“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—”