Uncle Luke met them at the garden gate, and took Madelaine's hands in
his, drawing her toward him, and kissing her brow.
"Tell me, Mr Luke," she said quickly, "it is not true?"
"What he says is not true, Maddy," said the old man quietly.
"But Louise?"
"Gone, my dear. Left here last night. No," he continued, "we know
nothing except what her letter says. She has good reason for what she
has done, no doubt, but it is very terrible for my brother."
Madelaine darted a triumphant look at Leslie.
"Look here, my child," said Uncle Luke, "I am uneasy about George. Go
in and see him, and if he says anything about Louie, you will side with
me and take her part?"
"Do you think I could believe it of Louise?" said Madelaine, proudly.
Uncle Luke held her hand in his, patting it softly the while.
"No," he said, "I don't think you could. Go to him now. Tell him it
will all be cleared up some day, perhaps sooner than we think."
"Where is he?" she said quietly.
"In his study."
She nodded her head with a confident look in her eyes, crossed the hall,
and tapped at the study door.
"Come in."
The words bidding her to enter were uttered in so calm and
matter-of-fact a way that Madelaine felt startled, and Uncle Luke's
words, "I am uneasy about George," came with a meaning they had not
before possessed.
She entered, and stopped short, for there before the open window, close
to which was a glass vessel full of water, stood George Vine, busy with
a microscope, by whose help he was carefully examining the structure of
some minute organism, while one busy hand made notes upon a sheet of
paper at his side.
His face was from her, and he was so intent upon his task that he did
not turn his head.
"Breakfast?" he said quietly. "I shall not have any. Yes," he added
hastily; "bring me a cup of tea, Liza--no sugar, and a little dry
toast."
A pang shot through Madelaine's heart, and for a few moments she strove
vainly to speak.
"It is I, Mr Vine," she faltered at last in a voice she did not
recognise as her own.
"Madelaine, my child!" he cried, starting and dropping his pencil as he
turned. "How rude of me! So intent upon this beautiful preparation of
mine here. Very, very glad to see you," he continued, as he took her
hands in his. "How is your father this morning?"
"I--I have not seen him this morning," faltered Madelaine as she gazed
upon the pale, lined face before her, to note the change thereon, in
spite of the unnatural calmness which the old man had assumed; "I--I
came on at once, as soon as I had heard."
He drew in a long breath as if her words were cutting him. Then raising
her hands to his lips he kissed them tenderly.
"Like you," he said gently, "like you, my child. There, I have nothing
to say, nothing to hear."
"But, dear Mr Vine," cried Madelaine, as she clung to him, and her
tears fell fast, "I am sure--"
He smiled down at her lovingly, as he kissed her hand again.
"Spare me, my child," he said. "Never mention her name again."
"But, Mr Vine--"
"Hush, my dear! It is like you," he whispered. "Good, gentle, and
forgiving. Let the whole of the past be dead."
"But, Mr Vine, Louise--"
"Hush!" he said sternly. "There, come and sit down and talk to me. No,
my dear, I had a nasty fainting attack last night, but I am not mad.
You need not fear that. Let the past be dead, my child. Will you bring
me some tea?"
Madelaine's face worked pitifully, as she clung to him for a few
moments, and then, as he resumed his place at the table, she felt that
the hour was not opportune, and turned to leave the room.
At that moment there was a gentle tap at the door.
"See who that is, my child," said Vine, quietly; "and do not let me be
interrupted. If it is my brother, ask him not to speak to me to-day."
Madelaine crossed quickly to the old man's side, bent over him, and
kissed his forehead, before going to the door, to find Uncle Luke
waiting.
"Maddy," he whispered, "tell my brother that Margaret wants him to see
her. Ask him if she may come in."
Madelaine took the message, and felt startled at the angry look in the
old man's face.
"No," he cried peremptorily. "I could not bear to see her. Maddy, my
darling, you are almost like a daughter to me. You know all. Tell her
from me to keep to her room, I could not trust myself to see her now."
Madelaine clung to him, with the tears gathering in her eyes. From her
earliest childhood she had looked up to him as to some near relative who
had treated her as he had treated his own child--her companion, Louise--
and now as she saw the agony depicted in his face, she suffered with
him, and in her womanly sympathy her tears still fell fast.
"But, dear Mr Vine," she whispered, "forgive me for pressing you at
such a time, but there is some mistake."
"Yes," he said sternly; and she shivered as she saw how he was changed,
and heard how harsh his voice had grown. "Yes, Madelaine, my child,
there has been a terrible mistake made by a weak, infatuated man, who
acted on impulse and never let his mind stray from the hobby he
pursued--mine."
"Mr Vine!"
"Hush, my child, I know. You are going to say words that I could not
bear to hear now. I know what I have done, I see it too plainly now.
