Volume Three—Chapter Five.

Volume Three—Chapter Five.Brother—Lover.Trembling, her eyes dilated with horror, Louise Vine stood watching the dimly-seen pleading face for some moments before her lips could form words, and her reason tell her that it was rank folly and superstition to stand trembling there.“Harry!” she whispered, “alone? yes.”“Hah!” he ejaculated, and thrusting in his hands he climbed into the room.Louise gazed wildly at the rough-looking figure in sea-stained old pea-jacket and damaged cap, hair unkempt, and a hollow look in eye and cheek that, joined with the ghastly colourless skin, was quite enough to foster the idea that this was one risen from the grave.“Don’t be scared,” he said harshly, “I’m not dead after all.”“Harry! my darling brother.”That was all in words, but with a low, moaning cry Louise had thrown her soft arms about his neck and covered his damp cold face with her kisses, while the tears streamed down her cheeks.“Then there is some one left to—My darling sis!” He began in a half-cynical way, but the genuine embrace was contagious, and clasping her to his breast, he had to fight hard to keep back his own tears and sobs as he returned her kisses.Then the fugitive’s dread of the law and of discovery reasserted itself, and pushing her back, he said quickly—“Where is father?”“At Mr Van Heldre’s. Let me—”“Hush! answer my questions. Where is Aunt Marguerite?”“Gone to bed, dear.”“And the servants?”“In the kitchen. They will not come without I ring. But, Harry—brother—we thought you dead—we thought you dead.”“Hush! Louie, for Heaven’s sake! You’ll ruin me,” he whispered, as she burst into a fit of uncontrollable sobbing, so violent at times that he grew alarmed.“We thought you dead—we thought you dead.”It was all she could say as she clung to him, and looked wildly from door to window and back.“Louie!” he whispered at last passionately, “I must escape. Be quiet, or you will be heard.”By a tremendous effort she mastered her emotion, and tightening her grasp upon him, she set her teeth hard, compressed her lips, and stood with contracted brow gazing in his eyes.“Now?” he said, “can you listen?”She nodded her head, and her wild eyes seemed so questioning, that he said quickly—“I can’t tell you much. You know I can swim well.”She nodded silently.“Well, I rose after my dive and let the current carry me away till I swam ashore three miles away, and I’ve been in hiding in one of the zorns.”“Oh, my brother!” she answered.“Waiting till it was safe to come out.”“But, Harry!” she paused; “we—my father—we all believed you dead. How could you be so—”She stopped.“Cruel?” he said firmly. “Wouldn’t it have been more cruel to be dragged off to prison and disgrace you more?”“But—”“Hush! I tell you I have been in hiding. They think me dead?”“Yes; they found you—”“Hush, I tell you. I have no time to explain. Let them go on thinking me dead.”“But, Harry!” she cried; “my poor broken-hearted father—Madelaine.”“Hold your tongue!” he said in a broken voice, “unless you want to drive me mad.”He paused, for his face was working; but at last with a stamp he controlled his emotion.“Look here,” he said hoarsely. “I had no one to come to but you. Will you help me?”“Harry!” she whispered reproachfully, as she clung to him more firmly.“Hah! that’s better,” he said. “Now don’t talk, only listen. But are you sure that we shall not be overheard?”“Quite, dear; we are alone.”“Then listen. I have thought all this out. I’ve been a blackguard; I did knock old Van Heldre down.”Louise moaned.“But once more I tell you I’m not a thief. I did not rob him, and I did not go to rob him. I swear it.”“I believe you, Harry,” she whispered.“Well, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.”She nodded again, unable to speak, but clung to him spasmodically, for everything seemed to swim round before her eyes.“I am penniless. There, that proves to you I did not rob poor old Van. I want money—enough to escape over to France—to get to London first. Then I shall change my name. Don’t be alarmed,” he said tremblingly, as he felt Louise start. “I shall give up the name of Vine, but I’m not going to call myself Des Vignes, or any of that cursed folly.”“Harry!”“All right, dear. It made me mad to think of it all. I’ve come to my senses now, and I’m going over the Channel to make a fresh start and to try and prove myself a man. Some day when I’ve done this father shall know that I am alive, and perhaps then he may take me by the hand and forgive me.”“Harry, let me send for him—let me tell him now.”“No,” said the young man sternly.“He loves you! He will forgive you, and bless God for restoring you once more, as I do, my darling. Oh, Harry, Harry! My brother!”“Hush!” he whispered, with his voice trembling as he held her to him and stroked her face. “Hush, sis, hush!”“Then I may send for him?”“No, no, no!” he cried fiercely. “I am little better than a convict. He must not, he shall not know I am alive.”“But, Harry, dearest—”“Silence!” he whispered angrily; “I came to you, my sister, for help. No, no, dear, I’m not cross; but you talk like a woman. The dear old dad would forgive me, God bless him! I know he would, just as you have, and fall on my neck and kiss me as—as—as—Ah! Lou, Lou, Lou, my girl,” he cried, fighting against his emotion, “the law will not be like your love. You must help me to escape, at all events for a time.”“And may I tell him where you are gone—my father and Maddy?”“Hush!” he cried, in so wild and strange a voice that she shrank from him. “Do you want to unman me when I have planned my future, and then see me handcuffed and taken to gaol? No: Harry Vine is dead. Some day another man will come and ask the forgiveness he needs.”“Harry!”“But not this shivering, cowardly cur—a man, a true blameless man, whom it will take years to make. Now, then, once more, will you help me, and keep my secret?” Louise was silent for a few moments. “Well, never mind, you must keep my secret, for after I am gone if you said you had seen me, people would tell you that you were mad.”“I will help you, Harry, and keep your secret, dear—even,” she added to herself, “if it breaks my heart.”“That’s right. We’ve wasted too much time in talking as it is, and—”“But, Harry—Madelaine—she loves you.” He wrested himself from her violently, and stood with his hands pressed to his head. A few moments before he had been firm and determined, but the agonised thought of Madelaine and of giving her up for ever had ended the fictitious strength which had enabled him to go so far.It was the result of his long agony shut up in that cave; and though he struggled hard he could do no more, but completely unnerved, trembling violently, and glancing wildly from time to time at the door and window, he sank at his sister’s feet and clutched her knees.“Harry, Harry!” she whispered—she, the stronger now—“for Heaven’s sake don’t give way like that.”“It’s all over now. I’m dead beat; I can do no more.”“Then let me go to father; let me fetch him from Van Heldre’s.”“Yes,” he moaned; “and while you are gone I’ll go down to the end of the point and jump in. This time I shall be too weak to swim.”“Harry, don’t talk like that!” she cried, embracing him, as she saw with horror the pitiable, trembling state in which he was.“I can’t help it,” he whispered as he clung to her now like a frightened child, and looked wildly at the door. “You don’t know what I’ve suffered, buried alive in that cave, and expecting the sea to come in and drown me. It has been one long horror.”“But, Harry, dear, you are safe now.”“Safe?” he groaned; “yes, to be taken by the first policeman I meet, and locked up in gaol.”“But, Harry!” she cried, his agitation growing contagious, “I have promised. I will help you now. I’ll keep it a secret, if you think it best, dear. Harry, for Heaven’s sake be a man.”“It’s all over now,” he groaned, “so better end it all. I wish I was dead. I wish I was dead.”“But, Harry, dear,” she whispered, trembling now as much as he, “tell me what to do.”“I can’t now,” he said; “I’m too weak and broken. All this has been so maddening that I’m like some poor wretch half killed by drink. It’s too late now.”“No, no, Harry, dear. It shall be our secret then. Up, and be a man, my brave, true brother, and you shall go and redeem yourself. Yes, I’ll suffer it all hopefully, for the future shall make amends, dear. You shall go across to France, and I will study my father’s comfort, and pray nightly for you.”“Too late,” he moaned—“too late!”She looked at him wildly. The long strain upon his nerves had been too great, and he was white as a sheet, and shaking violently.“Harry, dear, tell me what to do.”“Let them take me,” he said weakly. “It’s of no use.”“Hush!” she said, full now of a wild desire to save him from disgrace and to aid him in his efforts to redeem the past. “Let me think. Yes: you want money.”Full of the recollection of his former appeal, she took out her keys, opened a drawer, while he half knelt, half crouched upon the carpet. She had not much there, and, whispering to him to wait, she left the room, locking him in, and ran up to her chamber.Harry started as he heard the snap made by the lock; but he subsided again in a helpless state, and with the disease that had been hanging about waiting to make its grand attack gradually sapping its way.In five minutes Louise was back.“I have not much money,” she whispered hastily; “but here are my watch, two chains, and all the jewels I have, dear. They are worth a great deal.”“Too late!” he moaned as he gazed up at her piteously, and for the moment he was delirious, as a sudden flush of fever suffused his cheeks.“It is not too late,” she said firmly. “Take them. Now tell me what next to do.”“What next?” he said vacantly.“Yes. You must not stay here. My father may return at any time. Brother—Harry—shall I get you some clothes?”“No—no,” he said mournfully. “I shall want no more clothes.”“Harry!” she cried, taking his face between her hands, and drawing it round so that the light fell upon it; “are you ill?”“Ill? yes,” he said feebly. “I’ve felt it before—in the wet cave—fever, I suppose. Lou, dear, is it very hard to die?”“Oh, what shall I do?” cried the agitated girl, half frantic now. “Harry, you are not very ill?”“Only sometimes,” he said slowly, as he looked round. “I seem to lose my head a bit, and then something seems to hold me back.”“Harry!”“Yes,” he cried, starting up; “who called? You, Louie, money—give me some money.”“I gave you all I have, dear, and my jewels.”“Yes, I forgot,” he said huskily, as in a moment his whole manner had changed, and with feverish energy he felt for the trinkets she had given him.“You are ill, dear,” she whispered tenderly. “Would it not be better to let me fetch our father?”“I’d sooner die,” he cried, catching her wrist. “No. He shall not know. There, I can see clearly now. That horrible weakness is always taking me now, and when it’s on I feel as if I should kill myself.”“Harry!”“Hush! I know now. We must go before he comes back.”“We?” she said aghast.“Yes, we. I’m not fit to be alone. You must come with me, Lou, and help me. If I go alone I shall go mad.”“Oh, Harry! my darling brother.”“Yes,” he cried in a hoarse whisper; “I know I shall. It’s too horrible to live alone, as I’ve been living. You must come with me and save me—from myself—from everybody. Why do you look at me like that?”He caught her by the shoulder, and glared at her with a long, fierce stare.“I—I could not leave home, Harry,” she said faintly.“You must, you shall,” he cried, “unless you want me to really die.”“But my father, dear?”“Quick! write!” he said with the feverish energy which frightened her; and dragging open the blotter on a side table, he pointed to a chair.“He is mad—he is mad,” she wailed to herself, as, in obedience to a will far stronger at that moment than her own, she sat down and took up pen and paper.“Write,” he said hoarsely.“Write, Harry?”“Yes, quick!”In a horror of dread as she read her brother’s wild looks, and took in his feverish semi-delirium, lest he should carry out a threat which chilled her, she dipped her pen and waited as, after an evident struggle with a clouding intellect, Harry said quickly—“Dear father, I am forced by circumstances to leave home. Do not grieve for me, I am well and happy; and no matter what you hear, do not attempt to follow me. If you do you will bring sorrow upon yourself, and ruin upon one I love. Good-bye; some day all will be cleared up. Till then, your loving daughter, Louise.”“Harry!” she sobbed, as she laid down the pen, and gazed at the tear-blurred paper. “You cannot mean this. I dare not—I could not go.”“Very well,” he said coldly. “I told you it was too late. It does not matter now.”“Oh,” she panted, “you are not reasonable. I have given you money. Go as you said and hide somewhere. You are weak and ill now.”“Yes,” he said, in a voice which wrung her heart. “I am weak and ill now.”“A little rest, dear, and the knowledge that you have the means of escaping will make you more calm.”He looked at her with his eyes so full of wild anger that she half shrank from him, but his face changed.“Poor little sis!” he said tenderly; “I frighten you. Look at me. Am I fit to go away alone? I know—I feel that at any moment I may break down and go off my head amongst strangers.”She looked at him wildly, and as she stood trembling there in a state of agitation which overset her generally calm balance, she read in his eyes that he was speaking the truth.“Put that note in an envelope and direct it,” he said in a slow, measured way, and mechanically, and as if for the time being his will was again stronger than hers, she obeyed him, dropped the letter on the table, and then stood gazing from it to her brother and back again.“It’s hard upon you,” he said, with his hand to his head, as if he could think more clearly then, “hard upon the poor old dad. But it seems my only chance, Lou, my girl.”Father—brother—what should she do?“I can feel it now,” he said drearily. “There, I’m cool now. It’s lying in that cold, wet cave, and the horrors I’ve gone through. I’ve got something coming on—had touches of it before—in the nights,” he went on slowly and heavily; “p’r’aps it ’ll kill me—better if it does.”“No, no, Harry. Stay and let me nurse you here. We could keep it a secret from every one, and—”“Hold your tongue!” he said fiercely. “I might live—if I went away—where I could feel—I was safe. I can’t face the old man again. It would kill me. There, it’s too much to ask you—what’s that?”Louise started to the door. Harry dashed to the window, and his manner was so wild and excited that she darted after him to draw him away.“Nothing, dear, it is your fancy. There, listen, there is no one coming.”He looked at her doubtingly, and listened as she drew him from the window.“I thought I heard them coming,” he said. “Some one must have seen me crawl up here. Coming to take me—to gaol.”“No, no, dear. You are ill, and fancy all this. Now come and listen to me. It would be so wild, so cruel if I were to leave my home like this. Harry! be reasonable, dear. Your alarm is magnified because you are ill. Let me—no, no, don’t be angry with me—let me speak to my father—take him into our confidence, and he will help you.”“No,” he said sternly.“Let me make him happy by the knowledge that you are alive.”“And come upon him like a curse,” said Harry, as there was a tap at the door, which neither heard in the excitement of the moment, for, eager to help him, and trembling lest he should, in the excited state he was, go alone, Louise threw herself upon her knees at her brother’s feet.“Be guided by me, dearest,” she sobbed, in a low pained voice. “You know how I love you, how I would die if it were necessary to save you from suffering; but don’t—pray don’t ask me to go away from poor father in such a way as this.”As she spoke a burst of hysteric sobbing accompanied her words; and then, as she raised her tear-blinded eyes, she saw that which filled her with horror. Uttering a faint cry, she threw herself before her brother, as if to shield him from arrest.Duncan Leslie was standing in the open doorway, and at her action he took a stride fiercely into the room.Harry’s back was half turned toward him, but he caught a glimpse of the figure in the broad mirror of an old dressoir, and with one sweep of his arm dashed the light over upon the floor.The heavy lamp fell with a crash of broken glass, and as Louise stood clinging to her brother, there was a dead silence as well as darkness in the room.

