The Haute Noblesse is a Webnovel created by George Manville Fenn.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
She nodded her head with a confident look in her eyes, crossed the hall, and tapped at the study door.
“Come in.”
The words bidding her to enter were uttered in so calm and matter-of-fact a way, that Madelaine felt startled, and Uncle Luke’s words, “I am uneasy about George,” came with a meaning they had not before possessed.
She entered and stopped short, for there before the open window, close to which was a gla.s.s vessel full of water, stood George Vine, busy with a microscope, by whose help he was carefully examining the structure of some minute organism, while one busy hand made notes upon a sheet of paper at his side.
His face was from her, and he was so intent upon his task that he did not turn his head.
“Breakfast?” he said quietly. “I shall not have any. Yes,” he added hastily; “bring a cup of tea, Liza–no sugar, and a little dry toast.”
A pang shot through Madelaine’s heart, and for a few moments she strove vainly to speak.
“It is I, Mr Vine,” she faltered at last in a voice she did not recognise as her own.
“Madelaine, my child!” he cried, starting and dropping his pencil as he turned. “How rude of me! so intent upon this beautiful preparation of mine here. Very, very glad to see you,” he continued, as he took her hands in his. “How is your father this morning?”
“I–I have not seen him this morning,” faltered Madelaine, as she gazed upon the pale, lined face before her, to note the change thereon, in spite of the unnatural calmness which the old man had a.s.sumed, “I–I came on at once, as soon as I had heard.”
He drew in a long breath as if her words were cutting him. Then raising her hands to his lips he kissed them tenderly.
“Like you,” he said gently, “like you, my child. There, I have nothing to say, nothing to hear.”
“But dear Mr Vine,” cried Madelaine, as she clung to him, and her tears fell fast, “I am sure–“
He smiled down at her lovingly, as he kissed her hand again.
“Spare me, my child,” he said. “Never mention her name again.”
“But, Mr Vine–“
“Hush, my dear! It is like you,” he whispered. “Good, gentle and forgiving. Let the whole of the past be dead.”
“But, Mr Vine, Louise–“
“Hush!” he said sternly. “There, come and sit down and talk to me. No, my dear, I had a nasty fainting attack last night, but I am not mad.
You need not fear that. Let the past be dead, my child. Will you bring me some tea?”
Madelaine’s face worked pitifully, as she clung to him for a few moments, and then as he resumed his place at the table, she felt that the hour was not opportune, and turned to leave the room.
At that moment there was a gentle tap at the door.
“See who that is, my child,” said Vine, quietly; “and do not let me be interrupted. If it is my mother, ask him not to speak to me to-day.”
Madelaine crossed quickly to the old man’s side, bent over him, and kissed his forehead, before going to the door, to find Uncle Luke waiting.
“Maddy,” he whispered, “tell my brother that Margaret wants to see her.
Ask him if she may come in.”
Madelaine took the message, and felt startled at the angry look in the old man’s face.
“No,” he cried peremptorily. “I could not bear to see her Maddy, my darling, you are almost like a daughter to me. You know all. Tell her from me to keep to her room, I could not trust myself to see her now.”
Madelaine clung to him, with the tears gathering in her eyes. From her earliest childhood she had looked up to him as to some near relative, who had treated her as he had treated his own child–her companion, Louise; and now as she saw the agony depicted in his face, she suffered with him, and in her womanly sympathy her tears still fell fast.
“But, dear Mr Vine,” she whispered, “forgive me for pressing you at such a time, but there is some mistake.”
“Yes,” he said sternly; and she shivered as she saw how he was changed, and heard how harsh his voice had grown. “Yes, Madelaine, my child, there has been a terrible mistake made by a weak, infatuated man, who acted on impulse, and never let his mind stray from the hobby he pursued–mine.”
“Mr Vine!”
“Hush, my child, I know. You are going to say words that I could not bear to hear now. I know what I have done, I see it too plainly now.
In my desire to play a kindly brother’s part, I let that of a father lapse, and my punishment has come–doubly come.”
“If you would only let me speak,” she whispered.
“Not now–not now. I want strength first to bear my punishment, to bear it patiently as a man.”
It seemed to be no time to argue and plead her friend’s cause, but she still clung to him.
“Bear with me,” he whispered. “I am not going to reproach you for what you have said. There, my dear, leave me now.”
Madelaine sighed, and with her brow wrinkled by the lines of care, she stood watching the old man as he bent over his microscope once more, and then softly left the room.
“Well?” said Uncle Luke eagerly, as she joined him in the hall. “What does he say?”
“That he will not see her. That he could not trust himself to meet her now.”
“Ah!”
Madelaine started, and turned sharply round as a piteous wail fell upon her ears.
Aunt Marguerite was standing within the dining-room door, wringing her hands, and looking wild and strange.
“I can’t bear it,” she cried. “I can’t bear it. He thinks it is my fault. Go in and tell him, Luke. He must not, he shall not blame me.”
“Let him alone for a bit,” said Luke, coldly.
“But he thinks it is all my fault. I want to tell him–I want him to know that it is no fault of mine.”
“Can’t convince him of impossibilities,” said Uncle Luke coldly.
“And you think it, too!” cried Aunt Marguerite pa.s.sionately. “I will see him.”
“Go up to your room and wait a bit. That’s the best advice I can give you.”
“But George will–“
“Say things to you that will be rather startling to your vain old brain, Madge, if you force yourself upon him, and I’ll take care that you do not.”