“I could not speak,” she said in a strange low voice full of the pain she suffered. “I tried to check you, but the words would not come. What you ask is impossible; I could not promise. It would be cruel to you—unjust, and it would raise hopes that could never be fulfilled.”
“No, no. Don’t say that,” he cried appealingly. “I have been premature. I should have waited patiently.”
“It would have been the same. Mr Leslie, you should not have asked this. You should not have exposed yourself to the pain of a refusal, me to the agony of being forced to speak.”
“I grant much of what you say,” he pleaded. “Forgive me.”
“Do not misunderstand me,” she continued, after a brave effort to master her emotion. “After what has passed it would be impossible. I have but one duty now: that of devoting myself to my father.”
“You feel this,” he pleaded; “and you are speaking sincerely; but wait. Pray say no more—now. There: let me say good-bye.”
“No,” she said sternly; “you shall not leave me under a misapprehension. It has been a struggle that has been almost too great; but I have won the strength to speak. No; Mr Leslie, it is impossible.”
“No, Mr Leslie, it is impossible!” The words were like a thin, sharp echo of those spoken by Louise, and they both started and turned, to see that Aunt Marguerite had entered the room, and had not only heard her niece’s refusal of Leslie, but gathered the full import of the sentence.
She stood drawn up half way between them and the door, looking very handsome and impressive in her deep mourning; but there was the suggestion of a faint sneering smile upon her lip, and her eyes were half-closed, as with hands crossed over her breast, she seemed to point over her shoulder with her closed black fan.
“Aunt!” exclaimed Louise. “How could—”