Trembling, her eyes dilated with horror, Louise Vine stood watching the dimly-seen pleading face for some moments before her lips could form words, and her reason tell her that it was rank folly and superstition to stand trembling there.

“Harry!” she whispered, “alone? yes.”

“Hah!” he ejaculated, and thrusting in his hands he climbed into the room.

Louise gazed wildly at the rough-looking figure in sea-stained old pea-jacket and damaged cap, hair unkempt, and a hollow look in eye and cheek that, joined with the ghastly colourless skin, was quite enough to foster the idea that this was one risen from the grave.

“Don’t be scared,” he said harshly, “I’m not dead after all.”

“Harry! my darling brother.”

That was all in words, but with a low, moaning cry Louise had thrown her soft arms about his neck and covered his damp cold face with her kisses, while the tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Then there is some one left to—My darling sis!” He began in a half-cynical way, but the genuine embrace was contagious, and clasping her to his breast, he had to fight hard to keep back his own tears and sobs as he returned her kisses.

Then the fugitive’s dread of the law and of discovery reasserted itself, and pushing her back, he said quickly—

“Where is father?”

“At Mr Van Heldre’s. Let me—”

“Hush! answer my questions. Where is Aunt Marguerite?”

“Gone to bed, dear.”

“And the servants?”

“In the kitchen. They will not come without I ring. But, Harry—brother—we thought you dead—we thought you dead.”

“Hush! Louie, for Heaven’s sake! You’ll ruin me,” he whispered, as she burst into a fit of uncontrollable sobbing, so violent at times that he grew alarmed.

“We thought you dead—we thought you dead.”

It was all she could say as she clung to him, and looked wildly from door to window and back.

“Louie!” he whispered at last passionately, “I must escape. Be quiet, or you will be heard.”

By a tremendous effort she mastered her emotion, and tightening her grasp upon him, she set her teeth hard, compressed her lips, and stood with contracted brow gazing in his eyes.

“Now?” he said, “can you listen?”

She nodded her head, and her wild eyes seemed so questioning, that he said quickly—

“I can’t tell you much. You know I can swim well.”

She nodded silently.

“Well, I rose after my dive and let the current carry me away till I swam ashore three miles away, and I’ve been in hiding in one of the zorns.”

“Oh, my brother!” she answered.

“Waiting till it was safe to come out.”

“But, Harry!” she paused; “we—my father—we all believed you dead. How could you be so—”

She stopped.

“Cruel?” he said firmly. “Wouldn’t it have been more cruel to be dragged off to prison and disgrace you more?”

“But—”

“Hush! I tell you I have been in hiding. They think me dead?”

“Yes; they found you—”

“Hush, I tell you. I have no time to explain. Let them go on thinking me dead.”

“But, Harry!” she cried; “my poor broken-hearted father—Madelaine.”

“Hold your tongue!” he said in a broken voice, “unless you want to drive me mad.”

He paused, for his face was working; but at last with a stamp he controlled his emotion.

“Look here,” he said hoarsely. “I had no one to come to but you. Will you help me?”

“Harry!” she whispered reproachfully, as she clung to him more firmly.

“Hah! that’s better,” he said. “Now don’t talk, only listen. But are you sure that we shall not be overheard?”

“Quite, dear; we are alone.”

“Then listen. I have thought all this out. I’ve been a blackguard; I did knock old Van Heldre down.”

Louise moaned.

“But once more I tell you I’m not a thief. I did not rob him, and I did not go to rob him. I swear it.”

“I believe you, Harry,” she whispered.

“Well, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.”

She nodded again, unable to speak, but clung to him spasmodically, for everything seemed to swim round before her eyes.

“I am penniless. There, that proves to you I did not rob poor old Van. I want money—enough to escape over to France—to get to London first. Then I shall change my name. Don’t be alarmed,” he said tremblingly, as he felt Louise start. “I shall give up the name of Vine, but I’m not going to call myself Des Vignes, or any of that cursed folly.”

“Harry!”

“All right, dear. It made me mad to think of it all. I’ve come to my senses now, and I’m going over the Channel to make a fresh start and to try and prove myself a man. Some day when I’ve done this father shall know that I am alive, and perhaps then he may take me by the hand and forgive me.”

“Harry, let me send for him—let me tell him now.”

“No,” said the young man sternly.

“He loves you! He will forgive you, and bless God for restoring you once more, as I do, my darling. Oh, Harry, Harry! My brother!”

“Hush!” he whispered, with his voice trembling as he held her to him and stroked her face. “Hush, sis, hush!”

“Then I may send for him?”

“No, no, no!” he cried fiercely. “I am little better than a convict. He must not, he shall not know I am alive.”

“But, Harry, dearest—”

“Silence!” he whispered angrily; “I came to you, my sister, for help. No, no, dear, I’m not cross; but you talk like a woman. The dear old dad would forgive me, God bless him! I know he would, just as you have, and fall on my neck and kiss me as—as—as—Ah! Lou, Lou, Lou, my girl,” he cried, fighting against his emotion, “the law will not be like your love. You must help me to escape, at all events for a time.”

“And may I tell him where you are gone—my father and Maddy?”

“Hush!” he cried, in so wild and strange a voice that she shrank from him. “Do you want to unman me when I have planned my future, and then see me handcuffed and taken to gaol? No: Harry Vine is dead. Some day another man will come and ask the forgiveness he needs.”

“Harry!”

“But not this shivering, cowardly cur—a man, a true blameless man, whom it will take years to make. Now, then, once more, will you help me, and keep my secret?” Louise was silent for a few moments. “Well, never mind, you must keep my secret, for after I am gone if you said you had seen me, people would tell you that you were mad.”

“I will help you, Harry, and keep your secret, dear—even,” she added to herself, “if it breaks my heart.”

“That’s right. We’ve wasted too much time in talking as it is, and—”

“But, Harry—Madelaine—she loves you.” He wrested himself from her violently, and stood with his hands pressed to his head. A few moments before he had been firm and determined, but the agonised thought of Madelaine and of giving her up for ever had ended the fictitious strength which had enabled him to go so far.

It was the result of his long agony shut up in that cave; and though he struggled hard he could do no more, but completely unnerved, trembling violently, and glancing wildly from time to time at the door and window, he sank at his sister’s feet and clutched her knees.

“Harry, Harry!” she whispered—she, the stronger now—“for Heaven’s sake don’t give way like that.”

“It’s all over now. I’m dead beat; I can do no more.”

“Then let me go to father; let me fetch him from Van Heldre’s.”

“Yes,” he moaned; “and while you are gone I’ll go down to the end of the point and jump in. This time I shall be too weak to swim.”

“Harry, don’t talk like that!” she cried, embracing him, as she saw with horror the pitiable, trembling state in which he was.

“I can’t help it,” he whispered as he clung to her now like a frightened child, and looked wildly at the door. “You don’t know what I’ve suffered, buried alive in that cave, and expecting the sea to come in and drown me. It has been one long horror.”

“But, Harry, dear, you are safe now.”

“Safe?” he groaned; “yes, to be taken by the first policeman I meet, and locked up in gaol.”

“But, Harry!” she cried, his agitation growing contagious, “I have promised. I will help you now. I’ll keep it a secret, if you think it best, dear. Harry, for Heaven’s sake be a man.”

“It’s all over now,” he groaned, “so better end it all. I wish I was dead. I wish I was dead.”

“But, Harry, dear,” she whispered, trembling now as much as he, “tell me what to do.”

“I can’t now,” he said; “I’m too weak and broken. All this has been so maddening that I’m like some poor wretch half killed by drink. It’s too late now.”

“No, no, Harry, dear. It shall be our secret then. Up, and be a man, my brave, true brother, and you shall go and redeem yourself. Yes, I’ll suffer it all hopefully, for the future shall make amends, dear. You shall go across to France, and I will study my father’s comfort, and pray nightly for you.”

“Too late,” he moaned—“too late!”

She looked at him wildly. The long strain upon his nerves had been too great, and he was white as a sheet, and shaking violently.

“Harry, dear, tell me what to do.”

“Let them take me,” he said weakly. “It’s of no use.”

“Hush!” she said, full now of a wild desire to save him from disgrace and to aid him in his efforts to redeem the past. “Let me think. Yes: you want money.”

Full of the recollection of his former appeal, she took out her keys, opened a drawer, while he half knelt, half crouched upon the carpet. She had not much there, and, whispering to him to wait, she left the room, locking him in, and ran up to her chamber.

Harry started as he heard the snap made by the lock; but he subsided again in a helpless state, and with the disease that had been hanging about waiting to make its grand attack gradually sapping its way.

In five minutes Louise was back.

“I have not much money,” she whispered hastily; “but here are my watch, two chains, and all the jewels I have, dear. They are worth a great deal.”

“Too late!” he moaned as he gazed up at her piteously, and for the moment he was delirious, as a sudden flush of fever suffused his cheeks.

“It is not too late,” she said firmly. “Take them. Now tell me what next to do.”

“What next?” he said vacantly.

“Yes. You must not stay here. My father may return at any time. Brother—Harry—shall I get you some clothes?”

“No—no,” he said mournfully. “I shall want no more clothes.”

“Harry!” she cried, taking his face between her hands, and drawing it round so that the light fell upon it; “are you ill?”

“Ill? yes,” he said feebly. “I’ve felt it before—in the wet cave—fever, I suppose. Lou, dear, is it very hard to die?”

“Oh, what shall I do?” cried the agitated girl, half frantic now. “Harry, you are not very ill?”

“Only sometimes,” he said slowly, as he looked round. “I seem to lose my head a bit, and then something seems to hold me back.”

“Harry!”

“Yes,” he cried, starting up; “who called? You, Louie, money—give me some money.”

“I gave you all I have, dear, and my jewels.”

“Yes, I forgot,” he said huskily, as in a moment his whole manner had changed, and with feverish energy he felt for the trinkets she had given him.

“You are ill, dear,” she whispered tenderly. “Would it not be better to let me fetch our father?”

“I’d sooner die,” he cried, catching her wrist. “No. He shall not know. There, I can see clearly now. That horrible weakness is always taking me now, and when it’s on I feel as if I should kill myself.”

“Harry!”

“Hush! I know now. We must go before he comes back.”

“We?” she said aghast.

“Yes, we. I’m not fit to be alone. You must come with me, Lou, and help me. If I go alone I shall go mad.”

“Oh, Harry! my darling brother.”

“Yes,” he cried in a hoarse whisper; “I know I shall. It’s too horrible to live alone, as I’ve been living. You must come with me and save me—from myself—from everybody. Why do you look at me like that?”

He caught her by the shoulder, and glared at her with a long, fierce stare.

“I—I could not leave home, Harry,” she said faintly.

“You must, you shall,” he cried, “unless you want me to really die.”

“But my father, dear?”

“Quick! write!” he said with the feverish energy which frightened her; and dragging open the blotter on a side table, he pointed to a chair.

“He is mad—he is mad,” she wailed to herself, as, in obedience to a will far stronger at that moment than her own, she sat down and took up pen and paper.

“Write,” he said hoarsely.

“Write, Harry?”

“Yes, quick!”

In a horror of dread as she read her brother’s wild looks, and took in his feverish semi-delirium, lest he should carry out a threat which chilled her, she dipped her pen and waited as, after an evident struggle with a clouding intellect, Harry said quickly—

“Dear father, I am forced by circumstances to leave home. Do not grieve for me, I am well and happy; and no matter what you hear, do not attempt to follow me. If you do you will bring sorrow upon yourself, and ruin upon one I love. Good-bye; some day all will be cleared up. Till then, your loving daughter, Louise.”

“Harry!” she sobbed, as she laid down the pen, and gazed at the tear-blurred paper. “You cannot mean this. I dare not—I could not go.”

“Very well,” he said coldly. “I told you it was too late. It does not matter now.”

“Oh,” she panted, “you are not reasonable. I have given you money. Go as you said and hide somewhere. You are weak and ill now.”

“Yes,” he said, in a voice which wrung her heart. “I am weak and ill now.”

“A little rest, dear, and the knowledge that you have the means of escaping will make you more calm.”

He looked at her with his eyes so full of wild anger that she half shrank from him, but his face changed.

“Poor little sis!” he said tenderly; “I frighten you. Look at me. Am I fit to go away alone? I know—I feel that at any moment I may break down and go off my head amongst strangers.”

She looked at him wildly, and as she stood trembling there in a state of agitation which overset her generally calm balance, she read in his eyes that he was speaking the truth.

“Put that note in an envelope and direct it,” he said in a slow, measured way, and mechanically, and as if for the time being his will was again stronger than hers, she obeyed him, dropped the letter on the table, and then stood gazing from it to her brother and back again.

“It’s hard upon you,” he said, with his hand to his head, as if he could think more clearly then, “hard upon the poor old dad. But it seems my only chance, Lou, my girl.”

Father—brother—what should she do?

“I can feel it now,” he said drearily. “There, I’m cool now. It’s lying in that cold, wet cave, and the horrors I’ve gone through. I’ve got something coming on—had touches of it before—in the nights,” he went on slowly and heavily; “p’r’aps it ’ll kill me—better if it does.”

“No, no, Harry. Stay and let me nurse you here. We could keep it a secret from every one, and—”

“Hold your tongue!” he said fiercely. “I might live—if I went away—where I could feel—I was safe. I can’t face the old man again. It would kill me. There, it’s too much to ask you—what’s that?”

Louise started to the door. Harry dashed to the window, and his manner was so wild and excited that she darted after him to draw him away.

“Nothing, dear, it is your fancy. There, listen, there is no one coming.”

He looked at her doubtingly, and listened as she drew him from the window.

“I thought I heard them coming,” he said. “Some one must have seen me crawl up here. Coming to take me—to gaol.”

“No, no, dear. You are ill, and fancy all this. Now come and listen to me. It would be so wild, so cruel if I were to leave my home like this. Harry! be reasonable, dear. Your alarm is magnified because you are ill. Let me—no, no, don’t be angry with me—let me speak to my father—take him into our confidence, and he will help you.”

“No,” he said sternly.

“Let me make him happy by the knowledge that you are alive.”

“And come upon him like a curse,” said Harry, as there was a tap at the door, which neither heard in the excitement of the moment, for, eager to help him, and trembling lest he should, in the excited state he was, go alone, Louise threw herself upon her knees at her brother’s feet.

“Be guided by me, dearest,” she sobbed, in a low pained voice. “You know how I love you, how I would die if it were necessary to save you from suffering; but don’t—pray don’t ask me to go away from poor father in such a way as this.”

As she spoke a burst of hysteric sobbing accompanied her words; and then, as she raised her tear-blinded eyes, she saw that which filled her with horror. Uttering a faint cry, she threw herself before her brother, as if to shield him from arrest.

