. It has been a struggle that has been almost too great; but I have won the strength to speak. No; Mr Leslie, it is impossible.”
“No, Mr Leslie, it is impossible!” The words were like a thin, sharp echo of those spoken by Louise, and they both started and turned, to see that Aunt Marguerite had entered the room, and had not only heard her niece’s refusal of Leslie, but gathered the full import of the sentence.
She stood drawn up half way between them and the door, looking very handsome and impressive in her deep mourning; but there was the suggestion of a faint sneering smile upon her lip, and her eyes were half-closed, as with hands crossed over her breast, she seemed to point over her shoulder with her closed black fan.
“Aunt!” exclaimed Louise. “How could—”
Her strength was spent. She could say no more. Her senses seemed to reel, and with the impression upon her that if she stayed she would swoon away, she hurried from the room, leaving Leslie and the old woman face to face.
He drew a long breath, set his teeth, and meeting Aunt Marguerite’s angry look firmly, he bowed, and was about to quit the house.
“No, not yet,” she said. “I’m no eavesdropper, Mr Leslie; but I felt bound to watch over that poor motherless girl. It was right that I should, for in spite of all my hints, I may say my plain speaking regarding my child’s future, you have taken advantage of her helplessness to press forward your suit.”
“Miss Vine.”
“Miss Marguerite Vine, if you please, Mr Leslie,” said the lady with a ceremonious bow.
“Miss Marguerite Vine then,” cried Leslie angrily, “I cannot discuss this matter with you: I look to Mr Vine.”
“My brother is weak and ill. I am the head of this family, sir, and I have before now told you my intentions respecting my niece.”
“Yes, madam, but you are not her father.”
“I am her father’s sister, and if my memory serves me rightly, I told you that Monsieur de Ligny—”
“Who is Monsieur de Ligny?” said Vine entering the room slowly.
“Mr Vine, I must appeal to you,” cried Leslie.
“No. It would be indecorous. I have told Mr Leslie, who has been persecuting Louise with his addresses, that it is an outrage at such a time; and that if our child marries there is a gentleman of good French lineage to be studied. That his wishes are built upon the sand, for Monsieur de Ligny—”
“Monsieur de Ligny?”
“A friend of mine,” said Aunt Marguerite quickly.
“Mr Vine,” said Leslie hotly, “I cannot stay here to discuss this matter with Miss Vine.”
“Miss Marguerite Vine,” said the old lady with an aggravating smile.
Leslie gave an impatient stamp with one foot, essayed to speak, and choking with disappointment and anger, failed, and hurried out of the house.
“Such insufferable insolence! And at a time like this,” cried Aunt Marguerite, contemptuously, as her brother with a curiously absorbed look upon his face began to pace the room.
“He has sent the poor girl sobbing to her room.”
“Louise has not engaged herself to this man, Marguerite?”
“Engaged herself. Pah! You should have been here. Am I to sit still and witness another wreck in our unhappy family through your weakness and imbecility? Mr Leslie has had his answer, however. He will not come again.”
She swept out of the room, leaving her brother gazing vacantly before him.
“She seems almost to have forgotten poor Harry. I thought she would have taken it more to heart. But Monsieur de Ligny—Monsieur de Ligny? I cannot think. Another time I shall remember all, I daresay. Ah, my darling,” he cried eagerly, as Louise re-entered the room. “You heard what Mr Leslie said?”
“Yes, father.”
“And refused him?”
“Yes.”
Her father took her hand, and stood trying to collect his thoughts, which, as the result of the agony from which he had suffered, seemed now to be beyond control.
“Yes,” he said at last, “it was right. You could not accept Mr Leslie now. But your aunt said—”
He looked at her vacantly with his hand to his head.
“What did your aunt say about your being engaged?”
“Pray, pray, do not speak to me about it, dear,” said Louise, piteously. “I cannot bear it. Father, I wish to be with you—to help and comfort, and to find help and comfort in your arms.”
“Yes,” he said, folding her to his breast; “and you are suffering and it is not the first time that our people have been called upon to suffer, my child. But your aunt—”
“Pray dearest, not now—not now,” whispered Louise, laying her brow against his cheek.
“I will say no more,” he said tenderly. “Yes, to be my help and comfort in all this trouble and distress. You are right, it is no time for thinking of such things as that.”
Chapter Forty One.Aunt Marguerite Makes Plans.“I could not—I could not. A wife should accept her husband, proud of him, proud of herself, the gift she gives him with her love; and I should have been his disgrace. Impossible! How could I have ever looked him bravely in the face? I should have felt that he must recall the past, and repented when it was too late.”So mused Louise Vine as she sat trying to work that same evening after a wearisome meal, at which Aunt Marguerite had taken her place to rouse them from their despondent state. So she expressed it, and the result had been painful in the extreme.Aunt Marguerite’s remedy was change, and she proposed that they should all go for a tour to the south of France.“Don’t shake your head, George,” she said. “You are not a common person. The lower classes—the uneducated of course—go on nursing their troubles, but it is a duty with people of our position to suffer and be strong. So put the trouble behind us, and show a brave face to the world. You hear this, Louise?”“Yes, aunt,” said Louise, sadly.“Then pray listen to it as if you took some interest in what I said, and meant to profit by it, child.”Louise murmured something suggestive of a promise to profit by her aunt’s wisdom, and the old lady turned to her brother.“Yes, George, I have planned it all out. We will go to the south of France, to the seaside if you wish, and while Louise and I try and find a little relaxation, you can dabble and net strange things out of the water-pools. Girl; be careful.”This to poor Liza, whose ears seemed to be red-hot, and her cheeks alternately flushed and pale, as she brought in and took out the dinner, waiting, at other times being dispensed with fortunately. For Liza’s wits were wool-gathering, according to Aunt Marguerite’s theory, and in her agitation respecting the manner in which she had been surprised, when yielding to her mother’s importunities, she was constantly watching the faces or her master and Louise, and calculating the chances for and against ignominious dismissal. One minute she told herself they knew all. The next minute her heart gave a thump of satisfaction, for Louise’s sad eyes had looked so kindly in hers, that Liza told herself her young mistress either did not know or was going to forgive her.Directly after Liza dropped the cover of a vegetable dish in her agitation right on Aunt Marguerite’s black silk crape-trimmed dress, for her master had told her to bring him bread, and in a tone of voice which thrilled through her as he looked her in the face with, according to her idea, his eyes seeming to say, “This is some of the bread you tried to steal.”Liza escaped from the room as soon as possible, and was relieving her pent-up feelings at the back door when she heard her name whispered.