“Yes,” she replied gravely; “we must go.”
Vine bowed his head.
“Come, my child,” he said, turning to Madelaine, and he was half way to the door when Aunt Marguerite entered.
“Going out?” she said, shrinking from the sombre figure in black.
“Yes, aunt.”
“You must attend first to what I have to say, Louise. Miss Van Heldre can, I daresay, wait.”
Madelaine bent her head and drew back.
“I have business with Mr Van Heldre, Marguerite,” said Vine more sternly than he had ever spoken to her before. “You must wait till our return.”
Aunt Marguerite’s eyes flashed an indignant look at Madelaine, as the cause of this rebuff, and she drew back with a stiff curtsey and walked slowly before them out of the room.
George Vine gazed wildly round him as he walked slowly down the steep way toward the town. It seemed terrible to him that in such a time of suffering and mourning, sea, sky, and earth should be painted in such lovely colours. The heavy rain of the previous days seemed to have given a brilliancy to leaf and flower that before was wanting; and as, from time to time, he glanced wildly at the rocky point, the scene of the tragedy of his life, the waves were curling over, and breaking in iridescent foam upon the rocks, to roll back in silvery cataracts to the sea.