Volume Three—Chapter Nine.

Volume Three—Chapter Nine.Broken with the Fight.“Better stop where you are, man,” said Uncle Luke.“No,” said Leslie, as he stood gazing straight before him as one who tries to see right on into the future along the vista of one’s own life.“But it is nearly one o’clock. Sit down there and get a nap.”“No. I must go home,” said Leslie slowly, and in a measured way, as if he were trying to frame his sentences correctly in carrying on the conversation while thinking of something else.“Well, you are your own master.”“Yes,” said Leslie. “How is he?”“Calmer now. He was half mad when he came to, and Knatchbull was afraid of brain fever, but he gave him something to quiet the excitement. Better have given you something too.”“What are you going to do?” said Leslie, turning upon the old man suddenly, and with a wild look in his eyes.“Do nothing rashly,” said Uncle Luke.“But time is flying, man.”“Yes. Always is,” said Uncle Luke, coolly, as he watched his companion with half-closed eyes.“But—”“That will do. I cannot discuss the matter to-night, my head’s in a whirl. Do nothing rashly is a capital maxim.”“But we are wasting time.”“Look here, young man,” said Uncle Luke, taking Leslie by the lappet of the coat. “I’m not blind. I dare say I can see as far through you as most people can. I am an old man, and at my time of life I can be calm and dispassionate, and look on at things judicially.”“Judicially?” said Leslie bitterly; “any child could judge here.”“Oh, no,” said the old man; “big child as you are, you can’t.”“What do you mean?”“That you are only a big stupid boy, Duncan Leslie.”“Don’t insult me in my misery, man.”“Not I, my lad. I like you too well. I am only playing the surgeon, hurting you to do you good. Look here, Leslie, you are in pain, and you are madly jealous.”“Jealous!” cried the young man scornfully, “of whom?”“My niece—that man—both of them.”“Not I. Angry with myself, that’s all, for being an idiot.”“And because you are angry with yourself, you want to follow and rend that man who knocked you down; and because you call yourself an idiot for being deeply attached to Louise, you are chafing to go after her, and at any cost bring her back to throw yourself at her feet, and say, ‘Don’t have him, have me.’”“All!” cried Leslie furiously. “There, you are an old man and licensed.”“Yes, I am the licensed master of our family, Leslie, and I always speak my mind.”“Yes, you sit there talking, when your duty is to follow and bring your niece back from disgrace,” cried the young man furiously.“Thank you for teaching me my duty, my lad. You have had so much more experience than I. All the same, Duncan Leslie, my hotheaded Scot, I am going to sleep on it, and that’s what I advise you to do. There: be reasonable, man. You know you are not in a condition for dispassionate judgment.”“I tell you any one could judge this case,” said Leslie hotly.“And I tell you, my dear boy, that it would have puzzled Solomon.”“Will you go in search of her directly?”“Will I go out in the dark, and run my head against the first granite wall? No, my boy, I will not.”“Then I must.”“What, run your head against a wall?”“Bah!”“Look here, Leslie, I’ve watched you, my lad, for long enough past. I saw you take a fancy to my darling niece Louie; and I felt as if I should like to come behind and pitch you off the cliff. Then I grew more reasonable, for I found by careful watching that you were not such a bad fellow, after all, and what was worse, it seemed to me that, in spite of her aunt’s teaching, Louie was growing up into a clever sensible girl, with only one weakness, and that a disposition to think a little of you.”Leslie made an angry gesture.“Come, my lad, I’ll speak plainly, and put aside all cynical nonsense. Answer me this: How long have you known my niece?”“What does that matter?”“Much. I’ll tell you. About a year, and at a distance. And yet you presume, in your hotheaded, mad, and passionate way, to sit in judgment upon her, and to treat my advice with contempt.”“You cannot see it all as I do.”“Thank goodness!” muttered Uncle Luke. “You did not witness what I did to-night.”“No. I wish I had been there.”“I wish you had,” said Leslie, bitterly. “Now you are growing wild again. Be calm, and listen. Now I say you have known our child a few months at a distance, and you presume to judge her. I have known her ever since she was the little pink baby which I held in these hands, and saw smile up in my face. I have known her as the patient, loving, unwearying daughter, the forbearing niece to her eccentric aunt—and uncle, my lad. You ought to have said that. I have known her these twenty years as the gentle sister who fought hard to make a sensible man of my unfortunate nephew. Moreover, I have known her in every phase, and while I have openly snarled and sneered at her, I have in my heart groaned and said to myself, what a different life might mine have been had I known and won the love of such a woman as that.”“Oh, yes, I grant all that,” said Leslie, hurriedly; “but there was the vein of natural sin within.”“Natural nonsense, sir!” cried Uncle Luke, angrily. “How dare you! A holier, truer woman never breathed.”“Till that scoundrel got hold of her and cursed her life,” groaned Leslie. “Yes, trample on me. I suppose I deserve it.”“Yes,” cried the old man, “if only for daring to judge her, when I tell you that with all my knowledge of her and her life, I dare not. No, my lad, I’m going to sleep on it, and in the morning see if I can’t find out the end of the thread, of the clue which will lead us to the truth.”“There is no need,” groaned Leslie. “We know the truth.”“And don’t even know who this man is. No, indeed, we do not know the truth. All right, my lad, I can read your looks. I’m a trusting, blind old fool, am I? Very well, jealous pate, but I warn you, I’m right and you’re wrong.”“Would to Heaven I were! I’d give ten years of my life that it could be proved.”“Give ten years of nonsense. How generous people are at making gifts of the impossible! But look here, Duncan Leslie, I’ll have you on your knees for this when we have found out the mystery; and what looks so black and blind is as simple as A B C. Trash! bolt with some French adventurer? Our Louie! Rubbish, sir! Everything will be proved by and by. She couldn’t do it. Loves her poor old father too well. There, once more take my advice, lie down there and have a nap, and set your brain to work in the sunshine, not in the dark.”“No.”“Going?”“Yes, I am going. Good-night, sir.”“Good-night, you great stupid, obstinate, thick-headed Scotchman,” growled Uncle Luke, as he let him out, and stood listening to his retiring steps. “I hope you’ll slip over the cliff and half kill yourself. There’s something about Duncan Leslie that I like after all,” he muttered, as he went back to the dining-room, and after a few minutes’ thought, went softly up to his brother’s chamber, to find him sleeping heavily from the effect of the sedative given by the doctor.Uncle Luke stole out quietly, shook his fist at his sister’s door, and then went below to sit for a while studying Louise’s letter, before lying down to think, and dropping off to sleep with the comforting self-assurance that all would come right in the end.Meanwhile Duncan Leslie had gone down the steep descent, and made his way to the foot of the cliff-path, up which, with brain and heart throbbing painfully, he slowly tramped. The night was dull and cold, and as he ascended toward Luke Vine’s rough cottage, he thought of how often he had met Louise on her way up there to her uncle’s; and how he had often remained at a distance watching from his own place up at the mine the graceful form in its simple attire, and the sweet, earnest face, whose eyes used once to meet his so kindly, and with so trusting a look.“Sleep on it!” he said, as he recalled the old man’s words. “No sleep will ever make me think differently. I must have been mad—I must have been mad.”He had reached the old man’s cottage, and almost unconsciously stopped and seated himself on the rough block of granite which was Uncle Luke’s favourite spot when the sun shone.Before him lay the sea spreading out deep and black, and as impenetrable as to its mysteries as the blank future he sought to fathom; and as he looked ahead, the sea, the sky, the future all seemed to grow more black.His had been a busy life; school, where he had been ambitious to excel; college, where he had worked still more hard for honours, with the intention of studying afterwards for the bar; but fate had directed his steps in another direction, and through an uncle’s wish and suggestions, backed by the fact that he held the mine, Duncan Leslie found himself, when he should have been eating his dinners at the Temple, partaking of them in the far West of England, with a better appetite, and perhaps with better prospects from a monetary point of view.His had been so busy a life that the love-idleness complaint of a young man was long in getting a hold, but when it did seize him, the malady was the more intense.He sat there upon the old, worn piece of granite, making no effort to go farther, but letting his memory drift back to those halcyon days when he had first begun to know that he possessed a heart disposed to turn from its ordinary force-pump work to the playing of a sentimental part such as had stranded him where he was, desolate and despairing, a wreck with his future for ever spoiled.He argued on like that, sometimes with tender recollections of happy days when he had gone back home from some encounter, with accelerated pulses and a sensation of hope and joy altogether new.He dwelt upon one particular day when he had come down from the mine to find Louise seated where he then was; and as he recalled the whole scene, he uttered a groan of misery, and swept it away by the interposition of that of the previous evening; and here his wrath once more grew hot against the man who had come between them, for without vanity he could feel that Louise had turned toward him at one time, and that after a while the memory of the trouble which had come upon them would have grown more faint, and then she would once more have listened to his suit.But for that man—He ground his teeth as he recalled Aunt Marguerite’s hints and smiles; the allusions to the member of the Frenchhaute noblesse; their own connection with the blue blood of Gaul, and his own plebeian descent in Aunt Marguerite’s eyes. And now that the French noble had arrived, how noble he was in presence and in act. Stealing clandestinely into the house during the father’s absence, forcing the woman he professed to love into obedience by threats, till she knelt at his feet as one who pleads for mercy.“And this is thehaute noblesse!” cried Leslie, with a mocking laugh. “Thank Heaven, I am only a commoner after all.”He sat trying to compress his head with his hands, for it ached as if it would split apart. The cool night breeze came off the sea, moist and bearing refreshment on its wings; but Duncan Leslie found no comfort in the deep draught he drank. His head burned, his heart felt on fire, and he gazed straight before him into the blackness trying to make out his path. What should he do? Act like a man, and cast her off as unworthy of a second thought, or rouse himself to the manly and forgiving part of seeking her out, dragging her from this scoundrel, and placing her back in her stricken father’s arms?It was a hard fight, fought through the darkness of that terrible night, as he sat there on the rock, with the wind sighing from off the sea, and the dull, low boom of the waves as they broke at the foot of the cliff far below.It was a fight between love and despair, between love and hate, between the spirit of a true, honest man who loved once in his life, and the cruel spirits of suspicion, jealousy, and malignity, which tortured him with their suggestions of Louise’s love for one who had tempted her to leave her father’s home.As the day approached the air grew colder, but Duncan Leslie’s brow still burned, and his heart seemed on fire. The darkness grew more dense, and the fight still raged.What should he do? The worse side of his fallible human nature was growing the stronger; and as he felt himself yielding, the greater grew his misery and despair.“My darling!” he groaned aloud, “I loved you—I loved you with all my heart.”He started, alarmed at his own words, and gazed wildly round as if expecting that some one might have heard. But he was quite alone, and all was so dark right away ahead. Was there no such thing as hope for one stricken as he? The answer to his wild, mental appeal seemed to come from the far east, for he suddenly became conscious of a pale, pearly light which came from far down where sea and sky were mingled to the sight. That pale, soft light grew and grew, seeming to slowly suffuse the eastern sky, till all at once he caught sight of a fiery flake far on high, of another, and another, till the whole arc of heaven was ablaze with splendour, from which the sea borrowed glistening dyes.And as he gazed the tears rose to his eyes, and seemed to quench the burning fire in his brain, as a fragment which he had read floated through his memory—“Joy cometh in the morning—joy cometh in the morning.”Could joy ever again come to such a one as he? He asked the question half-bitterly, as he confessed that the dense blackness had passed away, and that hope might still rise upon his life, as he now saw that glittering orb of light rise slowly above the sea, and transform the glorious world with its golden touch.“No, no,” he groaned, as he rose to go on at last to his desolate home. “I am broken with the fight. I can do no more, and there is no cure for such a blow as mine. Where could I look for help?”“Yes; there,” he said resignedly. “I’ll bear it like a man,” and as he turned he rested his hand upon the rough granite wall to gaze down the path, and drew back with a curious catching of the breath, as he saw the light garments of a woman pass a great patch of the black shaley rock.Madelaine Van Heldre was hurrying up the cliff-path towards where he had passed those long hours of despair.