In my desire to play a kindly brother's part, I let that of a father
lapse, and my punishment has come--doubly come."
"If you would only let me speak," she whispered.
"Not now--not now. I want strength first to bear my punishment, to bear
it patiently as a man."
It seemed to be no time to argue and plead her friend's cause, but she
still clung to him.
"Bear with me," he whispered. "I am not going to reproach you for what
you have said. There, my dear, leave me now."
Madelaine sighed, and with her brow wrinkled by the lines of care, she
stood watching the old man as he bent over his microscope once more, and
then softly left the room.
"Well?" said Uncle Luke eagerly, as she joined him in the hall. "What
does he say?"
"That he will not see her. That he could not trust himself to meet her
now."
"Ah!"
Madelaine started, and turned sharply round as a piteous wail fell upon
her ears.
Aunt Marguerite was standing within the dining-room door, wringing her
hands, and looking wild and strange.
"I can't bear it," she cried. "I can't bear it. He thinks it is my
fault. Go in and tell him, Luke. He must not, he shall not blame me."
"Let him alone for a bit," said Luke coldly.
"But he thinks it is all my fault. I want to tell him--I want him to
know that it is no fault of mine."
"Can't convince him of impossibilities," said Uncle Luke coldly.
"And you think it, too!" cried Aunt Marguerite passionately. "I will
see him."
"Go up to your room and wait a bit. That's the best advice I can give
you."
"But George will--"
"Say things to you that will be rather startling to your vain old brain,
Madge, if you force yourself upon him, and I'll take care that you do
not."
"And this is my brother!" cried Aunt Marguerite indignantly.
"Uncle Luke is right," said Madelaine quietly, speaking of him as in the
old girlish days. "If I might advise you, Miss Vine."
"Miss Margue--No, no," cried the old lady, hastily. "Miss Vine; yes,
Miss Vine. You will help me, my child. I want my brother to know that
it is not my fault."
The old contemptuous manner was gone, and she caught Madelaine's arm and
pressed it spasmodically with her bony fingers.
"You could not go to Mr Vine at a worse time," said Madelaine. "He is
suffering acutely."
"But if you come with me," whispered Aunt Marguerite. "Oh, my child, I
have been very, very hard to you, but you will not turn and trample on
me now I am down."
"I will help you all I can," said Madelaine gravely; "and I am helping
you now in advising you to wait."
"I--I thought it was for me best," sobbed the old lady piteously.
"Hush! don't speak to me aloud. Mr Leslie may hear."
She glanced sharply round to where Leslie was standing with his back to
them, gazing moodily from the window.
"Yes; Mr Leslie may hear," said Madelaine sadly, and then in spite of
the long years of dislike engendered by Aunt Marguerite's treatment, she
felt her heart stirred by pity for the lonely, suffering old creature
upon whose head was being visited the sufferings of the stricken
household.
"Let me go with you to your room," she said gently.
"No, no!" cried Aunt Marguerite, with a frightened look. "You hate me
too, and you will join the others in condemning me. Let me go to my
brother now."
"It would be madness," said Madelaine gently; and she tried to take the
old woman's hand, but at that last word, Aunt Marguerite started from
her, and stretched out her hands to keep her off.
"Don't say that," she said in a low voice, and with a quick glance at
her brother and at Leslie, to see if they had heard. Then catching
Madelaine's hand, she whispered, "It is such a horrible word. Luke said
it to me before you came. He said I must be mad, and George might hear
it and think so too."
"Let me go with you to your room."
"But--but," faltered the old woman, with her lips quivering, and a
wildly appealing look in her eyes, "you--you don't think that."
"No," said Madelaine quietly; "I do not think that."
Aunt Marguerite uttered a sigh full of relief.
"I only think," continued Madelaine in her matter-of-fact,
straightforward way, "that you have been very vain, prejudiced, and
foolish, but I am wrong to reproach you now."
"No, no," whispered Aunt Marguerite, clinging to her, and looking at her
in an abject, piteous way; "you are quite right, my dear. Come with me,
talk to me, my child. I deserve what you say, and--and I feel so lonely
now."
She glanced again at her brother and Leslie, and her grasp of
Madelaine's arm grew painful.
"Yes," she whispered, with an excited look; "you are right, I must not
go to him now. Don't let them think that of me. I know--I've been
very--very foolish, but don't--don't let them think that."
She drew Madelainc toward the door, and in pursuance of her helpful
_role_, the latter went with her patiently, any resentment which she
might have felt toward her old enemy, falling away at the pitiful signs
of abject misery and dread before her; the reigning idea in the old
lady's mind now being that her brothers would nurture some plan to get
rid of her, whose result would be one at which she shuddered, as in her
heart of hearts she knew that if such extreme measures were taken, her
conduct for years would give plenty of excuse.
Volume 3, Chapter XIII.