On His Behalf.
“What have I done? what have I done?” groaned Vine. “I might have forgiven him and let him escape, and then—Louise, Louise, my child, come with me. We must find him and help.”
Louise hurried back into her room to get hat and scarf, and returned to the landing to find her father and Aunt Margaret face to face.
“It is a judgment upon you, George—a judgment!” cried the old lady excitedly. “Yes; you dragged the poor boy down to that wretched life, and in his madness and misery he made one bold stroke for freedom.”
“Louise, my child, quick!” cried Vine. “I cannot answer her now. Quick! get me away, or I shall say words to her that I shall repent as long as I live.”
“I say it is a judgment!” cried Aunt Margaret. “Poor boy! if you had taken my advice—”
The door closed. They were out in the clear, starry night, hurrying down the path toward the town, but Aunt Margaret’s words were ringing in Vine’s ears. A judgment.
Why? What had he done?
“Have I been to blame? Is she right? Have I been to blame?” he muttered, as they hurried down, the words being the secret communings of his heart, but they were loud enough for Louise to hear, and as she clung to his arm she whispered emphatically—
“No, father, no!”