“Who’s there? what is it?” she said.“It’s only me, Liza, my dear. Has she told—”“Oh, mother! You shouldn’t,” sobbed Liza. “You won’t be happy till you’ve got me put in prison.”“Nonsense, my dear, they won’t do that. Never you fear. Now look here. What became of that parcel you made up?”“I don’t know; I’ve been half wild ever since, and I don’t know how it’s going to end.”“Then I’ll tell you,” cried the old fish-woman. “You’ve got to get me that parcel, or else to make me up another.”“I won’t; there?” cried Liza angrily.“How dare you say won’t to your mother, miss!” said the old woman angrily. “Now look here; I’m going a bit farther on, and then I’m coming back, and I shall expect to find the napkin done up all ready. If it isn’t you’ll see.”Liza stood with her mouth open, listening to her mother’s retiring footsteps; and then with a fresh burst of tears waiting to be wiped away, she ran in to answer the bell, and clear away, shivering the while, as she saw that Aunt Marguerite’s eyes were fixed upon her, watching every movement, and seeming to threaten to reveal what had been discovered earlier in the day.Aunt Marguerite said nothing, however, then, for her thoughts were taken up with her project of living away for a time. She had been talking away pretty rapidly, first to one and then to the other, but rarely eliciting a reply; but at last she turned sharply upon her brother.“How soon shall we be going, George?”“Going? Where?” he replied dreamily.“On the Continent for our change.”“We shall not go on the Continent, Marguerite,” he said gravely. “I shall not think of leaving here.”Aunt Marguerite rose from the table, and gazed at her brother, as if not sure that she had heard aright. Then she turned to her niece, to gaze at her with questioning eyes, but to gain no information there, for Louise gazed down at the work she had taken from a stand.“Did you understand what your father said?” she asked sharply.“Yes, aunt.”“And pray what did he say?”“That he would not go on the Continent.”“What?”“That he would not leave home with this terrible weight upon his mind.”Aunt Marguerite sat bolt upright in her chair for a few moments without speaking, and the look she gave her brother was of the most withering nature.“Am I to understand,” she said at last, “that you prefer to stay here and visit and nurse your Dutch friend?”Her brother looked at her, but there was no trace of anger in his glance.Aunt Marguerite lowered her eyes, and then turned them in a supercilious way upon Louise.“May I count upon your companionship,” she said, “if I decide to go through Auvergne and stay there for a few days, on my way to Hyères.”“If you go, aunt?” said Louise wonderingly.“There is a certain estate in the neighbourhood of Mont d’Or,” she continued; “I wish to see in what condition it is kept. These things seem to devolve now on me who am forced to take the lead as representative of our neglected family.”“For Heaven’s sake, Marguerite!” cried Vine impetuously. “No—no, no,” he muttered, checking himself hastily. “Better not—better not.”“I beg pardon, brother,” she said, raising her glass.“Nothing—nothing,” he replied.“Well, Louise, child, I am waiting,” she continued, turning her eyes in a half pitying, condescending way upon her niece. “Well? May I count upon you?”“Aunt dear—”“It will do you good. You look too pale. This place crushes you down, and narrows your intellect, my child. A little French society would work a vast change in you.”“Aunt, dear,” said Louise, rising and crossing to her to lay her hands upon the old lady’s shoulder, “don’t talk about such things now. Let me come up to your room, and read to you a little while.”Aunt Marguerite smiled.“My dear Louise, why do you talk to me like this? Do you take me for a child?”George Vine heaved a deep sigh, and turned in his chair.“Do you think I have lived all these years in the world and do not know what is best for such a girl as you?”“But indeed, aunt, I am not ill. I do not require a change.”“Ah, poor young obstinacy! I must take you well in hand, child, and see if I cannot teach you to comport yourself more in accordance with your position in life. I shall have time now, especially during our little journey. When would it be convenient for you to be ready?”“Aunt dear! It is impossible; we could not go.”“Impossible? Then I must speak. You will be ready in three days from now. I feel that I require change, and we will go.”“Margaret!” cried Vine, who during the past few minutes had been writhing in his seat, “how can you be so absurd!”“Poor George!” she said, with a sigh, as she rose from her chair. “I wish I could persuade him to go. Mind, Louise, my child, in three days from now. We shall go straight to Paris, perhaps for a month. You need not trouble about dress. A few necessaries. All that you will require we can get in Paris. Come in before you go to bed, I may have a few more words to say.”She sailed slowly across the room, waving her fan gently, as if it were a wing which helped her progress, as she preserved her graceful carriage. Then the door closed behind her, and Louise half ran to her father’s side.“Shall I go up with her?” she whispered anxiously.Her father shook his head.“But did you not notice how strange she seemed?”“No more strange, my dear, than she has often been before, after something has agitated her greatly. In her way she was very fond of poor Harry.”“Yes, father, I know; but I never saw her so agitated as this.”“She will calm down, as she has calmed down before.”“But this idea of going abroad?”“She will forget it by to-morrow. I was wrong to speak as I did. It only sets her thinking more seriously. Poor Margaret! We must be very patient and forbearing with her. Her life was turned out of its regular course by a terrible disappointment. I try always to remember this when she is more eccentric—more trying than usual.”Louise shrank a little more round to the back of her father’s chair, as he drew her hand over his shoulder, and she laid her cheek upon his head as, with fixed eyes, she gazed straight before her into futurity, and a spasm of pain shot through her at her father’s words, “a terrible disappointment,” “eccentric.” Had Aunt Marguerite ever suffered as she suffered now? and did such mental agony result in changing the whole course of a girl’s young life?The tears stood in her eyes and dimmed them; but in spite of the blurring of her vision, she seemed to see herself gradually changing and growing old and eccentric too. For was not she also wasting with a terrible disappointment—a blow that must be as agonising as any Aunt Marguerite could have felt?The outlook seemed so blank and terrible that a strange feeling of excitement came over her, waking dream succeeding waking dream, each more painful than the last; but she was brought back to the present by her father’s voice.