Of High Descent
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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 directly 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 were 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 dare say, 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 courtesy 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 St. 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, 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, and 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 apiece.”
“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 come. She could only press their 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 horrors 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 sunlit 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.
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.