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Volume Two – Chapter Twenty One.
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 the 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 this is 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 that now 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 that 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 leave the hope that had arisen scathed and dead. For there 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 in 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 am 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 dare say. 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 ill. 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.”

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Two.
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 sea-side 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 of 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 clear. 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 become 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 look at her with questioning eyes, but to gain no information there, for Louise bent down over 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 your 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, clear,” 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 had in petto for 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.