“Why, my darling,” he said, “your hand is quite cold, and you tremble. Come, come, come, you ought to know Aunt Margaret by now. There, it is time I started for Van Heldre’s. I faithfully promised to go back this evening. Perhaps Luke will be there.”“Yes, father,” she said, making an effort to be calm, “it is time you went down. Give my dear love to Madelaine.”“Eh? Give your love? why, you are coming too.”“No, no,” she said hastily; “I—I am not well this evening.”“No, you are not well,” he said tenderly. “Your hands are icy, and—yes, I expected so, your forehead burns. Why, my darling, you must not be ill.”“Oh no, dear. I am not going to be ill, I shall be quite well to-morrow.”“Then come with me. The change will do you good.”“No; not to-night, father. I would rather stay.”“But Madelaine is in sad trouble, too, my child, and she will be greatly disappointed, if you do not come.”“Tell her I felt too unwell, dear,” said Louise imploringly, for her father’s persistence seemed to trouble her more and more; and he looked at her wonderingly, she seemed so agitated.“But I don’t like to leave you like this, my child.”“Yes, yes; please go, dear. I shall be so much better alone. There, it is growing late. You will not stop very long.”“No; an hour or two. I must be guided by circumstances. If that man is there—I cannot help it—I shall stay a very short time.”“That man, father?”“Yes,” said Vine, with a shudder. “Crampton. He makes me shiver whenever we meet.”His face grew agonised as he spoke; and he rose hastily and kissed Louise.“You will not alter your mind and come?” he said tenderly.“No, no, father; pray do not press me. I cannot go to-night.”“Strange!” said George Vine thoughtfully. “Strange that she should want to stay.”He had crossed the little rock garden, and closed the gate to stand looking back at the old granite house, dwelling sadly upon his children, and mingling thoughts of the determined refusal of Louise to come, with projects which he had hadin pettofor the benefit of his son.He shuddered and turned to go along the level platform cut in the great slope before beginning the rapid descent.
“I could not—I could not. A wife should accept her husband, proud of him, proud of herself, the gift she gives him with her love; and I should have been his disgrace. Impossible! How could I have ever looked him bravely in the face? I should have felt that he must recall the past, and repented when it was too late.”
So mused Louise Vine as she sat trying to work that same evening after a wearisome meal, at which Aunt Marguerite had taken her place to rouse them from their despondent state. So she expressed it, and the result had been painful in the extreme.
Aunt Marguerite’s remedy was change, and she proposed that they should all go for a tour to the south of France.
“Don’t shake your head, George,” she said. “You are not a common person. The lower classes—the uneducated of course—go on nursing their troubles, but it is a duty with people of our position to suffer and be strong. So put the trouble behind us, and show a brave face to the world. You hear this, Louise?”
“Yes, aunt,” said Louise, sadly.
“Then pray listen to it as if you took some interest in what I said, and meant to profit by it, child.”
Louise murmured something suggestive of a promise to profit by her aunt’s wisdom, and the old lady turned to her brother.
“Yes, George, I have planned it all out. We will go to the south of France, to the seaside if you wish, and while Louise and I try and find a little relaxation, you can dabble and net strange things out of the water-pools. Girl; be careful.”
This to poor Liza, whose ears seemed to be red-hot, and her cheeks alternately flushed and pale, as she brought in and took out the dinner, waiting, at other times being dispensed with fortunately. For Liza’s wits were wool-gathering, according to Aunt Marguerite’s theory, and in her agitation respecting the manner in which she had been surprised, when yielding to her mother’s importunities, she was constantly watching the faces or her master and Louise, and calculating the chances for and against ignominious dismissal. One minute she told herself they knew all. The next minute her heart gave a thump of satisfaction, for Louise’s sad eyes had looked so kindly in hers, that Liza told herself her young mistress either did not know or was going to forgive her.
Directly after Liza dropped the cover of a vegetable dish in her agitation right on Aunt Marguerite’s black silk crape-trimmed dress, for her master had told her to bring him bread, and in a tone of voice which thrilled through her as he looked her in the face with, according to her idea, his eyes seeming to say, “This is some of the bread you tried to steal.”
Liza escaped from the room as soon as possible, and was relieving her pent-up feelings at the back door when she heard her name whispered.
“Who’s there? what is it?” she said.
“It’s only me, Liza, my dear. Has she told—”
“Oh, mother! You shouldn’t,” sobbed Liza. “You won’t be happy till you’ve got me put in prison.”
“Nonsense, my dear, they won’t do that. Never you fear. Now look here. What became of that parcel you made up?”
“I don’t know; I’ve been half wild ever since, and I don’t know how it’s going to end.”
“Then I’ll tell you,” cried the old fish-woman. “You’ve got to get me that parcel, or else to make me up another.”
“I won’t; there?” cried Liza angrily.
“How dare you say won’t to your mother, miss!” said the old woman angrily. “Now look here; I’m going a bit farther on, and then I’m coming back, and I shall expect to find the napkin done up all ready. If it isn’t you’ll see.”
Liza stood with her mouth open, listening to her mother’s retiring footsteps; and then with a fresh burst of tears waiting to be wiped away, she ran in to answer the bell, and clear away, shivering the while, as she saw that Aunt Marguerite’s eyes were fixed upon her, watching every movement, and seeming to threaten to reveal what had been discovered earlier in the day.
Aunt Marguerite said nothing, however, then, for her thoughts were taken up with her project of living away for a time. She had been talking away pretty rapidly, first to one and then to the other, but rarely eliciting a reply; but at last she turned sharply upon her brother.
“How soon shall we be going, George?”
“Going? Where?” he replied dreamily.
“On the Continent for our change.”
“We shall not go on the Continent, Marguerite,” he said gravely. “I shall not think of leaving here.”
Aunt Marguerite rose from the table, and gazed at her brother, as if not sure that she had heard aright. Then she turned to her niece, to gaze at her with questioning eyes, but to gain no information there, for Louise gazed down at the work she had taken from a stand.
