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 2, Chapter XXII.