Duncan Leslie was standing in the open doorway, and at her action he took a stride fiercely into the room.

Harry’s back was half turned toward him, but he caught a glimpse of the figure in the broad mirror of an old dressoir, and with one sweep of his arm dashed the light over upon the floor.

The heavy lamp fell with a crash of broken glass, and as Louise stood clinging to her brother, there was a dead silence as well as darkness in the room.

Volume Three—Chapter Six.The Plant Aunt Marguerite Grew.As Duncan Leslie walked up the steep path leading to the old granite house he could not help thinking of the absurdity of his act, and wondering whether Louise Vine and her father would see how much easier it would have been for him to call at Van Heldre’s.“Can’t help it,” he said. “The old man must think what he likes. Laugh at me in his sleeve? Well, let him. I shan’t be the first man in love who has been laughed at.”“In love, man, in love! How stupid it sounds; and I suppose I am weak.”“Human nature!” he said after a pause; and he walked very fast.Then he began to walk very slowly, as a feeling of hesitation came over him, and he asked himself whether the Vines would not feel his coming as an intrusion, and be annoyed.“She can’t be annoyed,” he said half aloud. “She may think it unfortunate, but she knows I love her, and she is too true and sweet a woman to be hard upon me.”With the full intention of going boldly to the house, and trying to act in a frank, manly way, letting Louise see that he was going to be patient and earnest, he again strode on rapidly, but only to hesitate again and stop by one of the great masses of rock which occurred here and there along the shelf-like slope cut from the side of the towering hill.Here he rested his arms upon the shaggy stone and stood gazing out to sea, the darkness looking wonderfully transparent and pure. From where he stood the harbour was at his feet, and he could see a spark-like light here and there in cottage or boat, and a dull glow from some open doorway on the opposite side of the estuary.The red light at the end of the east pier sent a ruddy stain out to sea, and there was another light farther out just rocking gently to and fro, and as it caught his eye he shuddered, for it shone out softly, as did the light of the lugger on the night when Harry Vine took that terrible leap.“Poor weak boy,” said Leslie to himself. And then, “The more need for her to have one in whom she can confide; only I must be patient—patient.”He turned with a sigh, and began to walk back, for in his indecision the feeling was in him strong now that a call would be an intrusion, and that he must be content to wait. By the time he was fifty yards down the path the desire to see Louise again was stronger than ever, and he walked back to the stone, leaned over it, and stood thinking. After a few minutes he turned sharply round and looked, for he heard a heavy step as of a man approaching, but directly after, as he remained quiescent, he just made out that it was not a man’s step, but that of a sturdy fisherwoman, who seemed in the gloom to resemble Poll Perrow, but he could not be sure, and forgot the incident as soon as she passed. By the time the steps had died out, Duncan Leslie’s mind was fully made up; and, following the woman, he walked firmly up to the gateway, entered, and, reaching the hall door, which stood open, he rang. He waited for some time, listening to a low murmur of voices in the dining-room, and then rang again. There was no reply, consequent upon the fact that Liza was at the back gate, to which she had been summoned by her mother, who had come up in trouble, and was asking her questions whose bearing she could not understand.Leslie’s courage and patience began to fail, but he still waited, and then at last changed colour, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks, for there was a peculiarity in the conversation going on in the dining-room, and it seemed to him that some one was agitated and in pain.He turned away so as to force himself not to hear, feeling that he was an interloper, and then, in spite of himself, he returned to find that the sounds had grown louder, and as if involuntarily agitated and troubled more than he would have cared to own, he rang again and then entered the hall.He hesitated for a few moments, and then certain from the voices that there was something strange, and divining wrongly or rightly from the tones of one of the voices—a voice which thrilled him as he stood there trembling with excitement—that the woman he loved needed help, he threw aside all hesitation, and turned the handle of the door.The words which fell upon his ear, the scene he saw of Louise kneeling at some strange, rough-looking man’s feet, sent the blood surging up to his brain, rendering him incapable of calm thought, and turned the ordinarily patient, deliberative man into a being wrought almost to a pitch of madness.It did not occur to him that he was an intruder, and that he had no right to make such a demand, but taking a stride forward, he exclaimed—“Louise! who is this man?” as the lamp was swept from the table, and they were in darkness.For a few moments no one spoke, and Louise stood clinging to her brother, trembling violently, and at her wits’ end to know what to do.The simple way out of the difficulty would have been to take Duncan Leslie into their confidence at once; but in her agitation, Louise shrank from that. She knew his stern integrity; she had often heard of his firmness with his mine people; and she feared that in his surprise and disgust at what seemed to her now little better than a trick played by her brother to deceive them, Leslie would turn against him and refuse to keep the secret.On the other hand, Harry, suffering from a fresh access of dread, but now strung up and excited, placed his lips to her ear and bade her be silent on her life.The silence was for a few moments terrible, and then Harry’s breath could be heard coming and going as if he had been hunted, while Louise, in her agony of excitement, sought vainly for words that should put an end to the painful encounter.No one moved; and in the midst of the nervous strain a sharp puff of wind came sweeping up from the sea, like theavant gardeof a storm, and the casement window was blown to with a loud clang.Harry started as if he had felt that his retreat was cut off, but he kept his face averted, and dragged his rough hat down over his eyes, though the action was unnecessary, for the darkness was too great for him to be recognised.As he started Louise clung to him, and for the moment he struggled to escape from her, but he clung to her the next instant, and quivered with fear as the silence was broken by Leslie’s voice, so cold, deep, and harsh that it seemed as if a stranger was speaking.“I suppose I have no right to interfere,” he said; “but there are times when a man forgets or puts aside etiquette, and there are reasons here why I should speak. Miss Vine, where is your father?”Louise made an effort to reply, but there was only a spasmodic catching of her breath.“Send him away. Tell him to go,” whispered Harry.“I said, where is your father, Miss Vine?” said Leslie again more coldly.“At—at Mr Van Heldre’s,” she murmured at last. “Mr Leslie—pray—”“I am your father’s friend, and I should not be doing my duty—ah! my duty—to myself,” he cried angrily, “if I did not speak plainly. Does Mr Vine know that this gentleman is here?”“No,” said Louise, in an almost inaudible voice, and in the contagion of her brother’s fear she seemed to see him once more hunted down by the officers of justice; and the terrible scene on the pier danced before her eyes.“So I suppose,” said Leslie coldly.“Send him away,” whispered Harry hoarsely.“It is not in Miss Louise Vine’s power to send me away, sir,” cried Leslie fiercely; and the poor trembling girl felt her brother start once more.“You, sir, are here, by her confession, clandestinely. You are a scoundrel and a cur, who dare not show your face, or you would not have dashed out that light.”Harry made a harsh guttural sound, such as might be uttered by a beast at bay.“Who are you? I need not ask your object in coming here. I could not help hearing.”“Tell him to go away,” said Harry sharply, speaking in French to disguise his voice.“Mr Leslie, pray, pray go. This is a private visit. I beg you will go.”“Private enough,” said Leslie bitterly; “and once more I say you may think I have no right to interfere. I give up all claims that I might have thought I had upon you, but as your father’s friend I will not stand calmly by and see wrong done his child. Speak out, sir; who are you? Let’s hear your name, if you are ashamed to show your face.”“Tell him to go away,” said Harry again.Leslie writhed, for Aunt Marguerite’s hints about the French gentleman of good descent came up now as if to sting him. This man he felt, in his blind rage, was the noble suitor who in his nobility stooped to come in the darkness to try and persuade a weak girl to leave her home; and as he thought this it was all he could do, hot-blooded, madly jealous and excited, to keep from flinging himself upon the supposed rival, the unworthy lover of the woman he had worshipped with all the strength of a man’s first passion.“I can’t talk to him in his wretched tongue,” cried Leslie, fiercely; “but I understand his meaning. Perhaps he may comprehend mine. No. I shall not go. I shall not leave this room till Mr Vine returns. He can answer to your father, or I will, if I have done wrong.”“Mr Leslie!” cried Louise, “you don’t know what you are doing—what you say. Pray—pray go.”“When my old friend George Vine tells me I have done wrong, and I have seen you safe in his care.”“No, no. Go now, now!” cried Louise.Leslie drew a deep breath and his heart beat heavily in the agony and despair he felt. She loved this man, this contemptible wretch who had gained such ascendancy over her that she was pleading in his behalf, and trying to screen him from her father’s anger.“Mr Leslie. Do you hear me?” she cried, taking courage now in her despair and dread lest her father should return.“Yes,” he said coldly, “I hear you, Miss Vine; and it would be better for you to retire, and leave this man with me.”“No, no,” she cried excitedly. “Mr Leslie! you are intruding here. This is a liberty. I desire you to go.”“When Mr Vine comes back,” said Leslie sternly. “If I have done wrong, then no apology shall be too humble for me to speak. But till he comes I stay. I have heard too much. I may have been mad in indulging in those vain hopes, but if that is all dead there still remains too much honour and respect for the woman I knew in happier times for me to stand by and let her wrong herself by accompanying this man.”“Mr Leslie, you are mistaken.”“I am not.”“Indeed—indeed!”“Prove it then,” he cried, in stern judicial tones. “I am open to conviction. You love this man?” Louise was silent. “He was begging you to accompany him in flight.” Louise uttered a low wail. “Hah!” ejaculated Leslie, “I am right.”“No, no; it is all a misapprehension,” cried Louise excitedly. “Mr Leslie, this—”“Hold your tongue,” whispered Harry hoarsely, and she moaned as she writhed in spirit.“There are reasons why my father should not know of this visit.”“So I suppose,” said Leslie sternly; “and you ask me to be a partner by giving way to a second blow to that true-hearted, trusting man. Louise Vine, is it you who are speaking, or has this man put these cruelly base words in your mouth?”“What can I say? What can I do?” wailed Louise, wringing her hands, as with every sense on the strain she listened for her father’s step.Harry, who now that the first shock had passed was rapidly growing more calm and calculating, bent down over his sister, and whispered to her again in French to go quickly, and get her hat and mantle.“He will not dare to stop us,” he said.Louise drew a long breath full of pain, for it seemed to be the only way to save her brother. She must go; and, taking a step or two she made for the door.“No,” said Leslie calmly, “it is better that you should stay, Miss Vine.”Harry was at her side in a moment.“Never mind your hat,” he whispered in French; “we must go at once.”“Stand back, sir!” cried Leslie, springing to the door. “Your every act shows you to be a base scoundrel. You may not understand my words, but you can understand my action. I am here by this door to keep it till Mr Vine returns. For the lady’s sake, let there be no violence.”“Mr Leslie, let us pass!” cried Louise imperiously, but he paid no heed to her, continuing to address his supposed rival in calm, judicial tones, which did not express the wild rage seething in his heart.“I say once more, sir, let there be no violence—for your own sake—for hers.”Harry continued to advance, with Louise’s hand in his, till Leslie had pressed close to the door.“Once more I warn you,” said Leslie, “for I swear by Heaven you shall not pass while I can lift a hand.”At that moment, in the obscurity, Louise felt her hand dropped, and she reeled to the side of the room, as now, with a fierce, harsh sound, Harry sprang at Leslie’s throat, pushed him back against the door in his sudden onslaught, and then wrenched him away.“Quick, Louise!” he cried in French. “The door!”Louise recovered herself and darted to the door, the handle rattling in her grasp. But she did not open it. She stood as if paralysed, her eyes staring and lips parted, gazing wildly at the two dimly-seen shadows which moved here and there across the casement frames in a curiously weird manner, to the accompaniment of harsh, panting sounds, the dull tramping of feet, heavy breathing, and the quick, sharp ejaculations of angry men.Then a fresh chill of horror shot through her, as there was a momentary cessation of the sounds, and Leslie panted,“Hah! then you give in, sir!” The apparent resignation of his adversary had thrown him off his guard, and the next moment Harry had sprung at him, and with his whole weight borne him backwards, so that he fell with his head upon the bare patch of the hearthstone.There was the sound of a terrible blow, a faint rustling, and then, as Louise stood there like one in a nightmare, she was roused to action by her brother’s words.“Quick!” he whispered, in a hoarse, panting way. “Your hat and mantle. Not a moment to lose!”The nightmare-like sensation was at an end, but it was still all like being in a dream to Louise, as, forced against her own will by the effort of one more potent, she ran up to her own room, and catching up a bonnet and a loose cloak, she ran down again.“You have killed him,” she whispered.“Pish! stunned. Quick, or I shall be caught.”He seized her wrist, and hurried her out of the front door just as Liza went in at the back, after a long whispered quarrel with her mother, who was steadily plodding down towards the town as brother and sister stepped out.“What’s that? some one in front?” whispered Harry, stopping short. “Here, this way.”“Harry!” moaned his sister, as he drew her sidewise and began to climb up the rough side of the path so as to reach the rugged land above.“It is the only chance,” he said hastily. “Quick!”She followed him, half climbing, half dragged, till she was up on the granite-strewn waste, across which he hurried her, reckless of the jagged masses of rock that were always cropping up in their way, and of the fact that in three places farther along, once fenced in by stones, which had since crumbled down, were, one after the other, the openings to three disused mines, each a terrible yawning chasm, with certain death by drowning for the unfortunate who was plunged into their depths.

As Duncan Leslie walked up the steep path leading to the old granite house he could not help thinking of the absurdity of his act, and wondering whether Louise Vine and her father would see how much easier it would have been for him to call at Van Heldre’s.

“Can’t help it,” he said. “The old man must think what he likes. Laugh at me in his sleeve? Well, let him. I shan’t be the first man in love who has been laughed at.”

“In love, man, in love! How stupid it sounds; and I suppose I am weak.”

“Human nature!” he said after a pause; and he walked very fast.

Then he began to walk very slowly, as a feeling of hesitation came over him, and he asked himself whether the Vines would not feel his coming as an intrusion, and be annoyed.

“She can’t be annoyed,” he said half aloud. “She may think it unfortunate, but she knows I love her, and she is too true and sweet a woman to be hard upon me.”

With the full intention of going boldly to the house, and trying to act in a frank, manly way, letting Louise see that he was going to be patient and earnest, he again strode on rapidly, but only to hesitate again and stop by one of the great masses of rock which occurred here and there along the shelf-like slope cut from the side of the towering hill.

Here he rested his arms upon the shaggy stone and stood gazing out to sea, the darkness looking wonderfully transparent and pure. From where he stood the harbour was at his feet, and he could see a spark-like light here and there in cottage or boat, and a dull glow from some open doorway on the opposite side of the estuary.

The red light at the end of the east pier sent a ruddy stain out to sea, and there was another light farther out just rocking gently to and fro, and as it caught his eye he shuddered, for it shone out softly, as did the light of the lugger on the night when Harry Vine took that terrible leap.

