Chapter Fifty Four.
Aunt Marguerite Finds a Friend.
Uncle Luke met them at the garden gate, and took Madelaine’s hands in his, drawing her towards 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 Louy, 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 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 mother, 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 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 the 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 Madelaine toward the door, and in pursuance of her helpful rôle, 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.