“Did you understand what your father said?” she asked sharply.
“Yes, aunt.”
“And pray what did he say?”
“That he would not go on the Continent.”
“What?”
“That he would not leave home with this terrible weight upon his mind.”
Aunt Marguerite sat bolt upright in her chair for a few moments without speaking, and the look she gave her brother was of the most withering nature.
“Am I to understand,” she said at last, “that you prefer to stay here and visit and nurse your Dutch friend?”
Her brother looked at her, but there was no trace of anger in his glance.
Aunt Marguerite lowered her eyes, and then turned them in a supercilious way upon Louise.
“May I count upon your companionship,” she said, “if I decide to go through Auvergne and stay there for a few days, on my way to Hyères.”
“If you go, aunt?” said Louise wonderingly.
“There is a certain estate in the neighbourhood of Mont d’Or,” she continued; “I wish to see in what condition it is kept. These things seem to devolve now on me who am forced to take the lead as representative of our neglected family.”
“For Heaven’s sake, Marguerite!” cried Vine impetuously. “No—no, no,” he muttered, checking himself hastily. “Better not—better not.”
“I beg pardon, brother,” she said, raising her glass.
“Nothing—nothing,” he replied.
“Well, Louise, child, I am waiting,” she continued, turning her eyes in a half pitying, condescending way upon her niece. “Well? May I count upon you?”
“Aunt dear—”
“It will do you good. You look too pale. This place crushes you down, and narrows your intellect, my child. A little French society would work a vast change in you.”
“Aunt, dear,” said Louise, rising and crossing to her to lay her hands upon the old lady’s shoulder, “don’t talk about such things now. Let me come up to your room, and read to you a little while.”
Aunt Marguerite smiled.
“My dear Louise, why do you talk to me like this? Do you take me for a child?”
George Vine heaved a deep sigh, and turned in his chair.
“Do you think I have lived all these years in the world and do not know what is best for such a girl as you?”
“But indeed, aunt, I am not ill. I do not require a change.”
“Ah, poor young obstinacy! I must take you well in hand, child, and see if I cannot teach you to comport yourself more in accordance with your position in life. I shall have time now, especially during our little journey. When would it be convenient for you to be ready?”
“Aunt dear! It is impossible; we could not go.”
“Impossible? Then I must speak. You will be ready in three days from now. I feel that I require change, and we will go.”
“Margaret!” cried Vine, who during the past few minutes had been writhing in his seat, “how can you be so absurd!”
“Poor George!” she said, with a sigh, as she rose from her chair. “I wish I could persuade him to go. Mind, Louise, my child, in three days from now. We shall go straight to Paris, perhaps for a month. You need not trouble about dress. A few necessaries. All that you will require we can get in Paris. Come in before you go to bed, I may have a few more words to say.”
She sailed slowly across the room, waving her fan gently, as if it were a wing which helped her progress, as she preserved her graceful carriage. Then the door closed behind her, and Louise half ran to her father’s side.
“Shall I go up with her?” she whispered anxiously.
Her father shook his head.
“But did you not notice how strange she seemed?”
“No more strange, my dear, than she has often been before, after something has agitated her greatly. In her way she was very fond of poor Harry.”
“Yes, father, I know; but I never saw her so agitated as this.”
“She will calm down, as she has calmed down before.”
“But this idea of going abroad?”
“She will forget it by to-morrow. I was wrong to speak as I did. It only sets her thinking more seriously. Poor Margaret! We must be very patient and forbearing with her. Her life was turned out of its regular course by a terrible disappointment. I try always to remember this when she is more eccentric—more trying than usual.”
Louise shrank a little more round to the back of her father’s chair, as he drew her hand over his shoulder, and she laid her cheek upon his head as, with fixed eyes, she gazed straight before her into futurity, and a spasm of pain shot through her at her father’s words, “a terrible disappointment,” “eccentric.” Had Aunt Marguerite ever suffered as she suffered now? and did such mental agony result in changing the whole course of a girl’s young life?
The tears stood in her eyes and dimmed them; but in spite of the blurring of her vision, she seemed to see herself gradually changing and growing old and eccentric too. For was not she also wasting with a terrible disappointment—a blow that must be as agonising as any Aunt Marguerite could have felt?
The outlook seemed so blank and terrible that a strange feeling of excitement came over her, waking dream succeeding waking dream, each more painful than the last; but she was brought back to the present by her father’s voice.
“Why, my darling,” he said, “your hand is quite cold, and you tremble. Come, come, come, you ought to know Aunt Margaret by now. There, it is time I started for Van Heldre’s. I faithfully promised to go back this evening. Perhaps Luke will be there.”
“Yes, father,” she said, making an effort to be calm, “it is time you went down. Give my dear love to Madelaine.”
“Eh? Give your love? why, you are coming too.”
“No, no,” she said hastily; “I—I am not well this evening.”
“No, you are not well,” he said tenderly. “Your hands are icy, and—yes, I expected so, your forehead burns. Why, my darling, you must not be ill.”
“Oh no, dear. I am not going to be ill, I shall be quite well to-morrow.”
“Then come with me. The change will do you good.”
“No; not to-night, father. I would rather stay.”
“But Madelaine is in sad trouble, too, my child, and she will be greatly disappointed, if you do not come.”
“Tell her I felt too unwell, dear,” said Louise imploringly, for her father’s persistence seemed to trouble her more and more; and he looked at her wonderingly, she seemed so agitated.
“But I don’t like to leave you like this, my child.”
“Yes, yes; please go, dear. I shall be so much better alone. There, it is growing late. You will not stop very long.”
“No; an hour or two. I must be guided by circumstances. If that man is there—I cannot help it—I shall stay a very short time.”
“That man, father?”
“Yes,” said Vine, with a shudder. “Crampton. He makes me shiver whenever we meet.”
His face grew agonised as he spoke; and he rose hastily and kissed Louise.
“You will not alter your mind and come?” he said tenderly.
“No, no, father; pray do not press me. I cannot go to-night.”
“Strange!” said George Vine thoughtfully. “Strange that she should want to stay.”
He had crossed the little rock garden, and closed the gate to stand looking back at the old granite house, dwelling sadly upon his children, and mingling thoughts of the determined refusal of Louise to come, with projects which he had hadin pettofor the benefit of his son.