“Better stop where you are, man,” said Uncle Luke.

“No,” said Leslie, as he stood gazing straight before him as one who tries to see right on into the future along the vista of one’s own life.

“But it is nearly one o’clock. Sit down there and get a nap.”

“No. I must go home,” said Leslie slowly, and in a measured way, as if he were trying to frame his sentences correctly in carrying on the conversation while thinking of something else.

“Well, you are your own master.”

“Yes,” said Leslie. “How is he?”

“Calmer now. He was half mad when he came to, and Knatchbull was afraid of brain fever, but he gave him something to quiet the excitement. Better have given you something too.”

“What are you going to do?” said Leslie, turning upon the old man suddenly, and with a wild look in his eyes.

“Do nothing rashly,” said Uncle Luke.

“But time is flying, man.”

“Yes. Always is,” said Uncle Luke, coolly, as he watched his companion with half-closed eyes.

“But—”

“That will do. I cannot discuss the matter to-night, my head’s in a whirl. Do nothing rashly is a capital maxim.”

“But we are wasting time.”

“Look here, young man,” said Uncle Luke, taking Leslie by the lappet of the coat. “I’m not blind. I dare say I can see as far through you as most people can. I am an old man, and at my time of life I can be calm and dispassionate, and look on at things judicially.”

“Judicially?” said Leslie bitterly; “any child could judge here.”

“Oh, no,” said the old man; “big child as you are, you can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“That you are only a big stupid boy, Duncan Leslie.”

“Don’t insult me in my misery, man.”

“Not I, my lad. I like you too well. I am only playing the surgeon, hurting you to do you good. Look here, Leslie, you are in pain, and you are madly jealous.”

“Jealous!” cried the young man scornfully, “of whom?”

“My niece—that man—both of them.”

“Not I. Angry with myself, that’s all, for being an idiot.”

“And because you are angry with yourself, you want to follow and rend that man who knocked you down; and because you call yourself an idiot for being deeply attached to Louise, you are chafing to go after her, and at any cost bring her back to throw yourself at her feet, and say, ‘Don’t have him, have me.’”

“All!” cried Leslie furiously. “There, you are an old man and licensed.”

“Yes, I am the licensed master of our family, Leslie, and I always speak my mind.”

“Yes, you sit there talking, when your duty is to follow and bring your niece back from disgrace,” cried the young man furiously.

“Thank you for teaching me my duty, my lad. You have had so much more experience than I. All the same, Duncan Leslie, my hotheaded Scot, I am going to sleep on it, and that’s what I advise you to do. There: be reasonable, man. You know you are not in a condition for dispassionate judgment.”

“I tell you any one could judge this case,” said Leslie hotly.

“And I tell you, my dear boy, that it would have puzzled Solomon.”

“Will you go in search of her directly?”

“Will I go out in the dark, and run my head against the first granite wall? No, my boy, I will not.”

“Then I must.”

“What, run your head against a wall?”

“Bah!”

“Look here, Leslie, I’ve watched you, my lad, for long enough past. I saw you take a fancy to my darling niece Louie; and I felt as if I should like to come behind and pitch you off the cliff. Then I grew more reasonable, for I found by careful watching that you were not such a bad fellow, after all, and what was worse, it seemed to me that, in spite of her aunt’s teaching, Louie was growing up into a clever sensible girl, with only one weakness, and that a disposition to think a little of you.”

Leslie made an angry gesture.

“Come, my lad, I’ll speak plainly, and put aside all cynical nonsense. Answer me this: How long have you known my niece?”

“What does that matter?”

“Much. I’ll tell you. About a year, and at a distance. And yet you presume, in your hotheaded, mad, and passionate way, to sit in judgment upon her, and to treat my advice with contempt.”

“You cannot see it all as I do.”

“Thank goodness!” muttered Uncle Luke. “You did not witness what I did to-night.”

“No. I wish I had been there.”

“I wish you had,” said Leslie, bitterly. “Now you are growing wild again. Be calm, and listen. Now I say you have known our child a few months at a distance, and you presume to judge her. I have known her ever since she was the little pink baby which I held in these hands, and saw smile up in my face. I have known her as the patient, loving, unwearying daughter, the forbearing niece to her eccentric aunt—and uncle, my lad. You ought to have said that. I have known her these twenty years as the gentle sister who fought hard to make a sensible man of my unfortunate nephew. Moreover, I have known her in every phase, and while I have openly snarled and sneered at her, I have in my heart groaned and said to myself, what a different life might mine have been had I known and won the love of such a woman as that.”

