“Loving!” she cried, scornfully.
“What have I done?” he groaned. “I ran up here directly to try and be of service. In my excitement, I spoke words that I should have kept back for a time, but they would have vent, and—No, I am not ashamed of what I have said,” he cried, drawing himself up. “Louise Vine, I love you, and I must help you and your brother in this terrible strait.”
“Then go back to the town, and tell all who have dared to say my brother committed this crime that what they say is false, and that his father, his sister will prove his innocence. Go!”
“Yes, go,” said a shrill, hard voice. “Louise, go to your room and let me speak to this man.”
“Aunt, you have heard?”
“Yes, from the servants. And I heard his last insulting words. Go to your room, child.”
She threw open the room, and, accustomed to obey from her childhood, Louise moved slowly towards the hall; but as she turned slightly to dart a last indignant look at the man who had set her heart beating wildly as he at the same time roused her indignation, she saw such a look of agony that her courage failed, a strange sense of pity stole through her, and she stepped back and took her aunt’s arm.
“Hush, aunt dear,” she said, “there is no need to say more. Mr Leslie has made a great mistake in bringing up that cruel report, and he will go now and contradict it for my brother’s sake.”
“And apologise for his insult,” cried Aunt Marguerite fiercely. “Child, I bade you go to your room.”
“Yes, aunt. I am going.”