“What does all this mean?” she said angrily. “Why did every one go out without telling me a word?”
Louise gently explained to her what had befallen her father’s friend.
“Oh,” said Aunt Marguerite, with a slight shrug of the shoulders. “Well, it might have been worse. There, I am very tired. Take me up, child, to bed.”
“Good-night, Harry; you will go and lie down,” whispered Louise. “Good-night, dear.”
She clung to him as if the trouble had drawn them closer, and then went into the hall to light a candle.
“Good-night, Henri,” said Aunt Marguerite, holding her cheek for the young man’s mechanical kiss. “This is very sad, of course, but it seems to me like emancipation for you. If it is, I shall not look upon it as a calamity, but as a blessing for us all. Good-night.”
The door closed upon her, and Harry Vine sat alone in the dining-room with his hands clasped before him, gazing straight away into his future, and trying to see the road.
“If I had but thrown myself upon his mercy,” he groaned; but he knew that it was impossible all through his regret.
What to do now? Where to go? Money? Yes; he had a little, thanks to his regular work as Van Heldre’s clerk—his money that he had received, and he was about to use it to escape—where?
“God help me!” groaned the unhappy man at last; “what shall I do?”