He shuddered and turned to go along the level platform cut in the great slope before beginning the rapid descent.
Chapter Forty Two.A Startling Visitation.“Fine night, master, but gashly dark,” said a gruff voice, as Vine was nearly at the bottom of the slope.“Ah, Perrow! Yes, very dark,” said Vine quietly. “Not out with your boat to-night?”“No, Master Vine, not to-night. Sea brimes. Why, if we cast a net to-night every mash would look as if it was a-fire. Best at home night like this. Going down town?”“Yes, Perrow.”“Ah, you’ll be going to see Master Van Heldre. You don’t know, sir, how glad my mates are as he’s better. Good night, sir. You’ll ketch up to Master Leslie if you look sharp. He come up as far as here and went back.”“Thank you. Good night,” said Vine, and he walked on, but slackened his pace, for he felt that he could not meet Leslie then. The poor fellow would be suffering from his rebuff, and Vine shrank from listening to any appeal.But he was fated to meet Leslie all the same, for at a turn of the steep path he encountered the young mine-owner coming towards him, and he appeared startled on finding who it was.“Going out, Mr Vine?” he stammered. “I was coming up to the house, but—er—never mind; I can call some other time.”“I would turn back with you, only I promised to go down to Mr Van Heldre’s to-night.”“Ah, yes, to Van Heldre’s,” said Leslie confusedly. “I’ll walk with you if you will not mind.”“I shall be glad of your company,” said Vine quietly; and they continued down to the town, Leslie very thoughtful, and Vine disinclined to converse.“No, I am not going in, Mr Vine. Will you let me come and say a few words to you to-morrow?”“Yes,” replied Vine gently.He had meant to speak firmly and decisively, but a feeling of pity and sympathy for the young man, whose heart he seemed to read, changed his tone. It had been in his heart, too, to say, “It will be better if you do not come,” but he found it impossible, and they parted.Leslie hesitated as soon as he was alone. What should he do? Go home? Home was a horrible desert to him now; and in his present frame of mind, the best thing he could do was to go right off for a long walk. By fatiguing the body he would make the brain ask for rest, instead of keeping up that whirl of anxious thought.He felt that he must act. That was the only way to find oblivion and repose from the incessant thought which troubled him. He started off with the intention of wearying his muscles, so as to lie down that night and win the sleep to which he was often now a stranger.His first intent was to go right up by the cliff path, by Uncle Luke’s, and over the hill by his own place, but if he went that way there was the possibility of finding Uncle Luke leaning over the wall, gazing out at the starlit sea, and probably he would stop and question him.That night his one thought was of being alone, and he took the opposite direction, went down to the ferry, hunted out the man from the inn hard by, and had himself rowed across the harbour, so as to walk along the cliff eastwards, and then strike in north and round by the head of the estuary, where he could recross by the old stone bridge, and reach home—a walk of a dozen miles.At the end of a couple of miles along the rugged pathway, where in places the greatest care was needed to avoid going over some precipitous spot to the shore below, Leslie stopped short to listen to the hollow moaning sound of the waves, and he seated himself close to the cliff edge, in a dark nook, which formed one of the sheltered lookouts used by the coastguard in bad weather.The sea glittered as if the surface were of polished jet, strewn with diamonds, and, impressed by the similarity of the scene to that of the night on which the search had been carried on after Harry Vine, Leslie’s thoughts went back to the various scenes which repeated themselves before his mental gaze from the beginning to that terrible finale when the remains lay stark and disfigured in the inn shed, and the saturated cards proclaimed who the dead man was.“Poor girl!” he said half aloud, “and with all that trouble fresh upon her, and the feeling that she and her family are disgraced for ever, I go to her to press forward my selfish, egotistical love. God forgive me! What weak creatures we men are.”He sat thinking, taking off his hat for the cool, moist sea air to fan his feverish temples, when the solemn silence of the starry night seemed to bring to him rest and repose such as he had not enjoyed since the hour when Aunt Marguerite planted that sharp, poisoned barb in his breast.“It is not that,” he said to himself, with a sigh full of satisfaction. “She never felt the full force of love yet for any man, but if ever her gentle young nature turned towards any one, it was towards me. And, knowing this, I, in my impatience and want of consideration, contrived my own downfall. No, not my downfall; there is hope yet, and a few words rightly spoken will remove the past.”The feverish sensation was passing away swiftly. The calm serenity of the night beneath the glorious dome of stars was bringing with it restfulness, and hope rose strongly, as, far away in the east, he saw a glittering point of light rise above the sea slowly higher and higher, a veritable star of hope to him.“What’s that?” he said to himself, as heard above the boom of the waves which struck below and then filled some hollow and fell back with an angry hiss, he fancied he heard a sob.There was no mistake; a woman was talking in a low, moaning way, and then there came another sob.He rose quickly.“Is anything the matter?” he said sharply.“Ah! Why, how you frightened me! Is that you, Master Leslie?”“Yes. Who is it? Poll Perrow?”“Yes, Master Leslie, it’s me.”“Why, what are you doing here?” said Leslie, as cynical old Uncle Luke’s hints about the smuggling flashed across his mind.“Nothing to do with smuggling,” she said, as if divining his thoughts.“Indeed, old lady! Well, it looks very suspicious.”“No, it don’t, sir. D’you think if I wanted to carry any landed goods I should take ’em along the coastguard path?”“A man would not,” said Leslie, “but I should say it’s just what a cunning old woman’s brain would suggest, as being the surest way to throw the revenue men off the scent.”“Dessay you’re right, Master Leslie, but you may search me if you like. I’ve got nothing to-night.”“I’m not going to search you, old lady. I’ll leave that to the revenue men. But what’s the matter?”“Matter, Master Leslie?”“Yes; I heard you sobbing. Are you in trouble?”“Of course I am, sir. Aren’t I a lone widow?”“So you have been these fifteen years.”“Fourteen and three-quarters, sir.”“Ah, well, I was near enough. But what is it, old lady? Want a little money?”“No, no, no, Master Leslie, sir; and that’s very kind of you, sir; and if I don’t bring you up half-a-dozen of the finest mack’rel that come in these next days, my name aren’t Perrow.”“Thank you. There, I don’t want to be inquisitive, but it seems strange for a woman like you to be crying away here on the cliff two miles from home on a dark night.”