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Vaughan might occupy Rashleigh's apartment during his occasional residence at the Hall; and his profession rendered it likely that he should occasionally be a tenant of the library. Nothing was more probable than that it might have been his candle which had excited my attention on a preceding evening.
My father was born in Maine on the Canada line. But my mother was French. I'm her daughter. I love sunlight and flowers, music and foolishness and dream of troubadours who sing under my window. I hate long faces and gloom. But my father has ambition. I love him, and so I endure things." Ned Vaughan looked at her timidly. For the life of him he couldn't make her out. Was she laughing at him?
"Yes," said Swain quietly, "I'm feeling all right again." "How is Miss Vaughan, doctor?" I asked. Swain jerked round toward the doctor. "Is Miss Vaughan ill?" he demanded. "She had a shock last night," answered the doctor, slowly; "but she's getting along nicely. She'll have to be kept quiet for a few days." I was looking at Swain curiously.
Meantime, Clarence Vaughan, punctual to the time appointed, had driven rapidly to the spot designated by Madeline. He was about to alight from the carriage, when he drew back suddenly, and sat in the shadow as a man passed up the street. It was Lucian Davlin, and he entered the building bearing the number Madeline had given in her note. Instantly Vaughan comprehended the situation.
It is therefore my duty and desire to do her full justice, and with this purpose in view, I propose to recite briefly the chief heads of her memoir, so far as it has been published up to date. I must, however, premise at the beginning that she does not come before us with one trace of the uncertainty of accent which might have been expected to characterise the newly-acquired language, not merely of Christian faith, but of its Roman dialect. We find her speaking at once, and to the manner born. Could anything, by possibility, be narrower than certain perished sections of evangelical religion in England, it would be certain sections of ultramontane religion in France; but Miss Vaughan has acquired all the terminology of the latter, all the intellectual bitterness, all the fatuities, as one might say, in the space of five minutes. When she has wearied of her memoirs at the moment, or has reached, after the manner of the novelist, some crucial point in her narrative, she breaks off abruptly, brackets
The philosophy of Horatius is supposed to represent incompletely the content of heaven and earth, but neither earth nor heaven, as at present constituted, would be capable of enclosing the entire content of Dr Bataille's memoirs. Miss Diana Vaughan, with whose history we are next concerned, comes before us under a different aspect.
"I fear the same," answered Vaughan, with a sigh, as if unwilling to acknowledge the truth; "but if so, would they not have slain them at once rather than have carried them off prisoners?" "We will, at all events, make a further search through the forest," said Roger. "We must not give up all hopes of finding them."
A Fellow of the Royal Society, with a score of letters after his name and a reputation in two hemispheres, stitched the worst of Jan's wounds that morning, on the couch in the Master's study. Even Dr. Vaughan could not replace the missing section of Jan's right ear; but, short of that, he made a most masterly job of the repairs.
This was the home of Pansy Vaughan; and Pansy was the explanation of everything beautiful and fruitful, the peaceful Joan of Arc of that valley, seeing rapt visions of the glory of her people. In the plain upper room of the plain brick house, on her hard white bed with her hard white thoughts, lay Pansy sleepless throughout the night of Marguerite's ball.
One was a lady of very ordinary appearance, but the other he recognised as Miss Vaughan of Nantmyny, a young lady whose beauty and pleasant manners were the frequent theme of the countryside gossip, "and no wonder," he thought, "she is pretty!"
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