“Oh, yes, I grant all that,” said Leslie, hurriedly; “but there was the vein of natural sin within.”

“Natural nonsense, sir!” cried Uncle Luke, angrily. “How dare you! A holier, truer woman never breathed.”

“Till that scoundrel got hold of her and cursed her life,” groaned Leslie. “Yes, trample on me. I suppose I deserve it.”

“Yes,” cried the old man, “if only for daring to judge her, when I tell you that with all my knowledge of her and her life, I dare not. No, my lad, I’m going to sleep on it, and in the morning see if I can’t find out the end of the thread, of the clue which will lead us to the truth.”

“There is no need,” groaned Leslie. “We know the truth.”

“And don’t even know who this man is. No, indeed, we do not know the truth. All right, my lad, I can read your looks. I’m a trusting, blind old fool, am I? Very well, jealous pate, but I warn you, I’m right and you’re wrong.”

“Would to Heaven I were! I’d give ten years of my life that it could be proved.”

“Give ten years of nonsense. How generous people are at making gifts of the impossible! But look here, Duncan Leslie, I’ll have you on your knees for this when we have found out the mystery; and what looks so black and blind is as simple as A B C. Trash! bolt with some French adventurer? Our Louie! Rubbish, sir! Everything will be proved by and by. She couldn’t do it. Loves her poor old father too well. There, once more take my advice, lie down there and have a nap, and set your brain to work in the sunshine, not in the dark.”

“No.”

“Going?”

“Yes, I am going. Good-night, sir.”

“Good-night, you great stupid, obstinate, thick-headed Scotchman,” growled Uncle Luke, as he let him out, and stood listening to his retiring steps. “I hope you’ll slip over the cliff and half kill yourself. There’s something about Duncan Leslie that I like after all,” he muttered, as he went back to the dining-room, and after a few minutes’ thought, went softly up to his brother’s chamber, to find him sleeping heavily from the effect of the sedative given by the doctor.

Uncle Luke stole out quietly, shook his fist at his sister’s door, and then went below to sit for a while studying Louise’s letter, before lying down to think, and dropping off to sleep with the comforting self-assurance that all would come right in the end.

Meanwhile Duncan Leslie had gone down the steep descent, and made his way to the foot of the cliff-path, up which, with brain and heart throbbing painfully, he slowly tramped. The night was dull and cold, and as he ascended toward Luke Vine’s rough cottage, he thought of how often he had met Louise on her way up there to her uncle’s; and how he had often remained at a distance watching from his own place up at the mine the graceful form in its simple attire, and the sweet, earnest face, whose eyes used once to meet his so kindly, and with so trusting a look.

“Sleep on it!” he said, as he recalled the old man’s words. “No sleep will ever make me think differently. I must have been mad—I must have been mad.”

He had reached the old man’s cottage, and almost unconsciously stopped and seated himself on the rough block of granite which was Uncle Luke’s favourite spot when the sun shone.

Before him lay the sea spreading out deep and black, and as impenetrable as to its mysteries as the blank future he sought to fathom; and as he looked ahead, the sea, the sky, the future all seemed to grow more black.

His had been a busy life; school, where he had been ambitious to excel; college, where he had worked still more hard for honours, with the intention of studying afterwards for the bar; but fate had directed his steps in another direction, and through an uncle’s wish and suggestions, backed by the fact that he held the mine, Duncan Leslie found himself, when he should have been eating his dinners at the Temple, partaking of them in the far West of England, with a better appetite, and perhaps with better prospects from a monetary point of view.

His had been so busy a life that the love-idleness complaint of a young man was long in getting a hold, but when it did seize him, the malady was the more intense.

He sat there upon the old, worn piece of granite, making no effort to go farther, but letting his memory drift back to those halcyon days when he had first begun to know that he possessed a heart disposed to turn from its ordinary force-pump work to the playing of a sentimental part such as had stranded him where he was, desolate and despairing, a wreck with his future for ever spoiled.

He argued on like that, sometimes with tender recollections of happy days when he had gone back home from some encounter, with accelerated pulses and a sensation of hope and joy altogether new.

He dwelt upon one particular day when he had come down from the mine to find Louise seated where he then was; and as he recalled the whole scene, he uttered a groan of misery, and swept it away by the interposition of that of the previous evening; and here his wrath once more grew hot against the man who had come between them, for without vanity he could feel that Louise had turned toward him at one time, and that after a while the memory of the trouble which had come upon them would have grown more faint, and then she would once more have listened to his suit.

But for that man—He ground his teeth as he recalled Aunt Marguerite’s hints and smiles; the allusions to the member of the Frenchhaute noblesse; their own connection with the blue blood of Gaul, and his own plebeian descent in Aunt Marguerite’s eyes. And now that the French noble had arrived, how noble he was in presence and in act. Stealing clandestinely into the house during the father’s absence, forcing the woman he professed to love into obedience by threats, till she knelt at his feet as one who pleads for mercy.

“And this is thehaute noblesse!” cried Leslie, with a mocking laugh. “Thank Heaven, I am only a commoner after all.”

He sat trying to compress his head with his hands, for it ached as if it would split apart. The cool night breeze came off the sea, moist and bearing refreshment on its wings; but Duncan Leslie found no comfort in the deep draught he drank. His head burned, his heart felt on fire, and he gazed straight before him into the blackness trying to make out his path. What should he do? Act like a man, and cast her off as unworthy of a second thought, or rouse himself to the manly and forgiving part of seeking her out, dragging her from this scoundrel, and placing her back in her stricken father’s arms?

It was a hard fight, fought through the darkness of that terrible night, as he sat there on the rock, with the wind sighing from off the sea, and the dull, low boom of the waves as they broke at the foot of the cliff far below.

It was a fight between love and despair, between love and hate, between the spirit of a true, honest man who loved once in his life, and the cruel spirits of suspicion, jealousy, and malignity, which tortured him with their suggestions of Louise’s love for one who had tempted her to leave her father’s home.

As the day approached the air grew colder, but Duncan Leslie’s brow still burned, and his heart seemed on fire. The darkness grew more dense, and the fight still raged.

What should he do? The worse side of his fallible human nature was growing the stronger; and as he felt himself yielding, the greater grew his misery and despair.

“My darling!” he groaned aloud, “I loved you—I loved you with all my heart.”

He started, alarmed at his own words, and gazed wildly round as if expecting that some one might have heard. But he was quite alone, and all was so dark right away ahead. Was there no such thing as hope for one stricken as he? The answer to his wild, mental appeal seemed to come from the far east, for he suddenly became conscious of a pale, pearly light which came from far down where sea and sky were mingled to the sight. That pale, soft light grew and grew, seeming to slowly suffuse the eastern sky, till all at once he caught sight of a fiery flake far on high, of another, and another, till the whole arc of heaven was ablaze with splendour, from which the sea borrowed glistening dyes.

And as he gazed the tears rose to his eyes, and seemed to quench the burning fire in his brain, as a fragment which he had read floated through his memory—

“Joy cometh in the morning—joy cometh in the morning.”

Could joy ever again come to such a one as he? He asked the question half-bitterly, as he confessed that the dense blackness had passed away, and that hope might still rise upon his life, as he now saw that glittering orb of light rise slowly above the sea, and transform the glorious world with its golden touch.

“No, no,” he groaned, as he rose to go on at last to his desolate home. “I am broken with the fight. I can do no more, and there is no cure for such a blow as mine. Where could I look for help?”

“Yes; there,” he said resignedly. “I’ll bear it like a man,” and as he turned he rested his hand upon the rough granite wall to gaze down the path, and drew back with a curious catching of the breath, as he saw the light garments of a woman pass a great patch of the black shaley rock.

Madelaine Van Heldre was hurrying up the cliff-path towards where he had passed those long hours of despair.

