“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.”