“Poor weak boy,” said Leslie to himself. And then, “The more need for her to have one in whom she can confide; only I must be patient—patient.”

He turned with a sigh, and began to walk back, for in his indecision the feeling was in him strong now that a call would be an intrusion, and that he must be content to wait. By the time he was fifty yards down the path the desire to see Louise again was stronger than ever, and he walked back to the stone, leaned over it, and stood thinking. After a few minutes he turned sharply round and looked, for he heard a heavy step as of a man approaching, but directly after, as he remained quiescent, he just made out that it was not a man’s step, but that of a sturdy fisherwoman, who seemed in the gloom to resemble Poll Perrow, but he could not be sure, and forgot the incident as soon as she passed. By the time the steps had died out, Duncan Leslie’s mind was fully made up; and, following the woman, he walked firmly up to the gateway, entered, and, reaching the hall door, which stood open, he rang. He waited for some time, listening to a low murmur of voices in the dining-room, and then rang again. There was no reply, consequent upon the fact that Liza was at the back gate, to which she had been summoned by her mother, who had come up in trouble, and was asking her questions whose bearing she could not understand.

Leslie’s courage and patience began to fail, but he still waited, and then at last changed colour, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks, for there was a peculiarity in the conversation going on in the dining-room, and it seemed to him that some one was agitated and in pain.

He turned away so as to force himself not to hear, feeling that he was an interloper, and then, in spite of himself, he returned to find that the sounds had grown louder, and as if involuntarily agitated and troubled more than he would have cared to own, he rang again and then entered the hall.

He hesitated for a few moments, and then certain from the voices that there was something strange, and divining wrongly or rightly from the tones of one of the voices—a voice which thrilled him as he stood there trembling with excitement—that the woman he loved needed help, he threw aside all hesitation, and turned the handle of the door.

The words which fell upon his ear, the scene he saw of Louise kneeling at some strange, rough-looking man’s feet, sent the blood surging up to his brain, rendering him incapable of calm thought, and turned the ordinarily patient, deliberative man into a being wrought almost to a pitch of madness.

It did not occur to him that he was an intruder, and that he had no right to make such a demand, but taking a stride forward, he exclaimed—

“Louise! who is this man?” as the lamp was swept from the table, and they were in darkness.

For a few moments no one spoke, and Louise stood clinging to her brother, trembling violently, and at her wits’ end to know what to do.

The simple way out of the difficulty would have been to take Duncan Leslie into their confidence at once; but in her agitation, Louise shrank from that. She knew his stern integrity; she had often heard of his firmness with his mine people; and she feared that in his surprise and disgust at what seemed to her now little better than a trick played by her brother to deceive them, Leslie would turn against him and refuse to keep the secret.

On the other hand, Harry, suffering from a fresh access of dread, but now strung up and excited, placed his lips to her ear and bade her be silent on her life.

The silence was for a few moments terrible, and then Harry’s breath could be heard coming and going as if he had been hunted, while Louise, in her agony of excitement, sought vainly for words that should put an end to the painful encounter.

No one moved; and in the midst of the nervous strain a sharp puff of wind came sweeping up from the sea, like theavant gardeof a storm, and the casement window was blown to with a loud clang.

Harry started as if he had felt that his retreat was cut off, but he kept his face averted, and dragged his rough hat down over his eyes, though the action was unnecessary, for the darkness was too great for him to be recognised.

As he started Louise clung to him, and for the moment he struggled to escape from her, but he clung to her the next instant, and quivered with fear as the silence was broken by Leslie’s voice, so cold, deep, and harsh that it seemed as if a stranger was speaking.

“I suppose I have no right to interfere,” he said; “but there are times when a man forgets or puts aside etiquette, and there are reasons here why I should speak. Miss Vine, where is your father?”

Louise made an effort to reply, but there was only a spasmodic catching of her breath.

“Send him away. Tell him to go,” whispered Harry.

“I said, where is your father, Miss Vine?” said Leslie again more coldly.

“At—at Mr Van Heldre’s,” she murmured at last. “Mr Leslie—pray—”

“I am your father’s friend, and I should not be doing my duty—ah! my duty—to myself,” he cried angrily, “if I did not speak plainly. Does Mr Vine know that this gentleman is here?”

“No,” said Louise, in an almost inaudible voice, and in the contagion of her brother’s fear she seemed to see him once more hunted down by the officers of justice; and the terrible scene on the pier danced before her eyes.

“So I suppose,” said Leslie coldly.

“Send him away,” whispered Harry hoarsely.

“It is not in Miss Louise Vine’s power to send me away, sir,” cried Leslie fiercely; and the poor trembling girl felt her brother start once more.

“You, sir, are here, by her confession, clandestinely. You are a scoundrel and a cur, who dare not show your face, or you would not have dashed out that light.”

Harry made a harsh guttural sound, such as might be uttered by a beast at bay.

“Who are you? I need not ask your object in coming here. I could not help hearing.”

“Tell him to go away,” said Harry sharply, speaking in French to disguise his voice.

“Mr Leslie, pray, pray go. This is a private visit. I beg you will go.”

“Private enough,” said Leslie bitterly; “and once more I say you may think I have no right to interfere. I give up all claims that I might have thought I had upon you, but as your father’s friend I will not stand calmly by and see wrong done his child. Speak out, sir; who are you? Let’s hear your name, if you are ashamed to show your face.”

“Tell him to go away,” said Harry again.

Leslie writhed, for Aunt Marguerite’s hints about the French gentleman of good descent came up now as if to sting him. This man he felt, in his blind rage, was the noble suitor who in his nobility stooped to come in the darkness to try and persuade a weak girl to leave her home; and as he thought this it was all he could do, hot-blooded, madly jealous and excited, to keep from flinging himself upon the supposed rival, the unworthy lover of the woman he had worshipped with all the strength of a man’s first passion.

“I can’t talk to him in his wretched tongue,” cried Leslie, fiercely; “but I understand his meaning. Perhaps he may comprehend mine. No. I shall not go. I shall not leave this room till Mr Vine returns. He can answer to your father, or I will, if I have done wrong.”

“Mr Leslie!” cried Louise, “you don’t know what you are doing—what you say. Pray—pray go.”

“When my old friend George Vine tells me I have done wrong, and I have seen you safe in his care.”

“No, no. Go now, now!” cried Louise.

Leslie drew a deep breath and his heart beat heavily in the agony and despair he felt. She loved this man, this contemptible wretch who had gained such ascendancy over her that she was pleading in his behalf, and trying to screen him from her father’s anger.

“Mr Leslie. Do you hear me?” she cried, taking courage now in her despair and dread lest her father should return.

“Yes,” he said coldly, “I hear you, Miss Vine; and it would be better for you to retire, and leave this man with me.”

“No, no,” she cried excitedly. “Mr Leslie! you are intruding here. This is a liberty. I desire you to go.”

“When Mr Vine comes back,” said Leslie sternly. “If I have done wrong, then no apology shall be too humble for me to speak. But till he comes I stay. I have heard too much. I may have been mad in indulging in those vain hopes, but if that is all dead there still remains too much honour and respect for the woman I knew in happier times for me to stand by and let her wrong herself by accompanying this man.”

“Mr Leslie, you are mistaken.”

“I am not.”

“Indeed—indeed!”

“Prove it then,” he cried, in stern judicial tones. “I am open to conviction. You love this man?” Louise was silent. “He was begging you to accompany him in flight.” Louise uttered a low wail. “Hah!” ejaculated Leslie, “I am right.”

“No, no; it is all a misapprehension,” cried Louise excitedly. “Mr Leslie, this—”

“Hold your tongue,” whispered Harry hoarsely, and she moaned as she writhed in spirit.

“There are reasons why my father should not know of this visit.”

“So I suppose,” said Leslie sternly; “and you ask me to be a partner by giving way to a second blow to that true-hearted, trusting man. Louise Vine, is it you who are speaking, or has this man put these cruelly base words in your mouth?”

“What can I say? What can I do?” wailed Louise, wringing her hands, as with every sense on the strain she listened for her father’s step.

Harry, who now that the first shock had passed was rapidly growing more calm and calculating, bent down over his sister, and whispered to her again in French to go quickly, and get her hat and mantle.

“He will not dare to stop us,” he said.

Louise drew a long breath full of pain, for it seemed to be the only way to save her brother. She must go; and, taking a step or two she made for the door.

“No,” said Leslie calmly, “it is better that you should stay, Miss Vine.”

Harry was at her side in a moment.

“Never mind your hat,” he whispered in French; “we must go at once.”

“Stand back, sir!” cried Leslie, springing to the door. “Your every act shows you to be a base scoundrel. You may not understand my words, but you can understand my action. I am here by this door to keep it till Mr Vine returns. For the lady’s sake, let there be no violence.”

“Mr Leslie, let us pass!” cried Louise imperiously, but he paid no heed to her, continuing to address his supposed rival in calm, judicial tones, which did not express the wild rage seething in his heart.

“I say once more, sir, let there be no violence—for your own sake—for hers.”

Harry continued to advance, with Louise’s hand in his, till Leslie had pressed close to the door.

“Once more I warn you,” said Leslie, “for I swear by Heaven you shall not pass while I can lift a hand.”

At that moment, in the obscurity, Louise felt her hand dropped, and she reeled to the side of the room, as now, with a fierce, harsh sound, Harry sprang at Leslie’s throat, pushed him back against the door in his sudden onslaught, and then wrenched him away.

“Quick, Louise!” he cried in French. “The door!”

Louise recovered herself and darted to the door, the handle rattling in her grasp. But she did not open it. She stood as if paralysed, her eyes staring and lips parted, gazing wildly at the two dimly-seen shadows which moved here and there across the casement frames in a curiously weird manner, to the accompaniment of harsh, panting sounds, the dull tramping of feet, heavy breathing, and the quick, sharp ejaculations of angry men.

Then a fresh chill of horror shot through her, as there was a momentary cessation of the sounds, and Leslie panted,

“Hah! then you give in, sir!” The apparent resignation of his adversary had thrown him off his guard, and the next moment Harry had sprung at him, and with his whole weight borne him backwards, so that he fell with his head upon the bare patch of the hearthstone.

There was the sound of a terrible blow, a faint rustling, and then, as Louise stood there like one in a nightmare, she was roused to action by her brother’s words.

“Quick!” he whispered, in a hoarse, panting way. “Your hat and mantle. Not a moment to lose!”

The nightmare-like sensation was at an end, but it was still all like being in a dream to Louise, as, forced against her own will by the effort of one more potent, she ran up to her own room, and catching up a bonnet and a loose cloak, she ran down again.

“You have killed him,” she whispered.

“Pish! stunned. Quick, or I shall be caught.”

He seized her wrist, and hurried her out of the front door just as Liza went in at the back, after a long whispered quarrel with her mother, who was steadily plodding down towards the town as brother and sister stepped out.

“What’s that? some one in front?” whispered Harry, stopping short. “Here, this way.”

“Harry!” moaned his sister, as he drew her sidewise and began to climb up the rough side of the path so as to reach the rugged land above.

“It is the only chance,” he said hastily. “Quick!”

She followed him, half climbing, half dragged, till she was up on the granite-strewn waste, across which he hurried her, reckless of the jagged masses of rock that were always cropping up in their way, and of the fact that in three places farther along, once fenced in by stones, which had since crumbled down, were, one after the other, the openings to three disused mines, each a terrible yawning chasm, with certain death by drowning for the unfortunate who was plunged into their depths.