Volume Three—Chapter Ten.A Strange Summons.Madelaine Van Heldre closed the book and sat by the little table gazing towards her father’s bed.Since he had been sufficiently recovered she had taken her father’s task, and read the chapter and prayers night and morning in his bedroom—a little later on this night, for George Vine had stayed longer than usual.Madelaine sat looking across the chamber at where her father lay back on his pillow with his eyes closed, and her mother seated by the bed’s head holding his hand, the hand she had kept in hers during the time she knelt and ever since she had risen from her knees.Incongruous thoughts come at the best of times, and, with the tears standing in her eyes, Madelaine thought of her many encounters with Aunt Marguerite, and of the spiteful words. She did not see why a Dutchman should not be as good as a Frenchman, but all the same there was a little of the love of descent in her heart, and as she gazed at the fine manly countenance on the pillow, with its closely-cut grey hair displaying the broad forehead, and at the clipped and pointed beard and moustache, turned quite white, she thought to herself that if Aunt Marguerite could see her father now she would not dare to argue about his descent.The veil of tears grew thicker in her eyes, and one great drop fell with a faintpatupon the cover of the Prayer-book as she thought of the past, and that the love in her heart would not be divided now. It would be all for those before her, and help to make their path happier to the end.“‘And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us,’” said Van Heldre thoughtfully. “Grand words, wife—grand words. Hah! I feel wonderfully better to-night. George Vine acted like a tonic. I’ve lain here hours thinking that our old companionship would end, but I feel at rest now. His manner seemed to say that the old brotherly feeling would grow stronger, and that the past was to be forgotten.”He stopped short, and a faint flush came into his pale cheeks, for on opening his eyes they had encountered the wistful look in Madelaine’s. He had not thought of her sufferings, but now with a rush came the memories of her confession to him of her love for Harry on that day when she had asked him to take the young man into his office.“My darling!” he said softly, as he held out his arms; and the next moment she was folded sobbing to his heart.No word was spoken till the nightly parting; no word could have been spoken that would have been more touching and soothing than that embrace.Then “Good-night!” and Madelaine sought the solitude of her own chamber, to sit by the open window listening to the faintly heard beat of the waves upon the bar at the mouth of the harbour. Her spirit was low and the hidden sorrow that she had fought hard to keep down all through the past trouble had its way for the time, till, at last wearied out, she closed her window and went to bed. Still for long enough it was not to sleep, but to think of the old boy-and-girl days, when Harry was merely thoughtless, and the better part of his nature, his frank kindness and generosity, had impressed her so that she had grown to love him with increasing years, and in spite of his follies that love still lay hidden in her heart.“And always will be there,” she said softly, as she felt that the terrible end had been the expiation, and with the thought that in the future Harry Vine, forgiven, purified—the Harry of the past—would always be now the frank, manly youth she idealised, she dropped off to sleep—a deep, restful slumber, from which she started with the impression full upon her that she had only just closed her eyes. There must have been some noise to awaken her, and she sat up listening, to see that it was day.“Yes? Did any one knock?” she said aloud, for the terror was upon her now, one which had often haunted her during the unnerving past days—that her father had been taken worse.All silent.Then a sharp pattering noise at her window, as if some one had thrown up some shot or pebbles. She hurried out of bed, and ran to the window to peep through the slit beside the blind, to see below in the street Liza, the Vines’ maid, staring up.“Louise—ill? or Mr Vine?” thought Madelaine, as she quickly unfastened and opened the window.“Yes, Liza. Quick! what is it?”“Oh, miss, I’ve been awake all night, and, not knowing what to do, and so I come on.”“Is Mr Vine ill?”“No, ’m; Miss Louise.”“Ill? I’ll come on at once.”“No, miss; gone,” whispered Liza hoarsely; and in a blundering way she whispered all she knew.“I’ll come on and see Mr Vine,” said Madelaine hastily, and Liza ran back, while her blundering narrative, hastily delivered, had naturally a confusing effect upon one just awakened from sleep.Louise gone, Mr Leslie found bleeding, Mr Vine sitting alone in his room busy over the molluscs in his aquaria! It seemed impossible. Aunt Marguerite hysterical. Everything so strange.No mention had been made of Uncle Luke by the girl, nor yet of Leslie’s departure.“Am I still dreaming?” Madelaine asked herself as she hastily dressed, “or has some fresh terrible disaster come upon us?”“Uponus,” she said, for the two families seemed so drawn together that one could not suffer without thrilling the other’s nerves.“Louise gone! It is impossible!”She said that again and again, trying all the while to be cool and think out what were best to be done. She felt that it would be better not to alarm her father by waking him at that early hour, and that she could not arouse her mother without his knowing.She was not long in deciding.Uncle Luke had shown during the troubles of the past how he could throw aside his eccentricity and become a useful, helpful counsellor, and it seemed the natural thing to send a message up to him, and beg him to come down. Better still, to save time, she would run up there first.Liza had not been gone a quarter of an hour before Madelaine was well on her way, after stealing silently out of the house.The effort to be calm was unavailing, for a wild fit of excitement was growing upon her, and instead of walking up the steep cliff-path, she nearly ran.Would Uncle Luke be at home? He was eccentric and strange in his habits, and perhaps by that time out and away fishing off some rocky point.She scanned the rough pier by the harbour, and shuddered as the scene of that horrible night came back. But there was no sign of the old man there, neither could she see him farther away, and feeling hopeful that perhaps she would be in time to catch him, she hurried on, panting. As she turned a corner of the devious way, and came in sight of the cottage, with Leslie’s house and mine chimney far up at the back, she stopped short, breathless and wondering, and with a strange reaction at work, suggesting that, after all, this was some mythical invention on the part of the servant, for there stood Duncan Leslie outside Uncle Luke’s cottage awaiting her coming.

Madelaine Van Heldre closed the book and sat by the little table gazing towards her father’s bed.

Since he had been sufficiently recovered she had taken her father’s task, and read the chapter and prayers night and morning in his bedroom—a little later on this night, for George Vine had stayed longer than usual.

Madelaine sat looking across the chamber at where her father lay back on his pillow with his eyes closed, and her mother seated by the bed’s head holding his hand, the hand she had kept in hers during the time she knelt and ever since she had risen from her knees.

Incongruous thoughts come at the best of times, and, with the tears standing in her eyes, Madelaine thought of her many encounters with Aunt Marguerite, and of the spiteful words. She did not see why a Dutchman should not be as good as a Frenchman, but all the same there was a little of the love of descent in her heart, and as she gazed at the fine manly countenance on the pillow, with its closely-cut grey hair displaying the broad forehead, and at the clipped and pointed beard and moustache, turned quite white, she thought to herself that if Aunt Marguerite could see her father now she would not dare to argue about his descent.

The veil of tears grew thicker in her eyes, and one great drop fell with a faintpatupon the cover of the Prayer-book as she thought of the past, and that the love in her heart would not be divided now. It would be all for those before her, and help to make their path happier to the end.

“‘And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us,’” said Van Heldre thoughtfully. “Grand words, wife—grand words. Hah! I feel wonderfully better to-night. George Vine acted like a tonic. I’ve lain here hours thinking that our old companionship would end, but I feel at rest now. His manner seemed to say that the old brotherly feeling would grow stronger, and that the past was to be forgotten.”

He stopped short, and a faint flush came into his pale cheeks, for on opening his eyes they had encountered the wistful look in Madelaine’s. He had not thought of her sufferings, but now with a rush came the memories of her confession to him of her love for Harry on that day when she had asked him to take the young man into his office.

“My darling!” he said softly, as he held out his arms; and the next moment she was folded sobbing to his heart.

No word was spoken till the nightly parting; no word could have been spoken that would have been more touching and soothing than that embrace.

Then “Good-night!” and Madelaine sought the solitude of her own chamber, to sit by the open window listening to the faintly heard beat of the waves upon the bar at the mouth of the harbour. Her spirit was low and the hidden sorrow that she had fought hard to keep down all through the past trouble had its way for the time, till, at last wearied out, she closed her window and went to bed. Still for long enough it was not to sleep, but to think of the old boy-and-girl days, when Harry was merely thoughtless, and the better part of his nature, his frank kindness and generosity, had impressed her so that she had grown to love him with increasing years, and in spite of his follies that love still lay hidden in her heart.

“And always will be there,” she said softly, as she felt that the terrible end had been the expiation, and with the thought that in the future Harry Vine, forgiven, purified—the Harry of the past—would always be now the frank, manly youth she idealised, she dropped off to sleep—a deep, restful slumber, from which she started with the impression full upon her that she had only just closed her eyes. There must have been some noise to awaken her, and she sat up listening, to see that it was day.

