Part 81 (1/2)

DUNCAN LESLIE SPEAKS OUT.

Duncan Leslie was standing at a table on which was a photograph of Louise, as she entered the room silently; and as, after a long contemplation of the counterfeit, he drew a long breath, and looked up to see the object of his thoughts standing just inside the doorway, too much agitated to give notice of her presence, he coloured like a boy caught in some act of which he was ashamed.

”Miss Vine,” he cried, advancing quickly with extended hands.

Louise did not speak, but slowly raised one hand for him to take, and suffered him to lead her to a chair.

He remained standing before her as the looked up at him in a wild, frightened manner, as if imploring him not to speak, and for a few moments silence reigned.

”You will forgive me,” said Leslie, at last, ”if my visit is ill-timed, for I am a busy man, ill-versed in the etiquette of such matters. I was in a dilemma. I wished to try and show my sympathy, and I was afraid to stay away for fear of seeming neglectful.”

”Mr Leslie need have been under no apprehension,” said Louise slowly, and speaking as if sorrow had exhausted itself, and there was nothing left but resignation. ”My father and I have thought very deeply, and can never be sufficiently grateful for all that has been done.”

”You have suffered so,” he said in a low voice, ”that I am going to beg of you not to refer to the past. Of course, I know,” he added quickly, ”how easy it is to speak plat.i.tudes--how hard to express what one feels at a time like this.”

”Mr Leslie need not speak,” said Louise quietly. ”He has shown his sympathy in a way that no words can express.”

Leslie gazed down at the piteous, sorrow-stricken face before him; and, as if wrenching himself away, he walked to the window, and stood gazing out for a few moments while Louise sat watching him, and fighting hard with her emotions. She felt weakened by all that had gone by, and as if, had he extended his arms to her, she could have flown to him, nestled in his breast, and begged him to help her in this terrible strait. And yet all the time her sorrow had strengthened, as well as enfeebled, for she was able to master her weakness, and follow out the course she had planned.

Leslie returned to her side.

”I must speak,” he said hoa.r.s.ely. ”It is not cruelty at a time like this; it is the desire to help, to console, to be near you in distress.

Miss Vine--Louise--you--forgive me for saying it--you must have known that for months past I have loved you.”

She looked up at him wistfully, and there was a look of such pain and sorrow in her eyes that he paused, and took the hand which she resigned to him without shrinking, but only to send a thrill of pain through him, for the act was not that of one accepting the offer of his love.

”Yes,” she said, after a painful pause, ”I did think that you must care for me.”

”As I do,” he whispered earnestly, ”and this is my excuse for speaking now. No: don't shrink from me. I only ask you to think of me as one whose sole thought is of you, and of how he may help and serve you.”

”You have helped us in every way,” she said sadly.

”I have tried so hard,” he said huskily; ”but everything has seemed little compared to what I wished; and now--it is all I ask: you will let this formal barrier between us be cast away, so that in everything I may be your help and counsellor. Louise, it is no time to talk of love,” he cried earnestly, ”and my wooing is that of a rough, blunt man; and-- don't shrink from me--only tell me that some day, when all this pain and suffering has been softened by time, I may ask you to listen to me; and that now I may go away feeling you believe in my love and sympathy. You will tell me this?”

She softly drew away her hand, giving him a look so full of pity and sorrow that a feeling akin to despair made his heart swell within his breast. He had read of those who resigned the world with all its hopes and pleasures from a feeling that their time was short here, and of death-bed farewells, and there was so much of this in Louise's manner that he became stricken and chilled.

It was only by a tremendous effort over self that he was able to summon up the strength to speak; and, in place of the halting, hesitating words of a few minutes before, he now spoke out earnestly and well.

”Forgive me,” he said; and she trembled as she shrank away to cover her eyes with her hand. ”It was folly on my part to speak to you at such a time, but my love is stronger than worldly forms, and though I grieve to have given you pain, I cannot feel sorry that I have spoken the simple, honest truth. You are too sweet and true to deal lightly with a man's frank, earnest love. Forgive me--say good-bye. I am going away patiently--to wait.”

His manner changed as he took her disengaged hand and kissed it tenderly and respectfully.

”I will not ask to see your father to-day. He is, I know, suffering and ill; but tell him from me that he has only to send a messenger to bring me here at once. I want to help him in every way. Good-bye.”

”Stop!”

He was half-way to the door when that one word arrested him, and with a sense of delicious joy flooding his breast, he turned quickly to listen to the words which would give him a life's happiness. The flash of joy died out as quickly as that of lightning, and in the same way seemed to leave the hope that had arisen scathed and dead. For there was no mistaking that look, nor the tone of the voice which spoke what seemed to him the death-warrant of his love.

”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.”