Chapter Thirty Nine.
A Meeting in Pain.
George Vine sat in his easy chair in front of the fireplace, gazing at the cut paper ornaments and willow shavings, and seeing in them the career of his son, and the dismal scene in the churchyard, with the rain falling and making little pearls on the black coffin cloth.
He had not spoken for hours, but from time to time, as Louise laid her hand upon his arm, he had slowly taken and pressed it between his own before raising it with a sigh to his lips.
“Don’t speak to me, my darling,” he had pleaded to her when he first took his place there that morning. “I want to think.”
She had respected his prayer, and in her endeavours to take her thoughts from the horrors which oppressed her she had stolen into her father’s study, as an idea struck her, but only to come away sadly. Her visit had been too late; the cherished collection of marine objects were one and all dead.
Her father looked up as she returned. He had not seemed to notice her, but he knew where she had been, and as he gave her a questioning look Liza entered the room.
“Miss Van Heldre, miss.”
Vine caught his child’s hand, as if too weak for the encounter; but, as the closely-veiled figure in black crossed the room quickly, and both realised the meaning of those mourning garments, Louise burst into a wild fit of sobbing, and turned away for a moment, but only to be clasped in Madelaine’s arms.