“Yes? Did any one knock?” she said aloud, for the terror was upon her now, one which had often haunted her during the unnerving past days—that her father had been taken worse.

All silent.

Then a sharp pattering noise at her window, as if some one had thrown up some shot or pebbles. She hurried out of bed, and ran to the window to peep through the slit beside the blind, to see below in the street Liza, the Vines’ maid, staring up.

“Louise—ill? or Mr Vine?” thought Madelaine, as she quickly unfastened and opened the window.

“Yes, Liza. Quick! what is it?”

“Oh, miss, I’ve been awake all night, and, not knowing what to do, and so I come on.”

“Is Mr Vine ill?”

“No, ’m; Miss Louise.”

“Ill? I’ll come on at once.”

“No, miss; gone,” whispered Liza hoarsely; and in a blundering way she whispered all she knew.

“I’ll come on and see Mr Vine,” said Madelaine hastily, and Liza ran back, while her blundering narrative, hastily delivered, had naturally a confusing effect upon one just awakened from sleep.

Louise gone, Mr Leslie found bleeding, Mr Vine sitting alone in his room busy over the molluscs in his aquaria! It seemed impossible. Aunt Marguerite hysterical. Everything so strange.

No mention had been made of Uncle Luke by the girl, nor yet of Leslie’s departure.

“Am I still dreaming?” Madelaine asked herself as she hastily dressed, “or has some fresh terrible disaster come upon us?”

“Uponus,” she said, for the two families seemed so drawn together that one could not suffer without thrilling the other’s nerves.

“Louise gone! It is impossible!”

She said that again and again, trying all the while to be cool and think out what were best to be done. She felt that it would be better not to alarm her father by waking him at that early hour, and that she could not arouse her mother without his knowing.

She was not long in deciding.

Uncle Luke had shown during the troubles of the past how he could throw aside his eccentricity and become a useful, helpful counsellor, and it seemed the natural thing to send a message up to him, and beg him to come down. Better still, to save time, she would run up there first.

Liza had not been gone a quarter of an hour before Madelaine was well on her way, after stealing silently out of the house.

The effort to be calm was unavailing, for a wild fit of excitement was growing upon her, and instead of walking up the steep cliff-path, she nearly ran.

Would Uncle Luke be at home? He was eccentric and strange in his habits, and perhaps by that time out and away fishing off some rocky point.

She scanned the rough pier by the harbour, and shuddered as the scene of that horrible night came back. But there was no sign of the old man there, neither could she see him farther away, and feeling hopeful that perhaps she would be in time to catch him, she hurried on, panting. As she turned a corner of the devious way, and came in sight of the cottage, with Leslie’s house and mine chimney far up at the back, she stopped short, breathless and wondering, and with a strange reaction at work, suggesting that, after all, this was some mythical invention on the part of the servant, for there stood Duncan Leslie outside Uncle Luke’s cottage awaiting her coming.

Volume Three—Chapter Eleven.Her Defender.“Miss Van Heldre!”“Mr Leslie! That woman came to our house this morning to say—Oh, then, it is not true?”“Yes,” he said slowly; “it is all true.”“True that—that you were hurt—that—that—Oh, pray speak! Louise—Louise!”“Gone!” said Leslie hoarsely, and, sick at heart and suffering, he leaned back against the wall.“Gone? Louise gone? Gone where?” Leslie shook his head mournfully, and gazed out to sea.“Why do you not speak?” cried Madelaine. “Can you not see how your silence troubles me? Mr Leslie, what is the matter? You were found hurt—and Louise—gone! What does it mean?”He shook his head again.“Where is Mr Luke Vine?” cried Madelaine, turning from him quickly.“At the house.”“Then I have come here for nothing,” she cried agitatedly. “Mr Leslie, pray, pray speak.”He looked at her wistfully for a few moments.“What am I to say?” he said at last.“Tell me—everything.”He still remained retentive; but there was a grim smile full of pity and contempt for himself upon his lips as he said coldly—“Monsieur De Ligny has been.”“Monsieur De Ligny?”“The French gentleman, the member of thehaute noblessewho was to marry Miss Vine.”Madelaine looked at him wonderingly.“Mr Leslie,” she said, laying her hand upon his arm and believing that she saw delirium in his eyes, consequent upon his injury, her late experience having made her prone to anticipate such a sequel. “Mr Leslie, do you know what you are saying?”“Yes, perfectly,” he said slowly. “Monsieur De Ligny, the French gentleman of whom Miss Marguerite so often talked to me, came last night, while Mr Vine was at your father’s, and he was persuading Louise to go with him, when I interfered and said she should not go till her father returned.”“Yes?—well?” said Madelaine, watching him keenly.“Well, there was a struggle, and I got the worst of it. That’s all.”“That is not all!” cried Madelaine angrily. “Louise, what did she say?”“Begged him—not to press her to go,” he said slowly and unwillingly, as if the words were being dragged out of him.“Yes?”“That is all,” he said, still in the same slow, half-dreamy way. “I heard no more. When I came to the Vines were helping me, and—”“Louise?”“Louise was gone.”“Mr Leslie,” said Madelaine gently, as in a gentle, sympathetic way she laid her hand upon his arm, “you seem to have been a good deal hurt. I will not press you to speak. I’m afraid you hardly know what you say. This cannot be true.”“Would to Heaven it were not!” he cried passionately. “You think I am wandering. No, no, no; I wish I could convince myself that it was. She is gone—gone!”“Gone? Louise gone? It cannot be.”“Yes,” he said bitterly; “it is true. I suppose when a man once gets a strong hold upon a woman’s heart she is ready to be his slave, and obey him to the end. I don’t know. I never won a woman’s love.”“His slave—obey—but who—who is this man?”“Monsieur De Ligny, I suppose. The French nobleman.”Madelaine made a gesticulation with her hands, as if throwing the idea aside.“No, no, no,” he said impatiently. “It is impossible. De Ligny—De Ligny? You mean that Louise Vine, my dear friend, my sister, was under the influence of some French gentleman unknown to me?”“Unknown to her father too,” said Leslie bitterly, “for he reviled me when I told him.”“I cannot do that,” said Madelaine firmly; “but I tell you it is not true.”“As you will,” he said coldly; “but I saw her at his knees last night.”“De Ligny—a French gentleman?”“Yes.”“I tell you it is impossible.”“But she has gone,” said Leslie coldly.“Gone? I cannot believe it. Mr Vine? He knows where?”Leslie shook his head mournfully. “Some secret love,” he said.“Yes; Louise did nurture a secret love,” said Madelaine scornfully, “and for a man unworthy of her.”“Poor girl!”“Yes: poor girl! Shame upon you, Duncan Leslie! She may be gone for some good reason, but it is not as you say and think. Louise, my sister, my poor suffering friend, carry on a clandestine intrigue with some French gentleman? It is not true.”“You forget her aunt—the influence she has had upon the poor girl.”“I forget everything but the fact that Louise loved you, Duncan Leslie, with all her heart.”“No, no,” he cried with an angry start.“I tell you it is true,” cried Madelaine.“De Ligny?—a French nobleman? Absurd! A fable invented by that poor old half-crazy woman to irritate you and scare you away.”“I might have thought so once, but after what I saw last night—”“A jealous man surrounds all he sees with a glamour of his own,” cried Madelaine. “Oh, where is your reason? How could you be so ready to believe it of the truest, sweetest girl that ever lived?”“But—”“Don’t speak to me,” cried Madelaine, angrily. “You know what that old woman is with her wild ideas about birth and position. Louise, deceive her father—cheat me—elope! Duncan Leslie, I did not think you could be so weak.”“I will not fight against your reproaches,” he said, coldly.“No. Come with me. Let us go down and see Uncle Luke.”“But you really think—” he faltered.“I really think?” she cried, with her eyes flashing. “Am I to lose all faith and confidence in you? I tell you what you say is impossible.”Her words, her manner sent flashes of hope through the darkness that haunted Leslie’s spirit, and without a word he turned and walked hurriedly down with her toward the town till they reached the seat in the sheltered niche where he had had that memorable conversation with Aunt Marguerite.There he paused, and pointed to the seat.“She sat there with me,” he said bitterly, “and poured her poison into my ears till under a smiling face I felt half mad. I have tried so hard to free myself from their effect, but it has been hard—so hard. And last night—”“You saw something which shook your confidence in Louise for the moment, but that is all gone now.”“I think—I—”“I vouch for my friend’s truth,” said Madelaine proudly. “I tell you that you have been deceived.”Leslie was ghastly pale, and the injury he had received and the mental agony of the past night made him look ten years older, as he drew in a catching breath, and then said hastily—“Come on, and let us find out the truth.”