“And it seems strange for a young gen’leman like you to be up here all alone and three miles from home. You was watching me, Master Leslie.”“You’ll take my word, Poll Perrow,” said Leslie quietly. “I did not know you were here.”“Yes, I’ll believe you, Master Leslie, sir. But you was watching someone else?”“No, I came for a walk, my good woman, that’s all.”“Then I won’t stop you, sir. Good night, sir.”“Good night,” said Leslie; and feeling more content, he took out his cigar case, and after selecting one by feeling he went back into the coastguard’s station and struck a match.He looked along the cliff path as the match flashed, and caught sight faintly of the old woman.“Watching me anyhow,” he said to himself, as he lit his cigar. “Now, what can that old girl be doing here? She’s fifty-five if she’s a day, but if she is not courting and had a quarrel with her youthful lover, I’m what that old lady says that Van Heldre is—a Dutchman.”He turned back along the path feeling comparatively light-hearted and restful. The long, dark, weary walk to tire himself was forgotten, and he went slowly back along the coastguard path, turning a little from time to time to gaze over his left shoulder at the brilliant planet which rose higher and higher over the glistening sea.“Hope!” he said half aloud. “What a glorious word that is, and what a weary world this would be if there were none! Yes, I will hope.”He walked slowly on, wondering whether Poll Perrow was watching and following him. Then he forgot all about her, for his thoughts were fixed upon the granite house across the estuary, and the sweet sad face of Louise half in shadow, half lit by the soft glow of the shaded lamp.“Mr Vine will be back by now,” he said. “I might call in and ask how Van Heldre is to-night. It would he sociable, and I should see her, and let my manner show my sorrow for having grieved her and given her pain; and, is it possible to let her see that I am full of patient, abiding hope, that some day she will speak differently to the way in which she spoke to-day? Yes, a woman would read all that, and I will be patient and guarded now.”It was astonishing how eager Duncan Leslie felt now to see what news George Vine had brought from Van Heldre’s; and with the beautiful absurdity of young men in his position, he never allowed himself to think that when he crossed the ferry he would be within a stone’s throw of the merchant’s house, and that all he need do was to knock and ask old Crampton or Mrs Van Heldre for the latest bulletin, which would be gladly given.It was so much easier to go on by the house, make for the path which led up the steep slope, and go right to the home on the shelf of the cliff, and ask there.Meanwhile, Louise Vine had seated herself by the dining-room table, with the light of the shaded lamp falling athwart her glossy hair, and half throwing up her sweet pale face, just as Leslie had pictured it far away upon the cliff. Now and then her needle glittered, but only at rare intervals, for she was deep in thought.At times her eyes closed, and as she sat there bending forward, it seemed as if she slept; but her lips moved, and a piteous sigh escaped her overladen breast.The night seemed hot and oppressive, and she rose after a time and unhasped the casement window, beneath the old painted glass coat-of-arms; and, as she approached it, dimly-seen by the light cast from behind her, she shuddered, for it struck her there was a black stain across the painting, and a shadowy dark mark obliterated the proud words of the old family motto.As she threw back the easement she stood leaning her head against the window, gazing out into the starlit space, and listening to the faint whisper of the coming tide.While she listened it seemed to her that the faint boom and rush of the water obliterated every other sound, as she tried in vain to detect her father’s step slowly ascending the steep path.“Too soon—too soon,” she said softly, and she returned to her seat to try and continue her work, but the attempt was vain. The light fell upon her motionless hands holding a piece of some black material, the thread was invisible, and only at times a keen thin gleam of light betrayed the whereabouts of the needle. Her sad eyes were fixed on the dark opening of the window, through which she could see a scarcely defined patch of starry sky, while the soft night air gave her a feeling of rest, such as had come to the man who had told her that he loved.“Never more,” she sighed at last; “that is all passed. A foolish dream.”Making an effort over herself, she resumed her work, drawing the needle through quickly for a few moments, and trying hard to dismiss Duncan Leslie from her thoughts. As she worked, she pictured her father seated by Van Heldre’s side; and a feeling of thankfulness came over her as she thought of the warm friendship between her elders, and of how firm and staunch Van Heldre seemed to be. Then she thought of the home troubles with her Aunt Marguerite, and her father’s patient forbearance under circumstances which were a heavy trial to his patience.“Poor Aunt Marguerite!” she sighed, as her hands dropped with her work, and she sat gazing across the table straight out at the starry heavens. “How she loved poor Harry in her way; and yet how soon he seems to have passed out of her mind!”She sighed as the past came back with her brothers wilfulness and folly; but, throwing these weaknesses into the shade, there were all his frank, good qualities, his tenderness to her before the troubles seemed to wrench them apart; the happy hours they had passed with Madelaine as boy and girls together; all happy days—gone for ever, but which seemed to stand out now as parts of Harry’s life which were to be remembered to the exclusion of all that was terrible and black.“My brother!” she breathed, as she gazed straight out seaward, and a faint smile passed her lips; “he loved me, and I could always win him over to my side.”The thought seemed frozen in her brain, her half-closed eyes opened widely, the pupils dilated, and her lips parted more and more, as she sat there fixed to her seat, the chilly drops gathering on her white brow, and a thrill of horror coursing through her veins. For as she looked she seemed to have conjured up the countenance of her brother, to gaze in there by the open casement—the face as she had seen it last—when he escaped from her bedroom, but not flushed and excited; it was now pale, the eyes hollow, and his hair clinging unkempt about his brow.Was she awake, or was this some evolution of her imagination, or were those old stories true that at certain times the forms of those we loved did return to visit the scenes where they had passed their lives? This then was such a vision of the form of the brother whom she loved; and she gazed wildly, with her eyes starting, excited, more than fearing, in the strange exaltation which she felt.Then she sank back in her chair with the chill of dread now emphasised, as she gazed fixedly at the ghastly face, for she saw the lips part as if to speak, and she uttered a low, gasping sound, for from the open window came in a quick hoarse whisper—“Louy, why don’t you speak? Are you alone?”
