"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 Hyeres?"
"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.
Volume 2, Chapter XXIII.