Volume Three—Chapter Seven.After the Great Sorrows.“No, no, no, Mr Vine—I mean no, no, no, George Vine,” sobbed Mrs Van Heldre; “I did, I know, feel bitter and full of hatred against one who could be so base as to raise his hand against my loving, forbearing husband; but that was when I was in misery and despair. Do you think that now God has blessed us by sparing his life and restoring him to us, I could be so thankless, so hard and wicked as to bear malice?”“You are very, very good,” said Vine sadly.“I wish I was,” said Mrs Van Heldre, with a comic look of perplexity on her pretty elderly countenance, “but I’m not, George, I’m a very curious woman.”“You are one of the best and most amiable creatures that ever existed,” said Vine, taking her hand and kissing it.“I try to be good-tempered and to do my best,” said the little woman with a sigh, “but I’m very weak and stupid; and I know that is the one redeeming point in my character, I can feel what a weak woman I am.”“Thank God you are what you are,” said Vine reverently. “If I had had such a wife spared to me all these years, that terrible catastrophe would not have occurred.”“And you, George Vine, thank God, too, for sparing to you the best and most loving daughter that ever lived. Now, now, now, don’t look like that. I wanted to tell you how fond and patient John always has been with me, and Maddy too, when I have said and done weak and silly things. For I do, you know, sometimes. Ah, it’s no use for you to shake your head, and pretend you never noticed it. You must.”“I hope you will never change,” said Vine with a sad smile.“Ah, that’s better,” cried Mrs Van Heldre. “I’m glad to see you smile again, for Louie’s sake, for our sake; and now, once for all, never come into our house again, my dear old friend and brother, looking constrained. John has had long, long talks with me and Maddy.”“Yes,” cried Vine excitedly. “What did he say?”Mrs Van Heldre took his hand and held it.“He said,” she whispered slowly, “that it grieved and pained him to see you come to his bedside looking as if you felt that we blamed you for what has passed. He said you had far more cause to blame him.”“No, no,” said Vine hastily. “I do not blame him. It was fate—it was fate.”“It wasn’t anything of the kind,” said Mrs Van Heldre sharply; “it was that stupid, obstinate, bigoted, wrong-headed old fellow Crampton.”“Who felt that he owed a duty to his master, and did that duty.”“Oh!” sighed the little woman with a look of perplexity in her puckered-up forehead, “I told you that I was a very stupid woman. I wanted to make you more cheerful and contented, and see what I have done!”“How can I be cheerful and contented, my good little woman?” said Vine sadly. “There, there! I shall be glad when a couple of years have gone.”“Why?” said Mrs Van Heldre sharply.“Because I shall either be better able to bear my burden or be quite at rest.”“George Vine!” exclaimed Mrs Van Heldre reproachfully. “Is that you speaking? Louise—remember Louise.”“Ah, yes,” he said sadly, but sat gazing dreamily before him. “Louise. If it had not been for her—”He did not finish his sentence.“Come, my dear. John will be expecting you for a long chat. Try and be more hopeful, and don’t go up to him looking like that. Doctor Knatchbull said we were to make him as cheerful as we could, and to keep him from thinking about the past. He did say, too, that we were not to let you see him much. There—”Poor little Mrs Van Heldre looked more perplexed than ever, and now burst into tears. “He said that? The doctor said that?”“Yes; but did you ever hear such a silly woman in your life? To go and blurt out such a thing as that to you!”“He was quite right—quite right,” said Vine hastily; “and I’ll be very careful not to say or do anything to depress him. Poor John! Do you think he is awake now?”“No,” said Mrs Van Heldre, wiping her eyes. “Maddy is with him, and she will come down directly he wakes.”At that moment there was a ring, and on the door being opened the servant announced Luke Vine.“Hallo!” he said, coming in after his usual unceremonious fashion. “How is he?”“Very, very much better, Luke Vine,” said Mrs Van Heldre. “George is going up to see him as soon as he wakes.”“George? My brother George! Oh, you’re there, are you? How are you, George? How’s the girl?”“Sit down, Luke Vine.”“No, thank you, ma’am. Sit too much as it is. Don’t get enough exercise.”“You shall go up and see John, as soon as he wakes.”“No, thankye. What’s the use? I couldn’t do him any good. One’s getting old now. No time to spare. Pity to waste what’s left.”“Well, I’m sure,” said Mrs Van Heldre, bridling. “Of all men to talk like that, you ought to be the last. I’ll go up and see whether he is awake.”“Poor little woman,” said Uncle Luke, as she left the room. “Always puts me in mind, George, of a pink and white bantam hen.”“As good a little woman as ever breathed, Luke.”“Yes, of course; but it’s comic to see her ruffle up her feathers and go off in a huff. How’s Lou?”“Not very well, Luke. Poor girl, she frets. I shall have to take her away.”“Rubbish! She’ll be all right directly. Women have no brains.”George Vine looked up at him with an air of mild reproof.“All tears and doldrums one day; high jinks and coquetry the next. Marry, and forget all about you in a week.”“Luke, my dear brother, you do not mean this.”“Don’t soap, George. I hate to be called my dear brother. Now, do I look like a dear brother?”“I shall never forget your goodness to us over our terrible trouble.”“Will you be quiet? Hang it all, George! don’t be such an idiot. Let the past be. The poor foolish boy is dead; let him rest. Don’t be for ever digging up the old sorrow, to brood over it and try to hatch fresh. The eggs may not be addled, and you might be successful. Plenty of trouble without making more.”“I do not wish to make more, Luke; but you hurt me when you speak so lightly of Louise.”“A jade! I hate her.”“No, you do not.”“Yes, I do. Here’s Duncan Leslie, as good a fellow as ever stepped, who has stuck to her through thick and thin, in spite of my lady’s powder, and fan, and her insults.”“Marguerite has been very sharp and spiteful to Mr Leslie,” said George Vine sadly.“She’s mad. Well, he wants to marry the girl, and she has pitched him over.”“Has Louise refused him?”“He doesn’t say so; but I saw him, and that’s enough. Of course I know that at present—et cetera, et cetera: but the girl wants a husband: all girls do. There was one for her, and she is playingstand offwith him. Just like woman. He! he! he! he!” He uttered a sneering laugh. “Going to marry Madge’s French count, I suppose—Monsieur le Comte de Mythville. There, I can’t help it, George, old lad; it makes me wild. Shake hands, old chap. Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings; but between ourselves, though I’ve never shown it to a soul, I was rather hit upon the idea of Leslie marrying Louise.”“I had thought it possible,” said George Vine, with a sigh.“Her fault. Hang it all, George, be a man, and bestir yourself.”“I am trying, brother Luke.”“That’s right, lad; and for goodness’ sake put down your foot and keep Margaret in her place. Louie is soft now with trouble, and that wicked old woman will try to work her and mould her into what shape she pleases. You’ve had enough of Margaret.”“I have tried to do my duty by our sister.”“You’ve done more, my lad. Now take care that she leaves Louie alone. You don’t want another old maid of her pattern in the family.”“John is awake now, George Vine,” said Mrs Van Heldre, re-entering the room. “Will you go up?”“Yes, I’ll go up,” said George Vine quietly.“Well, aren’t I to be asked to see him?” grumbled Uncle Luke.“Oh, what a strange man you are!” said Mrs Van Heldre; “you know I wanted you to go up.”“No, I don’t; I know you asked me to go up. Different thing altogether.”“I did want you to go. I felt that it would cheer up poor John.”“Well, don’t be cross about it, woman. Ask me again.”Mrs Van Heldre turned with a smile to George Vine, as much as to say, “Did you ever hear such an unreasonable being?”“Rum one, aren’t I, John’s wife, eh?” said Uncle Luke grimly. “Good little woman, after all.”“After all!” ejaculated Mrs Van Heldre, as she followed them into the room, and then stopped back. “Too many of us at once can’t be good, so I must stay down,” she added, with a sigh.Crossing to the table where her bird’s cage was standing, she completely removed the cover, now displaying a pink and grey ball of feathers upon the perch, her action having been so gentle that the bird’s rest was not disturbed.“Poor little prisoner!” she said gently. “There, you may wake up to-morrow morning and pipe and sing in the bright sunshine, for we can bear it now—thank God! we can bear it now.”

“No, no, no, Mr Vine—I mean no, no, no, George Vine,” sobbed Mrs Van Heldre; “I did, I know, feel bitter and full of hatred against one who could be so base as to raise his hand against my loving, forbearing husband; but that was when I was in misery and despair. Do you think that now God has blessed us by sparing his life and restoring him to us, I could be so thankless, so hard and wicked as to bear malice?”

“You are very, very good,” said Vine sadly.

“I wish I was,” said Mrs Van Heldre, with a comic look of perplexity on her pretty elderly countenance, “but I’m not, George, I’m a very curious woman.”

“You are one of the best and most amiable creatures that ever existed,” said Vine, taking her hand and kissing it.

“I try to be good-tempered and to do my best,” said the little woman with a sigh, “but I’m very weak and stupid; and I know that is the one redeeming point in my character, I can feel what a weak woman I am.”

“Thank God you are what you are,” said Vine reverently. “If I had had such a wife spared to me all these years, that terrible catastrophe would not have occurred.”

“And you, George Vine, thank God, too, for sparing to you the best and most loving daughter that ever lived. Now, now, now, don’t look like that. I wanted to tell you how fond and patient John always has been with me, and Maddy too, when I have said and done weak and silly things. For I do, you know, sometimes. Ah, it’s no use for you to shake your head, and pretend you never noticed it. You must.”

“I hope you will never change,” said Vine with a sad smile.

“Ah, that’s better,” cried Mrs Van Heldre. “I’m glad to see you smile again, for Louie’s sake, for our sake; and now, once for all, never come into our house again, my dear old friend and brother, looking constrained. John has had long, long talks with me and Maddy.”

“Yes,” cried Vine excitedly. “What did he say?”

Mrs Van Heldre took his hand and held it.

“He said,” she whispered slowly, “that it grieved and pained him to see you come to his bedside looking as if you felt that we blamed you for what has passed. He said you had far more cause to blame him.”

“No, no,” said Vine hastily. “I do not blame him. It was fate—it was fate.”

“It wasn’t anything of the kind,” said Mrs Van Heldre sharply; “it was that stupid, obstinate, bigoted, wrong-headed old fellow Crampton.”

“Who felt that he owed a duty to his master, and did that duty.”

“Oh!” sighed the little woman with a look of perplexity in her puckered-up forehead, “I told you that I was a very stupid woman. I wanted to make you more cheerful and contented, and see what I have done!”

“How can I be cheerful and contented, my good little woman?” said Vine sadly. “There, there! I shall be glad when a couple of years have gone.”

“Why?” said Mrs Van Heldre sharply.

“Because I shall either be better able to bear my burden or be quite at rest.”

“George Vine!” exclaimed Mrs Van Heldre reproachfully. “Is that you speaking? Louise—remember Louise.”

“Ah, yes,” he said sadly, but sat gazing dreamily before him. “Louise. If it had not been for her—”

He did not finish his sentence.

“Come, my dear. John will be expecting you for a long chat. Try and be more hopeful, and don’t go up to him looking like that. Doctor Knatchbull said we were to make him as cheerful as we could, and to keep him from thinking about the past. He did say, too, that we were not to let you see him much. There—”

Poor little Mrs Van Heldre looked more perplexed than ever, and now burst into tears. “He said that? The doctor said that?”

“Yes; but did you ever hear such a silly woman in your life? To go and blurt out such a thing as that to you!”

“He was quite right—quite right,” said Vine hastily; “and I’ll be very careful not to say or do anything to depress him. Poor John! Do you think he is awake now?”

“No,” said Mrs Van Heldre, wiping her eyes. “Maddy is with him, and she will come down directly he wakes.”

At that moment there was a ring, and on the door being opened the servant announced Luke Vine.

“Hallo!” he said, coming in after his usual unceremonious fashion. “How is he?”

“Very, very much better, Luke Vine,” said Mrs Van Heldre. “George is going up to see him as soon as he wakes.”

“George? My brother George! Oh, you’re there, are you? How are you, George? How’s the girl?”

“Sit down, Luke Vine.”

“No, thank you, ma’am. Sit too much as it is. Don’t get enough exercise.”

“You shall go up and see John, as soon as he wakes.”

“No, thankye. What’s the use? I couldn’t do him any good. One’s getting old now. No time to spare. Pity to waste what’s left.”

“Well, I’m sure,” said Mrs Van Heldre, bridling. “Of all men to talk like that, you ought to be the last. I’ll go up and see whether he is awake.”

“Poor little woman,” said Uncle Luke, as she left the room. “Always puts me in mind, George, of a pink and white bantam hen.”

“As good a little woman as ever breathed, Luke.”

“Yes, of course; but it’s comic to see her ruffle up her feathers and go off in a huff. How’s Lou?”

“Not very well, Luke. Poor girl, she frets. I shall have to take her away.”

“Rubbish! She’ll be all right directly. Women have no brains.”

George Vine looked up at him with an air of mild reproof.

“All tears and doldrums one day; high jinks and coquetry the next. Marry, and forget all about you in a week.”

“Luke, my dear brother, you do not mean this.”

“Don’t soap, George. I hate to be called my dear brother. Now, do I look like a dear brother?”

“I shall never forget your goodness to us over our terrible trouble.”

“Will you be quiet? Hang it all, George! don’t be such an idiot. Let the past be. The poor foolish boy is dead; let him rest. Don’t be for ever digging up the old sorrow, to brood over it and try to hatch fresh. The eggs may not be addled, and you might be successful. Plenty of trouble without making more.”

“I do not wish to make more, Luke; but you hurt me when you speak so lightly of Louise.”

“A jade! I hate her.”

“No, you do not.”

“Yes, I do. Here’s Duncan Leslie, as good a fellow as ever stepped, who has stuck to her through thick and thin, in spite of my lady’s powder, and fan, and her insults.”

“Marguerite has been very sharp and spiteful to Mr Leslie,” said George Vine sadly.

“She’s mad. Well, he wants to marry the girl, and she has pitched him over.”

“Has Louise refused him?”

“He doesn’t say so; but I saw him, and that’s enough. Of course I know that at present—et cetera, et cetera: but the girl wants a husband: all girls do. There was one for her, and she is playingstand offwith him. Just like woman. He! he! he! he!” He uttered a sneering laugh. “Going to marry Madge’s French count, I suppose—Monsieur le Comte de Mythville. There, I can’t help it, George, old lad; it makes me wild. Shake hands, old chap. Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings; but between ourselves, though I’ve never shown it to a soul, I was rather hit upon the idea of Leslie marrying Louise.”

“I had thought it possible,” said George Vine, with a sigh.

“Her fault. Hang it all, George, be a man, and bestir yourself.”

“I am trying, brother Luke.”

“That’s right, lad; and for goodness’ sake put down your foot and keep Margaret in her place. Louie is soft now with trouble, and that wicked old woman will try to work her and mould her into what shape she pleases. You’ve had enough of Margaret.”

“I have tried to do my duty by our sister.”

“You’ve done more, my lad. Now take care that she leaves Louie alone. You don’t want another old maid of her pattern in the family.”

“John is awake now, George Vine,” said Mrs Van Heldre, re-entering the room. “Will you go up?”

“Yes, I’ll go up,” said George Vine quietly.

“Well, aren’t I to be asked to see him?” grumbled Uncle Luke.

“Oh, what a strange man you are!” said Mrs Van Heldre; “you know I wanted you to go up.”

“No, I don’t; I know you asked me to go up. Different thing altogether.”

“I did want you to go. I felt that it would cheer up poor John.”

“Well, don’t be cross about it, woman. Ask me again.”

Mrs Van Heldre turned with a smile to George Vine, as much as to say, “Did you ever hear such an unreasonable being?”

“Rum one, aren’t I, John’s wife, eh?” said Uncle Luke grimly. “Good little woman, after all.”

“After all!” ejaculated Mrs Van Heldre, as she followed them into the room, and then stopped back. “Too many of us at once can’t be good, so I must stay down,” she added, with a sigh.

Crossing to the table where her bird’s cage was standing, she completely removed the cover, now displaying a pink and grey ball of feathers upon the perch, her action having been so gentle that the bird’s rest was not disturbed.

“Poor little prisoner!” she said gently. “There, you may wake up to-morrow morning and pipe and sing in the bright sunshine, for we can bear it now—thank God! we can bear it now.”