“Fine night, master, but gashly dark,” said a gruff voice, as Vine was nearly at the bottom of the slope.
“Ah, Perrow! Yes, very dark,” said Vine quietly. “Not out with your boat to-night?”
“No, Master Vine, not to-night. Sea brimes. Why, if we cast a net to-night every mash would look as if it was a-fire. Best at home night like this. Going down town?”
“Yes, Perrow.”
“Ah, you’ll be going to see Master Van Heldre. You don’t know, sir, how glad my mates are as he’s better. Good night, sir. You’ll ketch up to Master Leslie if you look sharp. He come up as far as here and went back.”
“Thank you. Good night,” said Vine, and he walked on, but slackened his pace, for he felt that he could not meet Leslie then. The poor fellow would be suffering from his rebuff, and Vine shrank from listening to any appeal.
But he was fated to meet Leslie all the same, for at a turn of the steep path he encountered the young mine-owner coming towards him, and he appeared startled on finding who it was.
“Going out, Mr Vine?” he stammered. “I was coming up to the house, but—er—never mind; I can call some other time.”
“I would turn back with you, only I promised to go down to Mr Van Heldre’s to-night.”
“Ah, yes, to Van Heldre’s,” said Leslie confusedly. “I’ll walk with you if you will not mind.”
“I shall be glad of your company,” said Vine quietly; and they continued down to the town, Leslie very thoughtful, and Vine disinclined to converse.
“No, I am not going in, Mr Vine. Will you let me come and say a few words to you to-morrow?”
“Yes,” replied Vine gently.
He had meant to speak firmly and decisively, but a feeling of pity and sympathy for the young man, whose heart he seemed to read, changed his tone. It had been in his heart, too, to say, “It will be better if you do not come,” but he found it impossible, and they parted.
Leslie hesitated as soon as he was alone. What should he do? Go home? Home was a horrible desert to him now; and in his present frame of mind, the best thing he could do was to go right off for a long walk. By fatiguing the body he would make the brain ask for rest, instead of keeping up that whirl of anxious thought.
He felt that he must act. That was the only way to find oblivion and repose from the incessant thought which troubled him. He started off with the intention of wearying his muscles, so as to lie down that night and win the sleep to which he was often now a stranger.
His first intent was to go right up by the cliff path, by Uncle Luke’s, and over the hill by his own place, but if he went that way there was the possibility of finding Uncle Luke leaning over the wall, gazing out at the starlit sea, and probably he would stop and question him.
That night his one thought was of being alone, and he took the opposite direction, went down to the ferry, hunted out the man from the inn hard by, and had himself rowed across the harbour, so as to walk along the cliff eastwards, and then strike in north and round by the head of the estuary, where he could recross by the old stone bridge, and reach home—a walk of a dozen miles.
At the end of a couple of miles along the rugged pathway, where in places the greatest care was needed to avoid going over some precipitous spot to the shore below, Leslie stopped short to listen to the hollow moaning sound of the waves, and he seated himself close to the cliff edge, in a dark nook, which formed one of the sheltered lookouts used by the coastguard in bad weather.
The sea glittered as if the surface were of polished jet, strewn with diamonds, and, impressed by the similarity of the scene to that of the night on which the search had been carried on after Harry Vine, Leslie’s thoughts went back to the various scenes which repeated themselves before his mental gaze from the beginning to that terrible finale when the remains lay stark and disfigured in the inn shed, and the saturated cards proclaimed who the dead man was.
“Poor girl!” he said half aloud, “and with all that trouble fresh upon her, and the feeling that she and her family are disgraced for ever, I go to her to press forward my selfish, egotistical love. God forgive me! What weak creatures we men are.”
He sat thinking, taking off his hat for the cool, moist sea air to fan his feverish temples, when the solemn silence of the starry night seemed to bring to him rest and repose such as he had not enjoyed since the hour when Aunt Marguerite planted that sharp, poisoned barb in his breast.
“It is not that,” he said to himself, with a sigh full of satisfaction. “She never felt the full force of love yet for any man, but if ever her gentle young nature turned towards any one, it was towards me. And, knowing this, I, in my impatience and want of consideration, contrived my own downfall. No, not my downfall; there is hope yet, and a few words rightly spoken will remove the past.”
The feverish sensation was passing away swiftly. The calm serenity of the night beneath the glorious dome of stars was bringing with it restfulness, and hope rose strongly, as, far away in the east, he saw a glittering point of light rise above the sea slowly higher and higher, a veritable star of hope to him.
“What’s that?” he said to himself, as heard above the boom of the waves which struck below and then filled some hollow and fell back with an angry hiss, he fancied he heard a sob.
There was no mistake; a woman was talking in a low, moaning way, and then there came another sob.
He rose quickly.
“Is anything the matter?” he said sharply.
“Ah! Why, how you frightened me! Is that you, Master Leslie?”
“Yes. Who is it? Poll Perrow?”
“Yes, Master Leslie, it’s me.”
“Why, what are you doing here?” said Leslie, as cynical old Uncle Luke’s hints about the smuggling flashed across his mind.
“Nothing to do with smuggling,” she said, as if divining his thoughts.
“Indeed, old lady! Well, it looks very suspicious.”
“No, it don’t, sir. D’you think if I wanted to carry any landed goods I should take ’em along the coastguard path?”
“A man would not,” said Leslie, “but I should say it’s just what a cunning old woman’s brain would suggest, as being the surest way to throw the revenue men off the scent.”
“Dessay you’re right, Master Leslie, but you may search me if you like. I’ve got nothing to-night.”
“I’m not going to search you, old lady. I’ll leave that to the revenue men. But what’s the matter?”
“Matter, Master Leslie?”
“Yes; I heard you sobbing. Are you in trouble?”
“Of course I am, sir. Aren’t I a lone widow?”
“So you have been these fifteen years.”
“Fourteen and three-quarters, sir.”
“Ah, well, I was near enough. But what is it, old lady? Want a little money?”
“No, no, no, Master Leslie, sir; and that’s very kind of you, sir; and if I don’t bring you up half-a-dozen of the finest mack’rel that come in these next days, my name aren’t Perrow.”