“Miss Van Heldre!”

“Mr Leslie! That woman came to our house this morning to say—Oh, then, it is not true?”

“Yes,” he said slowly; “it is all true.”

“True that—that you were hurt—that—that—Oh, pray speak! Louise—Louise!”

“Gone!” said Leslie hoarsely, and, sick at heart and suffering, he leaned back against the wall.

“Gone? Louise gone? Gone where?” Leslie shook his head mournfully, and gazed out to sea.

“Why do you not speak?” cried Madelaine. “Can you not see how your silence troubles me? Mr Leslie, what is the matter? You were found hurt—and Louise—gone! What does it mean?”

He shook his head again.

“Where is Mr Luke Vine?” cried Madelaine, turning from him quickly.

“At the house.”

“Then I have come here for nothing,” she cried agitatedly. “Mr Leslie, pray, pray speak.”

He looked at her wistfully for a few moments.

“What am I to say?” he said at last.

“Tell me—everything.”

He still remained retentive; but there was a grim smile full of pity and contempt for himself upon his lips as he said coldly—

“Monsieur De Ligny has been.”

“Monsieur De Ligny?”

“The French gentleman, the member of thehaute noblessewho was to marry Miss Vine.”

Madelaine looked at him wonderingly.

“Mr Leslie,” she said, laying her hand upon his arm and believing that she saw delirium in his eyes, consequent upon his injury, her late experience having made her prone to anticipate such a sequel. “Mr Leslie, do you know what you are saying?”

“Yes, perfectly,” he said slowly. “Monsieur De Ligny, the French gentleman of whom Miss Marguerite so often talked to me, came last night, while Mr Vine was at your father’s, and he was persuading Louise to go with him, when I interfered and said she should not go till her father returned.”

“Yes?—well?” said Madelaine, watching him keenly.

“Well, there was a struggle, and I got the worst of it. That’s all.”

“That is not all!” cried Madelaine angrily. “Louise, what did she say?”

“Begged him—not to press her to go,” he said slowly and unwillingly, as if the words were being dragged out of him.

“Yes?”

“That is all,” he said, still in the same slow, half-dreamy way. “I heard no more. When I came to the Vines were helping me, and—”

“Louise?”

“Louise was gone.”

“Mr Leslie,” said Madelaine gently, as in a gentle, sympathetic way she laid her hand upon his arm, “you seem to have been a good deal hurt. I will not press you to speak. I’m afraid you hardly know what you say. This cannot be true.”

“Would to Heaven it were not!” he cried passionately. “You think I am wandering. No, no, no; I wish I could convince myself that it was. She is gone—gone!”

“Gone? Louise gone? It cannot be.”

“Yes,” he said bitterly; “it is true. I suppose when a man once gets a strong hold upon a woman’s heart she is ready to be his slave, and obey him to the end. I don’t know. I never won a woman’s love.”

“His slave—obey—but who—who is this man?”

“Monsieur De Ligny, I suppose. The French nobleman.”

Madelaine made a gesticulation with her hands, as if throwing the idea aside.

“No, no, no,” he said impatiently. “It is impossible. De Ligny—De Ligny? You mean that Louise Vine, my dear friend, my sister, was under the influence of some French gentleman unknown to me?”

“Unknown to her father too,” said Leslie bitterly, “for he reviled me when I told him.”

“I cannot do that,” said Madelaine firmly; “but I tell you it is not true.”

“As you will,” he said coldly; “but I saw her at his knees last night.”

“De Ligny—a French gentleman?”

“Yes.”

“I tell you it is impossible.”

“But she has gone,” said Leslie coldly.

“Gone? I cannot believe it. Mr Vine? He knows where?”

Leslie shook his head mournfully. “Some secret love,” he said.

“Yes; Louise did nurture a secret love,” said Madelaine scornfully, “and for a man unworthy of her.”

“Poor girl!”

“Yes: poor girl! Shame upon you, Duncan Leslie! She may be gone for some good reason, but it is not as you say and think. Louise, my sister, my poor suffering friend, carry on a clandestine intrigue with some French gentleman? It is not true.”

“You forget her aunt—the influence she has had upon the poor girl.”

“I forget everything but the fact that Louise loved you, Duncan Leslie, with all her heart.”

“No, no,” he cried with an angry start.

“I tell you it is true,” cried Madelaine.

“De Ligny?—a French nobleman? Absurd! A fable invented by that poor old half-crazy woman to irritate you and scare you away.”

“I might have thought so once, but after what I saw last night—”

“A jealous man surrounds all he sees with a glamour of his own,” cried Madelaine. “Oh, where is your reason? How could you be so ready to believe it of the truest, sweetest girl that ever lived?”

“But—”

“Don’t speak to me,” cried Madelaine, angrily. “You know what that old woman is with her wild ideas about birth and position. Louise, deceive her father—cheat me—elope! Duncan Leslie, I did not think you could be so weak.”

“I will not fight against your reproaches,” he said, coldly.

“No. Come with me. Let us go down and see Uncle Luke.”

“But you really think—” he faltered.

“I really think?” she cried, with her eyes flashing. “Am I to lose all faith and confidence in you? I tell you what you say is impossible.”

Her words, her manner sent flashes of hope through the darkness that haunted Leslie’s spirit, and without a word he turned and walked hurriedly down with her toward the town till they reached the seat in the sheltered niche where he had had that memorable conversation with Aunt Marguerite.

There he paused, and pointed to the seat.

“She sat there with me,” he said bitterly, “and poured her poison into my ears till under a smiling face I felt half mad. I have tried so hard to free myself from their effect, but it has been hard—so hard. And last night—”

“You saw something which shook your confidence in Louise for the moment, but that is all gone now.”

“I think—I—”

“I vouch for my friend’s truth,” said Madelaine proudly. “I tell you that you have been deceived.”

Leslie was ghastly pale, and the injury he had received and the mental agony of the past night made him look ten years older, as he drew in a catching breath, and then said hastily—

“Come on, and let us find out the truth.”