Volume Three—Chapter Eight.The Discovery.Madelaine rose as the brothers entered the room, and before coming to the bed, where Van Heldre lay rapidly mending now, George Vine took the girl’s hands, looked down in her pale face, which sorrow seemed to have refined, and bent down and kissed her.“How are you, Maddy?” said Luke Vine, gruffly; and he was going on to the bed, but Madelaine laid her hand upon his shoulder, leant towards him, and kissed him.“Hah! yes, forgot,” he said, brushing her forehead roughly with his grey beard; and then, yielding to a sudden impulse, kissing the girl tenderly. “How I do hate girls!” he muttered to himself, as he went straight to the window and stood there for a few moments.“Poor lad!” he said to himself. “Yes, hopeless, or a girl like that would have redeemed him.”He turned back from the window.“Room too hot and stuffy,” he said. “Well, how are you, John?”“Getting well fast,” replied Van Heldre, shaking hands. “Splendid fish that was you sent me to-day; delicious.”“Humph! all very fine! Shilling or fifteen-pence out of pocket,” grumbled Uncle Luke.“Get out!” said Van Heldre, after a keen look at George Vine. “Poll Perrow wouldn’t have given you more than ninepence for a fish like that. It’s wholesale, Luke, wholesale.”“Ah! you may grin and wink at George,” grumbled Uncle Luke, “but times are getting hard.”“They are, old fellow, and we shall be having you in the workhouse, if we can’t manage to get you to the Victoria Park place.”“Here, come away, George,” snarled Uncle Luke. “He’s better. Beginning to sneer. Temper’s getting very bad now, I suppose, my dear?” he added to Madelaine.“Terrible. Leads me a dreadful life, Uncle Luke,” she said, putting her arm round Van Heldre’s neck to lay her cheek against his brow for a moment or two before turning to leave the room.“Cant and carny,” said Uncle Luke. “Don’t you believe her, John Van; she’ll be coming to you for money to-morrow—bless her,” he addedsotto voce; then aloud, “What now?”For Madelaine had gone behind his chair, and placed her hands upon his shoulders.“It’s all waste of breath, Uncle Luke,” she said gently. “We found you out a long time ago, Louise and I.”“What do you mean?”“All this pretended cynicism. It’s a mere disguise.”“An ass in the lion’s skin, eh?”“No, Uncle Luke,” she whispered, with her lips close to his ear, so that the others should not catch the words, “that is the wrong way, sir. Reverse the fable.”“What do you mean, hussy?”“The dear old lion in the ass’s skin,” she whispered; “and whenever you try to bray it is always a good honest roar.”“Well, of all—”He did not finish, for Madelaine had hurried from the room, but a grim smile came over his cynical countenance, and he rubbed his hands softly as if he was pleased. Then, drawing his chair nearer to the bed, he joined in the conversation at rare intervals, the subjects chosen being all as foreign as possible from the past troubles, till Mrs Van Heldre came softly into the room.“I am Doctor Knatchbull’s deputy,” she said; “and my orders are not to let John excite himself.”“All nonsense, my dear,” said Van Heldre.“She is quite right, John,” said George Vine, rising.“Quite right,” said Uncle Luke, following his brother’s example. “Keep him quiet. Make haste and get well. Good-night. Come, George.”He was at the door by the time he had finished his speech, and without pausing to shake hands began to descend.Madelaine came out of the drawing-room as the old man reached the hail.“What do you think of him?” she said eagerly.“Going backwards—dying fast,” he said shortly. “Oh!”“Don’t be a little goose,” he cried, catching her in his arms as she reeled. “We all are; especially people over fifty. Bonny little nurse. You’ve done wonders. Good-night, my dear; God bless you!”She returned his loving fatherly kiss, given hastily, as if he were ashamed of his weakness, and then he strode out into the dark night.“Poor Uncle Luke!” she said softly. “I was right. He must have had some shock to change his life like this. Good-night, dear Mr Vine. My dearest love to Louie.”“Good-night, my darling,” he whispered huskily, and the next minute he was walking slowly away beside his brother in the direction of the turning up to the granite house.“Good-night, Luke,” said George Vine. “It is of no use to say come up.”“Yes, it is,” said Uncle Luke snappishly. “I want to see Louie, and have a decent cup of tea.”“I am very glad,” said his brother warmly. “Hah! that’s right. Come more often, Luke. We are getting old men now, and it’s pleasant to talk of the days when we were boys.”“And be driven from the place by Madge with her pounce-box and her civet-cat airs. You kick her out, and I’ll come often.”“Poor Marguerite!”“There you go; encouraging the silly French notions. Why can’t you call her Margaret, like a British Christian?”“Let her finish her span in peace, brother,” said George Vine, whose visit to his old friend seemed to have brightened him, and made voice and step elastic. “We are crotchety and strange too, I with my mollusc hobby, you with your fishing.”“If you want to quarrel, I’m not coming up.”“Yes you are, Luke. There, come often, and let poor Margaret say what she likes. We shall have done our duty by her, so that will be enough for us.”“Hang duty! I’m getting sick of duty. No matter what one does, or how one tries to live in peace and be left alone, there is always duty flying in one’s face.”“Confession of failure, Luke,” said his brother, taking his arm. “You had given up ordinary social life, invested your property, sent your plate to your banker’s, and settled down to the life of the humblest cottager, to, as you say, escape the troubles of every-day life.”“Yes, and I’ve escaped ’em—roguish tradespeople, household anxieties, worries out of number.”“In other words,” said Vine, smiling, “done everything you could to avoid doing your duty, and for result you have found that trouble comes to your cottage in some form or another as frequently as it does to my big house.”Uncle Luke stopped short, and gave his stick a thump on the path.“I have done, Luke,” said Vine quietly. “Come along; Louise will think we are very long.”“Louise will be very glad to have had an hour or two to herself without you pottering about her. Hah! what idiots we men are, fancying that the women are looking out for us from our point of view when they are looking out from theirs for fear of being surprised, and—”“Here we are, Luke. Come in, my clear boy.”Uncle Luke grunted.“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, “it’s getting late. Perhaps I had better not come in now.”“The tea will be waiting,” said his brother, holding his arm lightly as he rang.“Horribly dark for my walk back afterwards,” grumbled Uncle Luke. “Really dangerous place all along there by the cliff. No business to be out at night. Ought to be at home.”“Tea ready, Liza?” said George Vine, as the door was opened, and the pleasant glow from the hall shone upon them in a way that, in spite of his assumed cynicism, looked tempting and attractive to Uncle Luke.“Miss Louise hasn’t rung for the urn yet, sir.”“Hah! that will do. Give me your hat, Luke.”“Bah! nonsense! Think I can’t hang up my own hat now.”George Vine smiled, and he shook his head at his brother with a good-humoured smile as he let him follow his own bent.“That’s right. Come along. Louie dear, I’ve brought Uncle Luke up to tea. All dark? Liza, bring the lamp.”Liza had passed through the baize-covered door which separated the domestic offices from the rest of the house, and did not hear the order.“Louie! Louie dear!”“Oh! I don’t mind the dark,” said Uncle Luke. “Here, why don’t the girl let in some air these hot nights?” he continued, as he crossed the room towards the big embayment, with its stained glass heraldic device.Crack!crackle!“Hullo here! broken glass under one’s feet,” said Luke Vine, with a chuckle. “This comes of having plenty of servants to keep your place clean.”“Glass?”“Yes, glass. Can’t you hear it?” snarled Uncle Luke, who, as he found his brother resume his old demeanour, relapsed into his own. “There! glass—glass—glass crunching into your Turkey carpet.”As he spoke he gave his foot a stamp, with the result that at each movement there was a sharp crackling sound.“It’s very strange. Louise!”“Oh!”A low, piteous moan.“What’s that?” cried Uncle Luke sharply.George Vine stood in the darkness paralysed with dread. Some fresh trouble had befallen his house—some new horror assailed him; and his hand wandered vaguely about in search of support as a terrible feeling of sickness came over him, and he muttered hoarsely, “Louise! my child! my child!”Luke Vine was alarmed, but he did not lose his presence of mind.“Margaret—a fit,” he said to himself, as, turning quickly, his foot kicked against another portion of the lamp-globe, which tinkled loudly as it fell to pieces.He brushed by his brother, hurrying out into the hall, to return directly bearing the lamp which stood on a bracket, and holding it high above his head as he stepped carefully across the carpet.“There! there!” whispered George Vine, pointing towards the fireplace, where he could see a figure lying athwart the hearth-rug.Then, as Luke held the light higher, George Vine seemed to recover his own presence of mind, and going down on one knee as he bent over, he turned the face of the prostrate man to the light.“Duncan Leslie!” cried Uncle Luke excitedly, as he quickly set down the lamp and knelt on the other side. “Where’s Louie? The poor boy’s in a fit.”“No, no,” whispered his brother hoarsely. “Look! look!”Luke drew in a quick, hissing breath.“Call Louie,” he said sharply. “Tell her to bring something to bind up his head—scissors, sponge, and water.”“Has he been struck down?” faltered George Vine, with the thought of his old friend rushing to his mind.“No, no. Don’t talk. Here, your handkerchief, man,” said Luke, who was far the more matter-of-fact. “A fall. Head cut. Slip on the cliff, I suppose, and he has come here for help.”Taking the handkerchief passed to him by his brother, he rapidly bound it round the place where a deep cut was slowly welling, while George Vine dragged sharply at the bell, and then ran to the door and called, “Louise! Louise!”Liza came hurrying into the hall, round-eyed and startled.“Where is your mistress?” cried Vine.“Miss Louise, sir? Isn’t she there?”“No. Go up to her room and fetch her. Perhaps she is with Miss Vine.”“I’ll go and see, sir,” said the girl wonderingly; and she ran up-stairs.“Help me to get him on the sofa, George,” said Uncle Luke; and together they placed the injured man with his head resting on a cushion.“Now, then, I think we had better have Knatchbull. He must have had a nasty fall. Send your girl; or no, I’ll go myself.”“No,” said Leslie feebly; “don’t go.”“Ah: that’s better. You heard what I said?”“Yes; what you said.”It was a feeble whisper, and as the brothers bent over the injured man, they could see that he was gazing wildly at them with a face full of horror and despair.“I’ll trot down and fetch Knatchbull,” whispered Uncle Luke.“No.”The negative came from Leslie, who was lying back with his eyes closed, and it was so decisive that the brothers paused.At that moment Liza entered the room.“She isn’t up-stairs, sir.—Ow!”The girl had caught sight of Leslie’s ghastly face, and she uttered an excited howl, and thrust her fingers into her ears.Leslie looked up at George Vine vacantly for a moment, and then light seemed to come to his clouded brain, and his lips moved.“Say it again,” said Vine, bending over him.“Send—her—away,” whispered the injured man.“Yes, of course. Liza, go and wait—no; get a basin of water, sponge, and towel, and bring them when I ring.”The girl looked at him wildly, but she had not heard his words; and Uncle Luke put an end to the difficulty by taking her arm and leading her into the hall.“Go and get sponge and basin. Mr Leslie has fallen and hurt himself. Now, don’t be stupid. You needn’t cry.”The girl snatched her arm away and ran through the baize door.“Just like a woman!” muttered Uncle Luke as he went back; “no use when she’s wanted. Well, how is he?”Leslie heard the whisper, and turned his eyes upon him with a look of recognition.“Better,” he whispered. “Faint—water.”George Vine opened the cellarette, and gave him a little brandy, whose reviving power proved wonderful. But after heaving a deep sigh, he lay back with his forehead puckered.“Hadn’t I better fetch Knatchbull, my lad?” said Uncle Luke gruffly, but with a kindly ring in his voice. “Cut on the back of your head. He’d soon patch it up.”“No. Better soon,” said Leslie in a low voice. “Let me think.”“Be on the look out,” whispered Uncle Luke to his brother. “Better not let Louise come in.”Leslie’s eyes opened quickly, and he gazed from one to the other.“Better not let her see you till you are better,” said Uncle Luke, taking the injured man into their confidence.A piteous sigh escaped from Leslie, and he closed his eyes tightly.“Poor boy!” said Uncle Luke, “he must have had an ugly fall. Missed his way in the dark, I suppose. George, you’ll have to keep him here to-night.”“Yes, yes, of course,” said George Vine uneasily, for his ears were on the strain to catch his child’s step, and her absence troubled him.All at once Leslie made an effort to sit up, but a giddy sensation overcame him, and he sank back, staring at them wildly.“Don’t be alarmed,” said George Vine kindly. “You are faint. That’s better.”Leslie lay still for a few moments, and then made a fresh effort to sit up. This time it was with more success.“Give him a little more brandy,” whispered Uncle Luke.“No; he is feverish, and it may do harm. Yes,” he said to Leslie, as the injured man grasped his arm, “you want to tell us how you fell down.”“No,” said Leslie quickly, but in a faint voice, “I did not fall. It was in the struggle.”“Struggle?” cried Uncle Luke. “Were you attacked?”Leslie nodded quickly.“Where? Along the road?”“No,” said Leslie hoarsely; “here.”“Here?” exclaimed the brothers in a breath; and then they exchanged glances, each silently saying to the other, “The poor fellow is wandering.”“There,” said Leslie, “I can think clearly now. It all seemed like a dream. You must know, Mr Vine. I must tell you,” he added piteously. “Mr Vine, what do you propose doing?”“Hush!” said George Vine, laying his hand upon the young man’s shoulder, “you are ill and excited now. Don’t talk at present. Wait a little while.”“Wait?” cried Leslie, growing more excited. “You do not know what you are saying. How long have I been lying here? What time is it?”“About nine,” said Vine kindly. “Come, come, lie back for a few moments. We’ll get some cold water, and bathe your temples.”“Man, you will drive me mad,” cried Leslie. “Do you not—no, you have not understood yet. Louise—Miss Vine!”George Vine staggered as if he had been struck, and his brother caught his arm as he stood there gasping, with his hand to his throat.“What do you mean?” cried Uncle Luke sternly.“I am sick and faint,” said Leslie, pressing his hands to his brow, as if unable to think clearly. “I remember now. I came in to ask about Mr Van Heldre, and a stranger was with Miss Vine. I tried to stop him—till you returned. We struggled, and he threw me. I recollect no more.”“You’re mad!” said Uncle Luke savagely. “Where is Louise?”His brother caught hold of the back of a chair to support himself, and his lips moved, but no sound came.“Yes, I can recollect it all clearly now,” panted Leslie. “You must know!”And he told them all.They heard him in silence, devouring his words, and from time to time exchanging a hurried glance of inquiry.“Bah!” ejaculated Uncle Luke, as the young man finished. Then, changing his manner, “Yes, of course. There, lie back, my lad, and tell us again after you’ve had a rest.”“No, no,” cried Leslie passionately, “it is wasting time. She was forced to go. She was imploring him to let her stay when I came in, and they must be miles away by now. For Heaven’s sake do something before it is too late.”“A Frenchman?” said Uncle Luke eagerly.“Yes; he spoke to her in French, as well as in English.”“And did my niece speak to him in French?”“No; she was appealing to him in English, but he spoke at times in French.”“Do you hear this, George? Has Louise a French friend?”“No,” cried her father angrily, “it is a delusion.”“I would to Heaven it were,” groaned Leslie, “I would to Heaven it were!”George Vine crossed to the bell-pull, and rang sharply, repeating the summons before Liza had time to enter the room.“When did you see your mistress last?” he said sharply.“When I took in the lamp, sir.”Liza knew no more, and was dismissed, after staring wonderingly from one to the other.“Stop!” cried Uncle Luke. “Go up and ask Miss Vine if my niece has been with her.”Liza returned with an answer in the negative; and as soon as they were alone, Leslie said piteously,“You disbelieve me.”“No, no, my lad,” said Uncle Luke; “we only think you are suffering from your fall, and distrust what you have, or think you have, seen.”“Think!” said Leslie angrily.“You say some man was with my niece—a Frenchman.”“Yes; I am bound to tell you for her sake.”“It is not true,” cried George Vine fiercely.They looked at him with surprise, for he seemed transformed from the quiet, mild-looking man to one full of fierce determination as he stood there with flashing eyes.“My daughter knew no Frenchman.”Leslie winced as if stung, for the mental suggestion was there that Louise had hoodwinked her father and kept up some clandestine engagement with this man.“Do you hear me?” cried Vine angrily.“I say it is not true. Mr Leslie, you have been deceived, or you have deceived yourself. I beg your pardon. You are not yourself. It is useless to discuss this further. Luke, all this seems mysterious because we have no key to the puzzle. Pish! puzzle! it is no puzzle. Louise will be here shortly. Mr Leslie, be advised; lie still for an hour, and then my brother and I will see you home. Or, better still, let me offer you the hospitality of my house for the night.”The cloud that had obscured Leslie’s brain had now passed away, leaving his mental perceptions clear, while his temper was exacerbated by the injury he had received, and by the agony he suffered on account of Louise.In place of lying back, he rose from the couch and faced George Vine, with his lips quivering and an angry look in his eyes.“Look,” he said hoarsely, “I am weak and helpless. If I take a few steps I shall reel and fall, or I would do what I tried to do before, act on her behalf. You mock at my words. You, her father, and stand there wasting time; valuable time, which, if used now, might save that poor girl from a life of misery. Do you hear me? I tell you she has gone—fled with that man. He forced her to go with threats. Do you not hear me?”“Leslie, my lad,” said Uncle Luke, “be calm, be calm.”“You are as mad and blind as he!” cried Leslie. “Heaven help me, and I am as weak as a child.”He strode towards the door, and proved the truth of his words, for he tottered, and would have fallen but for Uncle Luke.“There, you see,” he cried fiercely, “I can do nothing, and you, uncle and father, stand blind to the misery and disgrace which threaten you.”“Silence!” cried George Vine; “I can hear no more.”He turned upon Leslie fiercely.“Your words, sir, are an insult to me, an insult to my child. I tell you I can hear no more. What you say is false. My daughter could not leave my house like this. Go, sir, before I say words which I may afterwards repent, and—and—”“George, man, what is it?” cried Uncle Luke, as his brother’s words trailed off, and he stopped suddenly in the agitated walk he had kept up to and fro while he was addressing Leslie.There was no answer to the agitated question, for George Vine was gazing down at something beside the table, lying half covered by the dragged-aside cloth.Whatever it was it seemed to act as a spell upon the old naturalist, whose eyes were fixed, and his whole aspect that of one suddenly fixed by some cataleptic attack.“What is it? Are you ill?” cried Uncle Luke excitedly, as he stepped forward. “Hah, a letter!”He was in the act of stooping to pick it up, but his act seemed to rouse his brother from his lethargy, and he caught him by the arm.“No, no,” he whispered; and slowly putting his brother back, he stooped and stretched out his hand to pick up the half-hidden letter.They could see that his hand trembled violently, and the others stood watching every act, for the feeling was strong upon both that the letter which Vine raised and held at arm’s length contained the explanation needed.George Vine held the letter toward the shaded lamp, and then passed his left hand over his eyes, and uttered a hoarse sigh, which seemed as if torn from his heart.“I—I can’t read,” he whispered—“eyes dim to-night, Luke. Read.”Uncle Luke’s hand trembled now as he took the missive, and slowly tore open the envelope; but as he drew out the letter it was snatched from his hands by his brother, who held it beneath the lamp-shade and bent down to read.He raised himself up quickly and passed his hand across his eyes, as if to sweep away some film which hindered his reading, and the silence in that room was terrible as he bent down again.A strong pang of suffering shot through Duncan Leslie as he saw the old man’s lips quivering, while he read in a slow, laborious way, the few lines contained in the note, and then, after once more making an effort to clear his vision, he seemed to read it again.“George—brother—why don’t you speak?” said Uncle Luke at last.George Vine looked up in a curiously dazed way.“Speak?” he said huskily; “speak?”“Yes; is that from Louise?”He bowed his head in assent.“Well, what does she say, man? What does it mean?”George Vine looked in his brother’s eyes once more—the same curiously dazed look as if he hardly comprehended what was taking place. Then he slowly placed the note in Luke’s hands.There was no slow, dazed manner here, for the old cynic was full of excitement, and he seemed to read the note at a glance.“Gone!” he said. “Then she has gone?”“Yes,” said his brother slowly; “she has gone.”“But this man, George—this man, Leslie. Don’t stare, man, speak.”“What do you wish me to say, sir?” said Leslie, hoarsely.“Who was he? What was he like?”“I could not see his face, he kept it averted. I can tell you no more, sir. I tried to force him to stay till Mr Vine’s return, as I before told you, and you saw the result.”“A Frenchman?”“He spoke in French.”“George, had you any suspicion of this?”“No.”“You never heard word?”“I never heard word.”“But it must have been going on for long enough. And you knew nothing whatever?”“And I knew nothing whatever,” said George Vine, his words coming slowly and in a voice which sounded perfectly calm.“Then you know from what black cloud this bolt has come?”“I—I know nothing,” said Vine, in the same slow, strange way.“Then, I can tell you,” cried Luke, furiously. “If ever man nursed viper at his fireside, you have done this, for it to sting you to the heart. Hah!” he cried, as the door opened and Aunt Marguerite sailed in, drawing herself up in her most dignified way, as she saw who was present, and then ignoring both strangers, she turned to her brother.“What is the meaning of these inquiries?” she said sternly. “Where is Louise?”“Ask your own heart, woman,” cried Uncle Luke, furiously. “Gone—gone with some wretched French impostor of your introduction here.”Aunt Marguerite gazed at him angrily.“I say where is Louise?” she cried excitedly.“Mr Leslie,” said George Vine, after drawing a long breath, his sister’s shrill voice having seemed to rouse him; “you will forgive a weak, trusting old man for what he said just now?”“Forgive you, Mr Vine!”“I was sure of it. Thank you. I am very weak.”“But Louise?” cried Aunt Marguerite.“Read her letter. Gone!” cried Uncle Luke fiercely, as he thrust the note in the old woman’s face.“Gone!” said George Vine, staring straight before him with the curious look in his eyes intensified, as was the stony aspect of his face. “Gone! Thank God—thank God!”“George, what are you saying?” cried Uncle Luke excitedly.“I say thank God that my dear wife was not spared to me to see the blow that has fallen upon my home to-night.”Brother, sister, Duncan Leslie stood gazing at the silvered head, dimly-seen above the shaded lamp. The face was unnaturally calm and strange; and weak as he was, Duncan Leslie sprang forward. He had seen what was coming, and strove vainly to save the stricken man, for George Vine seemed to have been robbed of all power, and fell with a weary moan senseless at his brother’s feet.