“Thank you. There, I don’t want to be inquisitive, but it seems strange for a woman like you to be crying away here on the cliff two miles from home on a dark night.”
“And it seems strange for a young gen’leman like you to be up here all alone and three miles from home. You was watching me, Master Leslie.”
“You’ll take my word, Poll Perrow,” said Leslie quietly. “I did not know you were here.”
“Yes, I’ll believe you, Master Leslie, sir. But you was watching someone else?”
“No, I came for a walk, my good woman, that’s all.”
“Then I won’t stop you, sir. Good night, sir.”
“Good night,” said Leslie; and feeling more content, he took out his cigar case, and after selecting one by feeling he went back into the coastguard’s station and struck a match.
He looked along the cliff path as the match flashed, and caught sight faintly of the old woman.
“Watching me anyhow,” he said to himself, as he lit his cigar. “Now, what can that old girl be doing here? She’s fifty-five if she’s a day, but if she is not courting and had a quarrel with her youthful lover, I’m what that old lady says that Van Heldre is—a Dutchman.”
He turned back along the path feeling comparatively light-hearted and restful. The long, dark, weary walk to tire himself was forgotten, and he went slowly back along the coastguard path, turning a little from time to time to gaze over his left shoulder at the brilliant planet which rose higher and higher over the glistening sea.
“Hope!” he said half aloud. “What a glorious word that is, and what a weary world this would be if there were none! Yes, I will hope.”
He walked slowly on, wondering whether Poll Perrow was watching and following him. Then he forgot all about her, for his thoughts were fixed upon the granite house across the estuary, and the sweet sad face of Louise half in shadow, half lit by the soft glow of the shaded lamp.
“Mr Vine will be back by now,” he said. “I might call in and ask how Van Heldre is to-night. It would he sociable, and I should see her, and let my manner show my sorrow for having grieved her and given her pain; and, is it possible to let her see that I am full of patient, abiding hope, that some day she will speak differently to the way in which she spoke to-day? Yes, a woman would read all that, and I will be patient and guarded now.”
It was astonishing how eager Duncan Leslie felt now to see what news George Vine had brought from Van Heldre’s; and with the beautiful absurdity of young men in his position, he never allowed himself to think that when he crossed the ferry he would be within a stone’s throw of the merchant’s house, and that all he need do was to knock and ask old Crampton or Mrs Van Heldre for the latest bulletin, which would be gladly given.
It was so much easier to go on by the house, make for the path which led up the steep slope, and go right to the home on the shelf of the cliff, and ask there.
Meanwhile, Louise Vine had seated herself by the dining-room table, with the light of the shaded lamp falling athwart her glossy hair, and half throwing up her sweet pale face, just as Leslie had pictured it far away upon the cliff. Now and then her needle glittered, but only at rare intervals, for she was deep in thought.
At times her eyes closed, and as she sat there bending forward, it seemed as if she slept; but her lips moved, and a piteous sigh escaped her overladen breast.
The night seemed hot and oppressive, and she rose after a time and unhasped the casement window, beneath the old painted glass coat-of-arms; and, as she approached it, dimly-seen by the light cast from behind her, she shuddered, for it struck her there was a black stain across the painting, and a shadowy dark mark obliterated the proud words of the old family motto.
As she threw back the easement she stood leaning her head against the window, gazing out into the starlit space, and listening to the faint whisper of the coming tide.
While she listened it seemed to her that the faint boom and rush of the water obliterated every other sound, as she tried in vain to detect her father’s step slowly ascending the steep path.
“Too soon—too soon,” she said softly, and she returned to her seat to try and continue her work, but the attempt was vain. The light fell upon her motionless hands holding a piece of some black material, the thread was invisible, and only at times a keen thin gleam of light betrayed the whereabouts of the needle. Her sad eyes were fixed on the dark opening of the window, through which she could see a scarcely defined patch of starry sky, while the soft night air gave her a feeling of rest, such as had come to the man who had told her that he loved.
“Never more,” she sighed at last; “that is all passed. A foolish dream.”
Making an effort over herself, she resumed her work, drawing the needle through quickly for a few moments, and trying hard to dismiss Duncan Leslie from her thoughts. As she worked, she pictured her father seated by Van Heldre’s side; and a feeling of thankfulness came over her as she thought of the warm friendship between her elders, and of how firm and staunch Van Heldre seemed to be. Then she thought of the home troubles with her Aunt Marguerite, and her father’s patient forbearance under circumstances which were a heavy trial to his patience.
“Poor Aunt Marguerite!” she sighed, as her hands dropped with her work, and she sat gazing across the table straight out at the starry heavens. “How she loved poor Harry in her way; and yet how soon he seems to have passed out of her mind!”
She sighed as the past came back with her brothers wilfulness and folly; but, throwing these weaknesses into the shade, there were all his frank, good qualities, his tenderness to her before the troubles seemed to wrench them apart; the happy hours they had passed with Madelaine as boy and girls together; all happy days—gone for ever, but which seemed to stand out now as parts of Harry’s life which were to be remembered to the exclusion of all that was terrible and black.
“My brother!” she breathed, as she gazed straight out seaward, and a faint smile passed her lips; “he loved me, and I could always win him over to my side.”
The thought seemed frozen in her brain, her half-closed eyes opened widely, the pupils dilated, and her lips parted more and more, as she sat there fixed to her seat, the chilly drops gathering on her white brow, and a thrill of horror coursing through her veins. For as she looked she seemed to have conjured up the countenance of her brother, to gaze in there by the open casement—the face as she had seen it last—when he escaped from her bedroom, but not flushed and excited; it was now pale, the eyes hollow, and his hair clinging unkempt about his brow.
Was she awake, or was this some evolution of her imagination, or were those old stories true that at certain times the forms of those we loved did return to visit the scenes where they had passed their lives? This then was such a vision of the form of the brother whom she loved; and she gazed wildly, with her eyes starting, excited, more than fearing, in the strange exaltation which she felt.
Then she sank back in her chair with the chill of dread now emphasised, as she gazed fixedly at the ghastly face, for she saw the lips part as if to speak, and she uttered a low, gasping sound, for from the open window came in a quick hoarse whisper—“Louy, why don’t you speak? Are you alone?”