Volume Three—Chapter Twelve.Aunt Marguerite Finds a Friend.Uncle Luke met them at the garden gate, and took Madelaine’s hands in his, drawing her toward him, and kissing her brow.“Tell me, Mr Luke,” she said quickly, “it is not true?”“What he says is not true, Maddy,” said the old man quietly.“But Louise?”“Gone, my dear. Left here last night. No,” he continued, “we know nothing except what her letter says. She has good reason for what she has done, no doubt, but it is very terrible for my brother.”Madelaine darted a triumphant look at Leslie.“Look here, my child,” said Uncle Luke, “I am uneasy about George. Go in and see him, and if he says anything about Louie, you will side with me and take her part?”“Do you think I could believe it of Louise?” said Madelaine, proudly.Uncle Luke held her hand in his, patting it softly the while.“No,” he said, “I don’t think you could. Go to him now. Tell him it will all be cleared up some day, perhaps sooner than we think.”“Where is he?” she said quietly.“In his study.”She nodded her head with a confident look in her eyes, crossed the hall, and tapped at the study door.“Come in.”The words bidding her to enter were uttered in so calm and matter-of-fact a way that Madelaine felt startled, and Uncle Luke’s words, “I am uneasy about George,” came with a meaning they had not before possessed.She entered, and stopped short, for there before the open window, close to which was a glass vessel full of water, stood George Vine, busy with a microscope, by whose help he was carefully examining the structure of some minute organism, while one busy hand made notes upon a sheet of paper at his side.His face was from her, and he was so intent upon his task that he did not turn his head.“Breakfast?” he said quietly. “I shall not have any. Yes,” he added hastily; “bring me a cup of tea, Liza—no sugar, and a little dry toast.”A pang shot through Madelaine’s heart, and for a few moments she strove vainly to speak.“It is I, Mr Vine,” she faltered at last in a voice she did not recognise as her own.“Madelaine, my child!” he cried, starting and dropping his pencil as he turned. “How rude of me! So intent upon this beautiful preparation of mine here. Very, very glad to see you,” he continued, as he took her hands in his. “How is your father this morning?”“I—I have not seen him this morning,” faltered Madelaine as she gazed upon the pale, lined face before her, to note the change thereon, in spite of the unnatural calmness which the old man had assumed; “I—I came on at once, as soon as I had heard.”He drew in a long breath as if her words were cutting him. Then raising her hands to his lips he kissed them tenderly.“Like you,” he said gently, “like you, my child. There, I have nothing to say, nothing to hear.”“But, dear Mr Vine,” cried Madelaine, as she clung to him, and her tears fell fast, “I am sure—”He smiled down at her lovingly, as he kissed her hand again.“Spare me, my child,” he said. “Never mention her name again.”“But, Mr Vine—”“Hush, my dear! It is like you,” he whispered. “Good, gentle, and forgiving. Let the whole of the past be dead.”“But, Mr Vine, Louise—”“Hush!” he said sternly. “There, come and sit down and talk to me. No, my dear, I had a nasty fainting attack last night, but I am not mad. You need not fear that. Let the past be dead, my child. Will you bring me some tea?”Madelaine’s face worked pitifully, as she clung to him for a few moments, and then, as he resumed his place at the table, she felt that the hour was not opportune, and turned to leave the room.At that moment there was a gentle tap at the door.“See who that is, my child,” said Vine, quietly; “and do not let me be interrupted. If it is my brother, ask him not to speak to me to-day.”Madelaine crossed quickly to the old man’s side, bent over him, and kissed his forehead, before going to the door, to find Uncle Luke waiting.“Maddy,” he whispered, “tell my brother that Margaret wants him to see her. Ask him if she may come in.”Madelaine took the message, and felt startled at the angry look in the old man’s face.“No,” he cried peremptorily. “I could not bear to see her. Maddy, my darling, you are almost like a daughter to me. You know all. Tell her from me to keep to her room, I could not trust myself to see her now.”Madelaine clung to him, with the tears gathering in her eyes. From her earliest childhood she had looked up to him as to some near relative who had treated her as he had treated his own child—her companion, Louise—and now as she saw the agony depicted in his face, she suffered with him, and in her womanly sympathy her tears still fell fast.“But, dear Mr Vine,” she whispered, “forgive me for pressing you at such a time, but there is some mistake.”“Yes,” he said sternly; and she shivered as she saw how he was changed, and heard how harsh his voice had grown. “Yes, Madelaine, my child, there has been a terrible mistake made by a weak, infatuated man, who acted on impulse and never let his mind stray from the hobby he pursued—mine.”“Mr Vine!”“Hush, my child, I know. You are going to say words that I could not bear to hear now. I know what I have done, I see it too plainly now. In my desire to play a kindly brother’s part, I let that of a father lapse, and my punishment has come—doubly come.”“If you would only let me speak,” she whispered.“Not now—not now. I want strength first to bear my punishment, to bear it patiently as a man.”It seemed to be no time to argue and plead her friend’s cause, but she still clung to him.“Bear with me,” he whispered. “I am not going to reproach you for what you have said. There, my dear, leave me now.”Madelaine sighed, and with her brow wrinkled by the lines of care, she stood watching the old man as he bent over his microscope once more, and then softly left the room.“Well?” said Uncle Luke eagerly, as she joined him in the hall. “What does he say?”“That he will not see her. That he could not trust himself to meet her now.”“Ah!”Madelaine started, and turned sharply round as a piteous wail fell upon her ears.Aunt Marguerite was standing within the dining-room door, wringing her hands, and looking wild and strange.“I can’t bear it,” she cried. “I can’t bear it. He thinks it is my fault. Go in and tell him, Luke. He must not, he shall not blame me.”“Let him alone for a bit,” said Luke coldly.“But he thinks it is all my fault. I want to tell him—I want him to know that it is no fault of mine.”“Can’t convince him of impossibilities,” said Uncle Luke coldly.“And you think it, too!” cried Aunt Marguerite passionately. “I will see him.”“Go up to your room and wait a bit. That’s the best advice I can give you.”“But George will—”“Say things to you that will be rather startling to your vain old brain, Madge, if you force yourself upon him, and I’ll take care that you do not.”“And this is my brother!” cried Aunt Marguerite indignantly.“Uncle Luke is right,” said Madelaine quietly, speaking of him as in the old girlish days. “If I might advise you, Miss Vine.”“Miss Margue—No, no,” cried the old lady, hastily. “Miss Vine; yes, Miss Vine. You will help me, my child. I want my brother to know that it is not my fault.”The old contemptuous manner was gone, and she caught Madelaine’s arm and pressed it spasmodically with her bony fingers.“You could not go to Mr Vine at a worse time,” said Madelaine. “He is suffering acutely.”“But if you come with me,” whispered Aunt Marguerite. “Oh, my child, I have been very, very hard to you, but you will not turn and trample on me now I am down.”“I will help you all I can,” said Madelaine gravely; “and I am helping you now in advising you to wait.”“I—I thought it was for me best,” sobbed the old lady piteously. “Hush! don’t speak to me aloud. Mr Leslie may hear.”She glanced sharply round to where Leslie was standing with his back to them, gazing moodily from the window.“Yes; Mr Leslie may hear,” said Madelaine sadly, and then in spite of the long years of dislike engendered by Aunt Marguerite’s treatment, she felt her heart stirred by pity for the lonely, suffering old creature upon whose head was being visited the sufferings of the stricken household.“Let me go with you to your room,” she said gently.“No, no!” cried Aunt Marguerite, with a frightened look. “You hate me too, and you will join the others in condemning me. Let me go to my brother now.”“It would be madness,” said Madelaine gently; and she tried to take the old woman’s hand, but at that last word, Aunt Marguerite started from her, and stretched out her hands to keep her off.“Don’t say that,” she said in a low voice, and with a quick glance at her brother and at Leslie, to see if they had heard. Then catching Madelaine’s hand, she whispered, “It is such a horrible word. Luke said it to me before you came. He said I must be mad, and George might hear it and think so too.”“Let me go with you to your room.”“But—but,” faltered the old woman, with her lips quivering, and a wildly appealing look in her eyes, “you—you don’t think that.”“No,” said Madelaine quietly; “I do not think that.”Aunt Marguerite uttered a sigh full of relief.“I only think,” continued Madelaine in her matter-of-fact, straightforward way, “that you have been very vain, prejudiced, and foolish, but I am wrong to reproach you now.”“No, no,” whispered Aunt Marguerite, clinging to her, and looking at her in an abject, piteous way; “you are quite right, my dear. Come with me, talk to me, my child. I deserve what you say, and—and I feel so lonely now.”She glanced again at her brother and Leslie, and her grasp of Madelaine’s arm grew painful.“Yes,” she whispered, with an excited look; “you are right, I must not go to him now. Don’t let them think that of me. I know—I’ve been very—very foolish, but don’t—don’t let them think that.”She drew Madelainc toward the door, and in pursuance of her helpfulrôle, the latter went with her patiently, any resentment which she might have felt toward her old enemy, falling away at the pitiful signs of abject misery and dread before her; the reigning idea in the old lady’s mind now being that her brothers would nurture some plan to get rid of her, whose result would be one at which she shuddered, as in her heart of hearts she knew that if such extreme measures were taken, her conduct for years would give plenty of excuse.

Uncle Luke met them at the garden gate, and took Madelaine’s hands in his, drawing her toward him, and kissing her brow.

“Tell me, Mr Luke,” she said quickly, “it is not true?”

“What he says is not true, Maddy,” said the old man quietly.

“But Louise?”

“Gone, my dear. Left here last night. No,” he continued, “we know nothing except what her letter says. She has good reason for what she has done, no doubt, but it is very terrible for my brother.”

Madelaine darted a triumphant look at Leslie.

“Look here, my child,” said Uncle Luke, “I am uneasy about George. Go in and see him, and if he says anything about Louie, you will side with me and take her part?”

“Do you think I could believe it of Louise?” said Madelaine, proudly.

Uncle Luke held her hand in his, patting it softly the while.