Madelaine rose as the brothers entered the room, and before coming to the bed, where Van Heldre lay rapidly mending now, George Vine took the girl’s hands, looked down in her pale face, which sorrow seemed to have refined, and bent down and kissed her.

“How are you, Maddy?” said Luke Vine, gruffly; and he was going on to the bed, but Madelaine laid her hand upon his shoulder, leant towards him, and kissed him.

“Hah! yes, forgot,” he said, brushing her forehead roughly with his grey beard; and then, yielding to a sudden impulse, kissing the girl tenderly. “How I do hate girls!” he muttered to himself, as he went straight to the window and stood there for a few moments.

“Poor lad!” he said to himself. “Yes, hopeless, or a girl like that would have redeemed him.”

He turned back from the window.

“Room too hot and stuffy,” he said. “Well, how are you, John?”

“Getting well fast,” replied Van Heldre, shaking hands. “Splendid fish that was you sent me to-day; delicious.”

“Humph! all very fine! Shilling or fifteen-pence out of pocket,” grumbled Uncle Luke.

“Get out!” said Van Heldre, after a keen look at George Vine. “Poll Perrow wouldn’t have given you more than ninepence for a fish like that. It’s wholesale, Luke, wholesale.”

“Ah! you may grin and wink at George,” grumbled Uncle Luke, “but times are getting hard.”

“They are, old fellow, and we shall be having you in the workhouse, if we can’t manage to get you to the Victoria Park place.”

“Here, come away, George,” snarled Uncle Luke. “He’s better. Beginning to sneer. Temper’s getting very bad now, I suppose, my dear?” he added to Madelaine.

“Terrible. Leads me a dreadful life, Uncle Luke,” she said, putting her arm round Van Heldre’s neck to lay her cheek against his brow for a moment or two before turning to leave the room.

“Cant and carny,” said Uncle Luke. “Don’t you believe her, John Van; she’ll be coming to you for money to-morrow—bless her,” he addedsotto voce; then aloud, “What now?”

For Madelaine had gone behind his chair, and placed her hands upon his shoulders.

“It’s all waste of breath, Uncle Luke,” she said gently. “We found you out a long time ago, Louise and I.”

“What do you mean?”

“All this pretended cynicism. It’s a mere disguise.”

“An ass in the lion’s skin, eh?”

“No, Uncle Luke,” she whispered, with her lips close to his ear, so that the others should not catch the words, “that is the wrong way, sir. Reverse the fable.”

“What do you mean, hussy?”

“The dear old lion in the ass’s skin,” she whispered; “and whenever you try to bray it is always a good honest roar.”

“Well, of all—”

He did not finish, for Madelaine had hurried from the room, but a grim smile came over his cynical countenance, and he rubbed his hands softly as if he was pleased. Then, drawing his chair nearer to the bed, he joined in the conversation at rare intervals, the subjects chosen being all as foreign as possible from the past troubles, till Mrs Van Heldre came softly into the room.

“I am Doctor Knatchbull’s deputy,” she said; “and my orders are not to let John excite himself.”

“All nonsense, my dear,” said Van Heldre.

“She is quite right, John,” said George Vine, rising.

“Quite right,” said Uncle Luke, following his brother’s example. “Keep him quiet. Make haste and get well. Good-night. Come, George.”

He was at the door by the time he had finished his speech, and without pausing to shake hands began to descend.

Madelaine came out of the drawing-room as the old man reached the hail.

“What do you think of him?” she said eagerly.

“Going backwards—dying fast,” he said shortly. “Oh!”

“Don’t be a little goose,” he cried, catching her in his arms as she reeled. “We all are; especially people over fifty. Bonny little nurse. You’ve done wonders. Good-night, my dear; God bless you!”

She returned his loving fatherly kiss, given hastily, as if he were ashamed of his weakness, and then he strode out into the dark night.

“Poor Uncle Luke!” she said softly. “I was right. He must have had some shock to change his life like this. Good-night, dear Mr Vine. My dearest love to Louie.”

“Good-night, my darling,” he whispered huskily, and the next minute he was walking slowly away beside his brother in the direction of the turning up to the granite house.

“Good-night, Luke,” said George Vine. “It is of no use to say come up.”

“Yes, it is,” said Uncle Luke snappishly. “I want to see Louie, and have a decent cup of tea.”

“I am very glad,” said his brother warmly. “Hah! that’s right. Come more often, Luke. We are getting old men now, and it’s pleasant to talk of the days when we were boys.”

“And be driven from the place by Madge with her pounce-box and her civet-cat airs. You kick her out, and I’ll come often.”

“Poor Marguerite!”

“There you go; encouraging the silly French notions. Why can’t you call her Margaret, like a British Christian?”

“Let her finish her span in peace, brother,” said George Vine, whose visit to his old friend seemed to have brightened him, and made voice and step elastic. “We are crotchety and strange too, I with my mollusc hobby, you with your fishing.”

“If you want to quarrel, I’m not coming up.”

“Yes you are, Luke. There, come often, and let poor Margaret say what she likes. We shall have done our duty by her, so that will be enough for us.”

“Hang duty! I’m getting sick of duty. No matter what one does, or how one tries to live in peace and be left alone, there is always duty flying in one’s face.”

“Confession of failure, Luke,” said his brother, taking his arm. “You had given up ordinary social life, invested your property, sent your plate to your banker’s, and settled down to the life of the humblest cottager, to, as you say, escape the troubles of every-day life.”

“Yes, and I’ve escaped ’em—roguish tradespeople, household anxieties, worries out of number.”

“In other words,” said Vine, smiling, “done everything you could to avoid doing your duty, and for result you have found that trouble comes to your cottage in some form or another as frequently as it does to my big house.”

Uncle Luke stopped short, and gave his stick a thump on the path.

“I have done, Luke,” said Vine quietly. “Come along; Louise will think we are very long.”

“Louise will be very glad to have had an hour or two to herself without you pottering about her. Hah! what idiots we men are, fancying that the women are looking out for us from our point of view when they are looking out from theirs for fear of being surprised, and—”

“Here we are, Luke. Come in, my clear boy.”

Uncle Luke grunted.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, “it’s getting late. Perhaps I had better not come in now.”

“The tea will be waiting,” said his brother, holding his arm lightly as he rang.

“Horribly dark for my walk back afterwards,” grumbled Uncle Luke. “Really dangerous place all along there by the cliff. No business to be out at night. Ought to be at home.”

“Tea ready, Liza?” said George Vine, as the door was opened, and the pleasant glow from the hall shone upon them in a way that, in spite of his assumed cynicism, looked tempting and attractive to Uncle Luke.

“Miss Louise hasn’t rung for the urn yet, sir.”

“Hah! that will do. Give me your hat, Luke.”

“Bah! nonsense! Think I can’t hang up my own hat now.”

George Vine smiled, and he shook his head at his brother with a good-humoured smile as he let him follow his own bent.

“That’s right. Come along. Louie dear, I’ve brought Uncle Luke up to tea. All dark? Liza, bring the lamp.”

Liza had passed through the baize-covered door which separated the domestic offices from the rest of the house, and did not hear the order.

“Louie! Louie dear!”

“Oh! I don’t mind the dark,” said Uncle Luke. “Here, why don’t the girl let in some air these hot nights?” he continued, as he crossed the room towards the big embayment, with its stained glass heraldic device.

Crack!crackle!

“Hullo here! broken glass under one’s feet,” said Luke Vine, with a chuckle. “This comes of having plenty of servants to keep your place clean.”

“Glass?”

“Yes, glass. Can’t you hear it?” snarled Uncle Luke, who, as he found his brother resume his old demeanour, relapsed into his own. “There! glass—glass—glass crunching into your Turkey carpet.”

As he spoke he gave his foot a stamp, with the result that at each movement there was a sharp crackling sound.

“It’s very strange. Louise!”

“Oh!”

A low, piteous moan.

“What’s that?” cried Uncle Luke sharply.

George Vine stood in the darkness paralysed with dread. Some fresh trouble had befallen his house—some new horror assailed him; and his hand wandered vaguely about in search of support as a terrible feeling of sickness came over him, and he muttered hoarsely, “Louise! my child! my child!”

Luke Vine was alarmed, but he did not lose his presence of mind.

“Margaret—a fit,” he said to himself, as, turning quickly, his foot kicked against another portion of the lamp-globe, which tinkled loudly as it fell to pieces.

He brushed by his brother, hurrying out into the hall, to return directly bearing the lamp which stood on a bracket, and holding it high above his head as he stepped carefully across the carpet.

