Louise Vine stood trembling in her own room, listening till she heard the door close, and Duncan Leslie’s step on the gravel. Her agitation was terrible, and in place of being clear-headed and ready to act in this emergency, she felt as if her brain was in a turmoil of contending emotions. Indignation on her brother’s behalf, anger against Leslie for his announcement, and another form of anger which she could not define, struggled with a desire to go to her brother’s help, and at last she placed her hands to her head and pressed them there.
“What shall I do?” she panted.
“Louise, Louise, my child!”
It was Aunt Marguerite’s voice, and there was a sharp tapping on the panel of the door after the handle had been turned.
“Louise, my child, unlock this door.”
She made no reply, but stood with her hands clasped together, listening to the sharp voice and the quick tapping repeated on the panel. Both ceased after a few minutes, and Aunt Marguerite’s door was heard to close loudly.
“I could not talk to her now,” muttered the girl. “She makes me so angry. She was so insulting to Mr Leslie. But he deserved it,” she said aloud, with her cheeks burning once more, and her eyes flashing, as she drew herself up. “My brother—a common thief—the man who injured Mr Van Heldre! It is not true.”
She started violently and began to tremble, for there was a sharp pattering on her window-panes, as if some one had thrown a few small shot. Would Duncan Leslie dare to summon her like that? The pattering was repeated, and she went cautiously to the window, to make out in the gloom a figure that certainly was not that of Leslie.
She opened the casement with nervous anxiety now.
“Asleep?” cried a hasty voice. “There, stand aside—I’m coming up.”