Of High Descent Part 79

"Yes, lots. Now hide it in your basket, and go."

"To be sure I will, Liza." And the white napkin and its contents were soon hidden under a piece of fis.h.i.+ng-net. "There, goodbye, my dear.

You'll be glad you've helped your poor old mother, that you will, and-- Good mornin', Miss Margreet."

"Put that basket down," said the old lady sharply, as she stood gazing imperiously at the detected pair.

"Put the basket down, miss?"

"Yes, directly. I am glad I came down and caught you in the act.

Shameful! Disgraceful! Liza, take out that parcel of food stolen from my brother."

"No, no, Miss Margreet, only broken wittles, as would be thrown away."

"Quick! Take it out, Liza. Now go."

Liza stooped down, sobbing, and pulled the bundle out of the basket.

"I always said you'd be the ruin of me, mother," she sobbed.

"No, no, my dear," cried the woman; "Miss Margreet won't be hard on us.

Let me have it, miss, do, please."

"Go away!" cried Aunt Marguerite fiercely.

"Pray, pray do, miss," cried the woman imploringly.

"Go away, I say!" cried Aunt Marguerite, "and if you set foot on these premises again, you shall leave with the police. Go!"

Poor Liza stood inside the door, sobbing, with the bundle of good things neatly pinned up in her hand, while Aunt Marguerite stood pointing imperiously with her closed fan, as if it were a sceptre, till Poll Perrow, with her basket swung once more upon her back, disappeared out of the gate.

"Now, madam," said Aunt Marguerite, "the moment that young person in the drawing-room has gone, you shall receive your dismissal, and in disgrace."

Volume 2, Chapter XX.

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 directly in Madelaine's arms.

There was an earnest, loving embrace, and then Madelaine turned to Vine, laying her hands upon his breast, and kissing him as a child would its parent.

"So much better," she said, in answer to the wistful, inquiring look directed at her. "I have come to fetch you both."

"To fetch us?" faltered Vine with a horrified look.

"My father begs you will come to him. I am his amba.s.sador. You will not refuse?"

"I cannot meet him," said Vine in a faint voice full of despair; "and,"

he added to himself, "I could not bear it."

"He would come to you, but he is weak and suffering," said Madelaine as she laid her hand upon the stricken man's arm. "'Tell him I beg he will come to me,' he said," she whispered. "You will not refuse, Mr Vine?"

"No, I will not refuse. Louise, dear?"

"Yes, father, I will go with you," she said slowly; and in a few minutes she returned, ready for the walk, and crossed to where her father sat holding Madelaine's hand.

As she entered he rose and met her.

"Louise, my child, must we go?" he said feebly. "I feel as if it were almost more than I can bear. Must we go?"

"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 dare say, 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 courtesy 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.

He turned away his eyes with a shudder, fighting hard to keep his thoughts from the horrors of that night; but he was doomed to have them emphasised, for, just before reaching the foot of the steep way, the little party came suddenly upon the great burly fisherman, who had undertaken to sail across to St Malo with the fugitive that night,

"Mornin', master," he said.

Vine turned ghastly pale, and his brain reeled; but he soon recovered himself.

"Louise, Madelaine, my children, go, and I will follow."