“There! there!” whispered George Vine, pointing towards the fireplace, where he could see a figure lying athwart the hearth-rug.

Then, as Luke held the light higher, George Vine seemed to recover his own presence of mind, and going down on one knee as he bent over, he turned the face of the prostrate man to the light.

“Duncan Leslie!” cried Uncle Luke excitedly, as he quickly set down the lamp and knelt on the other side. “Where’s Louie? The poor boy’s in a fit.”

“No, no,” whispered his brother hoarsely. “Look! look!”

Luke drew in a quick, hissing breath.

“Call Louie,” he said sharply. “Tell her to bring something to bind up his head—scissors, sponge, and water.”

“Has he been struck down?” faltered George Vine, with the thought of his old friend rushing to his mind.

“No, no. Don’t talk. Here, your handkerchief, man,” said Luke, who was far the more matter-of-fact. “A fall. Head cut. Slip on the cliff, I suppose, and he has come here for help.”

Taking the handkerchief passed to him by his brother, he rapidly bound it round the place where a deep cut was slowly welling, while George Vine dragged sharply at the bell, and then ran to the door and called, “Louise! Louise!”

Liza came hurrying into the hall, round-eyed and startled.

“Where is your mistress?” cried Vine.

“Miss Louise, sir? Isn’t she there?”

“No. Go up to her room and fetch her. Perhaps she is with Miss Vine.”

“I’ll go and see, sir,” said the girl wonderingly; and she ran up-stairs.

“Help me to get him on the sofa, George,” said Uncle Luke; and together they placed the injured man with his head resting on a cushion.

“Now, then, I think we had better have Knatchbull. He must have had a nasty fall. Send your girl; or no, I’ll go myself.”

“No,” said Leslie feebly; “don’t go.”

“Ah: that’s better. You heard what I said?”

“Yes; what you said.”

It was a feeble whisper, and as the brothers bent over the injured man, they could see that he was gazing wildly at them with a face full of horror and despair.

“I’ll trot down and fetch Knatchbull,” whispered Uncle Luke.

“No.”

The negative came from Leslie, who was lying back with his eyes closed, and it was so decisive that the brothers paused.

At that moment Liza entered the room.

“She isn’t up-stairs, sir.—Ow!”

The girl had caught sight of Leslie’s ghastly face, and she uttered an excited howl, and thrust her fingers into her ears.

Leslie looked up at George Vine vacantly for a moment, and then light seemed to come to his clouded brain, and his lips moved.

“Say it again,” said Vine, bending over him.

“Send—her—away,” whispered the injured man.

“Yes, of course. Liza, go and wait—no; get a basin of water, sponge, and towel, and bring them when I ring.”

The girl looked at him wildly, but she had not heard his words; and Uncle Luke put an end to the difficulty by taking her arm and leading her into the hall.

“Go and get sponge and basin. Mr Leslie has fallen and hurt himself. Now, don’t be stupid. You needn’t cry.”

The girl snatched her arm away and ran through the baize door.

“Just like a woman!” muttered Uncle Luke as he went back; “no use when she’s wanted. Well, how is he?”

Leslie heard the whisper, and turned his eyes upon him with a look of recognition.

“Better,” he whispered. “Faint—water.”

George Vine opened the cellarette, and gave him a little brandy, whose reviving power proved wonderful. But after heaving a deep sigh, he lay back with his forehead puckered.

“Hadn’t I better fetch Knatchbull, my lad?” said Uncle Luke gruffly, but with a kindly ring in his voice. “Cut on the back of your head. He’d soon patch it up.”

“No. Better soon,” said Leslie in a low voice. “Let me think.”

“Be on the look out,” whispered Uncle Luke to his brother. “Better not let Louise come in.”

Leslie’s eyes opened quickly, and he gazed from one to the other.

“Better not let her see you till you are better,” said Uncle Luke, taking the injured man into their confidence.

A piteous sigh escaped from Leslie, and he closed his eyes tightly.

“Poor boy!” said Uncle Luke, “he must have had an ugly fall. Missed his way in the dark, I suppose. George, you’ll have to keep him here to-night.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said George Vine uneasily, for his ears were on the strain to catch his child’s step, and her absence troubled him.

All at once Leslie made an effort to sit up, but a giddy sensation overcame him, and he sank back, staring at them wildly.

“Don’t be alarmed,” said George Vine kindly. “You are faint. That’s better.”

Leslie lay still for a few moments, and then made a fresh effort to sit up. This time it was with more success.

“Give him a little more brandy,” whispered Uncle Luke.

“No; he is feverish, and it may do harm. Yes,” he said to Leslie, as the injured man grasped his arm, “you want to tell us how you fell down.”

“No,” said Leslie quickly, but in a faint voice, “I did not fall. It was in the struggle.”

“Struggle?” cried Uncle Luke. “Were you attacked?”

Leslie nodded quickly.

“Where? Along the road?”

“No,” said Leslie hoarsely; “here.”

“Here?” exclaimed the brothers in a breath; and then they exchanged glances, each silently saying to the other, “The poor fellow is wandering.”

“There,” said Leslie, “I can think clearly now. It all seemed like a dream. You must know, Mr Vine. I must tell you,” he added piteously. “Mr Vine, what do you propose doing?”

“Hush!” said George Vine, laying his hand upon the young man’s shoulder, “you are ill and excited now. Don’t talk at present. Wait a little while.”

“Wait?” cried Leslie, growing more excited. “You do not know what you are saying. How long have I been lying here? What time is it?”

“About nine,” said Vine kindly. “Come, come, lie back for a few moments. We’ll get some cold water, and bathe your temples.”

“Man, you will drive me mad,” cried Leslie. “Do you not—no, you have not understood yet. Louise—Miss Vine!”

George Vine staggered as if he had been struck, and his brother caught his arm as he stood there gasping, with his hand to his throat.

“What do you mean?” cried Uncle Luke sternly.

“I am sick and faint,” said Leslie, pressing his hands to his brow, as if unable to think clearly. “I remember now. I came in to ask about Mr Van Heldre, and a stranger was with Miss Vine. I tried to stop him—till you returned. We struggled, and he threw me. I recollect no more.”

“You’re mad!” said Uncle Luke savagely. “Where is Louise?”

His brother caught hold of the back of a chair to support himself, and his lips moved, but no sound came.

“Yes, I can recollect it all clearly now,” panted Leslie. “You must know!”

And he told them all.

They heard him in silence, devouring his words, and from time to time exchanging a hurried glance of inquiry.

“Bah!” ejaculated Uncle Luke, as the young man finished. Then, changing his manner, “Yes, of course. There, lie back, my lad, and tell us again after you’ve had a rest.”

“No, no,” cried Leslie passionately, “it is wasting time. She was forced to go. She was imploring him to let her stay when I came in, and they must be miles away by now. For Heaven’s sake do something before it is too late.”

“A Frenchman?” said Uncle Luke eagerly.

“Yes; he spoke to her in French, as well as in English.”

“And did my niece speak to him in French?”

“No; she was appealing to him in English, but he spoke at times in French.”

“Do you hear this, George? Has Louise a French friend?”

“No,” cried her father angrily, “it is a delusion.”

“I would to Heaven it were,” groaned Leslie, “I would to Heaven it were!”

George Vine crossed to the bell-pull, and rang sharply, repeating the summons before Liza had time to enter the room.

“When did you see your mistress last?” he said sharply.

“When I took in the lamp, sir.”

Liza knew no more, and was dismissed, after staring wonderingly from one to the other.

“Stop!” cried Uncle Luke. “Go up and ask Miss Vine if my niece has been with her.”

Liza returned with an answer in the negative; and as soon as they were alone, Leslie said piteously,

“You disbelieve me.”

“No, no, my lad,” said Uncle Luke; “we only think you are suffering from your fall, and distrust what you have, or think you have, seen.”

“Think!” said Leslie angrily.

“You say some man was with my niece—a Frenchman.”

“Yes; I am bound to tell you for her sake.”

“It is not true,” cried George Vine fiercely.

They looked at him with surprise, for he seemed transformed from the quiet, mild-looking man to one full of fierce determination as he stood there with flashing eyes.

“My daughter knew no Frenchman.”

Leslie winced as if stung, for the mental suggestion was there that Louise had hoodwinked her father and kept up some clandestine engagement with this man.

“Do you hear me?” cried Vine angrily.

“I say it is not true. Mr Leslie, you have been deceived, or you have deceived yourself. I beg your pardon. You are not yourself. It is useless to discuss this further. Luke, all this seems mysterious because we have no key to the puzzle. Pish! puzzle! it is no puzzle. Louise will be here shortly. Mr Leslie, be advised; lie still for an hour, and then my brother and I will see you home. Or, better still, let me offer you the hospitality of my house for the night.”

The cloud that had obscured Leslie’s brain had now passed away, leaving his mental perceptions clear, while his temper was exacerbated by the injury he had received, and by the agony he suffered on account of Louise.

In place of lying back, he rose from the couch and faced George Vine, with his lips quivering and an angry look in his eyes.

“Look,” he said hoarsely, “I am weak and helpless. If I take a few steps I shall reel and fall, or I would do what I tried to do before, act on her behalf. You mock at my words. You, her father, and stand there wasting time; valuable time, which, if used now, might save that poor girl from a life of misery. Do you hear me? I tell you she has gone—fled with that man. He forced her to go with threats. Do you not hear me?”

“Leslie, my lad,” said Uncle Luke, “be calm, be calm.”

“You are as mad and blind as he!” cried Leslie. “Heaven help me, and I am as weak as a child.”

He strode towards the door, and proved the truth of his words, for he tottered, and would have fallen but for Uncle Luke.

“There, you see,” he cried fiercely, “I can do nothing, and you, uncle and father, stand blind to the misery and disgrace which threaten you.”

“Silence!” cried George Vine; “I can hear no more.”

He turned upon Leslie fiercely.

“Your words, sir, are an insult to me, an insult to my child. I tell you I can hear no more. What you say is false. My daughter could not leave my house like this. Go, sir, before I say words which I may afterwards repent, and—and—”

“George, man, what is it?” cried Uncle Luke, as his brother’s words trailed off, and he stopped suddenly in the agitated walk he had kept up to and fro while he was addressing Leslie.

There was no answer to the agitated question, for George Vine was gazing down at something beside the table, lying half covered by the dragged-aside cloth.

Whatever it was it seemed to act as a spell upon the old naturalist, whose eyes were fixed, and his whole aspect that of one suddenly fixed by some cataleptic attack.

“What is it? Are you ill?” cried Uncle Luke excitedly, as he stepped forward. “Hah, a letter!”

He was in the act of stooping to pick it up, but his act seemed to rouse his brother from his lethargy, and he caught him by the arm.

“No, no,” he whispered; and slowly putting his brother back, he stooped and stretched out his hand to pick up the half-hidden letter.

They could see that his hand trembled violently, and the others stood watching every act, for the feeling was strong upon both that the letter which Vine raised and held at arm’s length contained the explanation needed.

George Vine held the letter toward the shaded lamp, and then passed his left hand over his eyes, and uttered a hoarse sigh, which seemed as if torn from his heart.

“I—I can’t read,” he whispered—“eyes dim to-night, Luke. Read.”

Uncle Luke’s hand trembled now as he took the missive, and slowly tore open the envelope; but as he drew out the letter it was snatched from his hands by his brother, who held it beneath the lamp-shade and bent down to read.

He raised himself up quickly and passed his hand across his eyes, as if to sweep away some film which hindered his reading, and the silence in that room was terrible as he bent down again.

A strong pang of suffering shot through Duncan Leslie as he saw the old man’s lips quivering, while he read in a slow, laborious way, the few lines contained in the note, and then, after once more making an effort to clear his vision, he seemed to read it again.

“George—brother—why don’t you speak?” said Uncle Luke at last.

George Vine looked up in a curiously dazed way.

“Speak?” he said huskily; “speak?”

“Yes; is that from Louise?”

He bowed his head in assent.

“Well, what does she say, man? What does it mean?”

George Vine looked in his brother’s eyes once more—the same curiously dazed look as if he hardly comprehended what was taking place. Then he slowly placed the note in Luke’s hands.

There was no slow, dazed manner here, for the old cynic was full of excitement, and he seemed to read the note at a glance.

“Gone!” he said. “Then she has gone?”

“Yes,” said his brother slowly; “she has gone.”

“But this man, George—this man, Leslie. Don’t stare, man, speak.”

“What do you wish me to say, sir?” said Leslie, hoarsely.

“Who was he? What was he like?”

“I could not see his face, he kept it averted. I can tell you no more, sir. I tried to force him to stay till Mr Vine’s return, as I before told you, and you saw the result.”

“A Frenchman?”

“He spoke in French.”

“George, had you any suspicion of this?”

“No.”

“You never heard word?”

“I never heard word.”

“But it must have been going on for long enough. And you knew nothing whatever?”

“And I knew nothing whatever,” said George Vine, his words coming slowly and in a voice which sounded perfectly calm.

“Then you know from what black cloud this bolt has come?”

“I—I know nothing,” said Vine, in the same slow, strange way.

“Then, I can tell you,” cried Luke, furiously. “If ever man nursed viper at his fireside, you have done this, for it to sting you to the heart. Hah!” he cried, as the door opened and Aunt Marguerite sailed in, drawing herself up in her most dignified way, as she saw who was present, and then ignoring both strangers, she turned to her brother.

“What is the meaning of these inquiries?” she said sternly. “Where is Louise?”

“Ask your own heart, woman,” cried Uncle Luke, furiously. “Gone—gone with some wretched French impostor of your introduction here.”

Aunt Marguerite gazed at him angrily.

“I say where is Louise?” she cried excitedly.

“Mr Leslie,” said George Vine, after drawing a long breath, his sister’s shrill voice having seemed to rouse him; “you will forgive a weak, trusting old man for what he said just now?”

“Forgive you, Mr Vine!”

“I was sure of it. Thank you. I am very weak.”

“But Louise?” cried Aunt Marguerite.

“Read her letter. Gone!” cried Uncle Luke fiercely, as he thrust the note in the old woman’s face.

“Gone!” said George Vine, staring straight before him with the curious look in his eyes intensified, as was the stony aspect of his face. “Gone! Thank God—thank God!”

“George, what are you saying?” cried Uncle Luke excitedly.

“I say thank God that my dear wife was not spared to me to see the blow that has fallen upon my home to-night.”

Brother, sister, Duncan Leslie stood gazing at the silvered head, dimly-seen above the shaded lamp. The face was unnaturally calm and strange; and weak as he was, Duncan Leslie sprang forward. He had seen what was coming, and strove vainly to save the stricken man, for George Vine seemed to have been robbed of all power, and fell with a weary moan senseless at his brother’s feet.

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