She bowed her head, and for the moment could not speak.
“Aunt Marguerite?”
“Yes. I was reading to her, and you know her way, Harry; half mockingly she was telling me that I should never gain the pure French accent, when she seemed to change suddenly, and gasped out your name. Louy had not gone home; I was relieving her, as I often do now, and she is with her aunt. Leslie has gone to fetch Mr Vine, who is down on the shore with Uncle Luke.”
A few minutes later Harry was in the old lady’s room, the doctor making way for him to approach the bed, about which the rest of the family were grouped.
“There,” she said sharply, “you need not wait. I want to speak to Harry.”
He bent down to place his arm beneath the feeble neck, and she smiled up at him with the ruling passion still strong even in death, and her words came very faintly; but he heard them all.
“Remember, Harry, the hope of our family rests on you. We are the des Vignes, say what they will. Now marry—soon—some good, true woman, one of the Haute Noblesse.”
“Yes, aunt, I will.”
An hour later she was peacefully asleep.
“Closed in death,” said Harry Vine as he laid his hand reverently across the withered lids; “but her eyes must be open now, father, to the truth.”