“In a month, miss, if you please; and now you’re going to hear what come an hour ago, and is all over the town by now.”
Louise caught at the table to steady herself, and her lips parted to question the girl, but she had hurried out of the room. The door was opened, a deep male voice was heard, and directly after Duncan Leslie hurried in.
“It is no time for ceremony,” he gasped, breathlessly. “Where is your father?”
“At—Mr Van Heldre’s,” panted Louise as she turned to him with extended hands. “Mr Leslie, pray—pray tell me—what is wrong?”
“Fell you?” he cried, catching her almost in his arms, and holding her firmly; and his voice sounded deep, hoarse and full of commiseration. “How am I to dare to tell you, Louise?”
“Mr Leslie!”
She half struggled from him, but he retained her hands. “Tell me,” he cried; “what shall I say? Am I to speak out?”
“Yes, quick! You torture me.”
“Torture you, whom I would die to save from pain!” She trembled and flushed, and turned pale by turns.
“I must tell you,” he said; “there is no time to spare. I have—try and bear it, my child, like the true, brave heart you are. Your brother—”