“No,” he said, “I don’t think you could. Go to him now. Tell him it will all be cleared up some day, perhaps sooner than we think.”

“Where is he?” she said quietly.

“In his study.”

She nodded her head with a confident look in her eyes, crossed the hall, and tapped at the study door.

“Come in.”

The words bidding her to enter were uttered in so calm and matter-of-fact a way that Madelaine felt startled, and Uncle Luke’s words, “I am uneasy about George,” came with a meaning they had not before possessed.

She entered, and stopped short, for there before the open window, close to which was a glass vessel full of water, stood George Vine, busy with a microscope, by whose help he was carefully examining the structure of some minute organism, while one busy hand made notes upon a sheet of paper at his side.

His face was from her, and he was so intent upon his task that he did not turn his head.

“Breakfast?” he said quietly. “I shall not have any. Yes,” he added hastily; “bring me a cup of tea, Liza—no sugar, and a little dry toast.”

A pang shot through Madelaine’s heart, and for a few moments she strove vainly to speak.

“It is I, Mr Vine,” she faltered at last in a voice she did not recognise as her own.

“Madelaine, my child!” he cried, starting and dropping his pencil as he turned. “How rude of me! So intent upon this beautiful preparation of mine here. Very, very glad to see you,” he continued, as he took her hands in his. “How is your father this morning?”

“I—I have not seen him this morning,” faltered Madelaine as she gazed upon the pale, lined face before her, to note the change thereon, in spite of the unnatural calmness which the old man had assumed; “I—I came on at once, as soon as I had heard.”

He drew in a long breath as if her words were cutting him. Then raising her hands to his lips he kissed them tenderly.

“Like you,” he said gently, “like you, my child. There, I have nothing to say, nothing to hear.”

“But, dear Mr Vine,” cried Madelaine, as she clung to him, and her tears fell fast, “I am sure—”

He smiled down at her lovingly, as he kissed her hand again.

“Spare me, my child,” he said. “Never mention her name again.”

“But, Mr Vine—”

“Hush, my dear! It is like you,” he whispered. “Good, gentle, and forgiving. Let the whole of the past be dead.”

“But, Mr Vine, Louise—”

“Hush!” he said sternly. “There, come and sit down and talk to me. No, my dear, I had a nasty fainting attack last night, but I am not mad. You need not fear that. Let the past be dead, my child. Will you bring me some tea?”

Madelaine’s face worked pitifully, as she clung to him for a few moments, and then, as he resumed his place at the table, she felt that the hour was not opportune, and turned to leave the room.

At that moment there was a gentle tap at the door.

“See who that is, my child,” said Vine, quietly; “and do not let me be interrupted. If it is my brother, ask him not to speak to me to-day.”

Madelaine crossed quickly to the old man’s side, bent over him, and kissed his forehead, before going to the door, to find Uncle Luke waiting.

“Maddy,” he whispered, “tell my brother that Margaret wants him to see her. Ask him if she may come in.”

Madelaine took the message, and felt startled at the angry look in the old man’s face.

“No,” he cried peremptorily. “I could not bear to see her. Maddy, my darling, you are almost like a daughter to me. You know all. Tell her from me to keep to her room, I could not trust myself to see her now.”

Madelaine clung to him, with the tears gathering in her eyes. From her earliest childhood she had looked up to him as to some near relative who had treated her as he had treated his own child—her companion, Louise—and now as she saw the agony depicted in his face, she suffered with him, and in her womanly sympathy her tears still fell fast.

“But, dear Mr Vine,” she whispered, “forgive me for pressing you at such a time, but there is some mistake.”

“Yes,” he said sternly; and she shivered as she saw how he was changed, and heard how harsh his voice had grown. “Yes, Madelaine, my child, there has been a terrible mistake made by a weak, infatuated man, who acted on impulse and never let his mind stray from the hobby he pursued—mine.”

“Mr Vine!”

“Hush, my child, I know. You are going to say words that I could not bear to hear now. I know what I have done, I see it too plainly now. In my desire to play a kindly brother’s part, I let that of a father lapse, and my punishment has come—doubly come.”

“If you would only let me speak,” she whispered.

“Not now—not now. I want strength first to bear my punishment, to bear it patiently as a man.”

It seemed to be no time to argue and plead her friend’s cause, but she still clung to him.

“Bear with me,” he whispered. “I am not going to reproach you for what you have said. There, my dear, leave me now.”

Madelaine sighed, and with her brow wrinkled by the lines of care, she stood watching the old man as he bent over his microscope once more, and then softly left the room.

“Well?” said Uncle Luke eagerly, as she joined him in the hall. “What does he say?”

“That he will not see her. That he could not trust himself to meet her now.”

“Ah!”

Madelaine started, and turned sharply round as a piteous wail fell upon her ears.

Aunt Marguerite was standing within the dining-room door, wringing her hands, and looking wild and strange.

“I can’t bear it,” she cried. “I can’t bear it. He thinks it is my fault. Go in and tell him, Luke. He must not, he shall not blame me.”

“Let him alone for a bit,” said Luke coldly.

“But he thinks it is all my fault. I want to tell him—I want him to know that it is no fault of mine.”

“Can’t convince him of impossibilities,” said Uncle Luke coldly.

“And you think it, too!” cried Aunt Marguerite passionately. “I will see him.”

“Go up to your room and wait a bit. That’s the best advice I can give you.”

“But George will—”

“Say things to you that will be rather startling to your vain old brain, Madge, if you force yourself upon him, and I’ll take care that you do not.”

“And this is my brother!” cried Aunt Marguerite indignantly.

“Uncle Luke is right,” said Madelaine quietly, speaking of him as in the old girlish days. “If I might advise you, Miss Vine.”

“Miss Margue—No, no,” cried the old lady, hastily. “Miss Vine; yes, Miss Vine. You will help me, my child. I want my brother to know that it is not my fault.”

The old contemptuous manner was gone, and she caught Madelaine’s arm and pressed it spasmodically with her bony fingers.

“You could not go to Mr Vine at a worse time,” said Madelaine. “He is suffering acutely.”

“But if you come with me,” whispered Aunt Marguerite. “Oh, my child, I have been very, very hard to you, but you will not turn and trample on me now I am down.”

“I will help you all I can,” said Madelaine gravely; “and I am helping you now in advising you to wait.”

“I—I thought it was for me best,” sobbed the old lady piteously. “Hush! don’t speak to me aloud. Mr Leslie may hear.”

She glanced sharply round to where Leslie was standing with his back to them, gazing moodily from the window.

“Yes; Mr Leslie may hear,” said Madelaine sadly, and then in spite of the long years of dislike engendered by Aunt Marguerite’s treatment, she felt her heart stirred by pity for the lonely, suffering old creature upon whose head was being visited the sufferings of the stricken household.

“Let me go with you to your room,” she said gently.

“No, no!” cried Aunt Marguerite, with a frightened look. “You hate me too, and you will join the others in condemning me. Let me go to my brother now.”

“It would be madness,” said Madelaine gently; and she tried to take the old woman’s hand, but at that last word, Aunt Marguerite started from her, and stretched out her hands to keep her off.

“Don’t say that,” she said in a low voice, and with a quick glance at her brother and at Leslie, to see if they had heard. Then catching Madelaine’s hand, she whispered, “It is such a horrible word. Luke said it to me before you came. He said I must be mad, and George might hear it and think so too.”

“Let me go with you to your room.”

“But—but,” faltered the old woman, with her lips quivering, and a wildly appealing look in her eyes, “you—you don’t think that.”

“No,” said Madelaine quietly; “I do not think that.”

Aunt Marguerite uttered a sigh full of relief.

“I only think,” continued Madelaine in her matter-of-fact, straightforward way, “that you have been very vain, prejudiced, and foolish, but I am wrong to reproach you now.”

“No, no,” whispered Aunt Marguerite, clinging to her, and looking at her in an abject, piteous way; “you are quite right, my dear. Come with me, talk to me, my child. I deserve what you say, and—and I feel so lonely now.”

She glanced again at her brother and Leslie, and her grasp of Madelaine’s arm grew painful.

“Yes,” she whispered, with an excited look; “you are right, I must not go to him now. Don’t let them think that of me. I know—I’ve been very—very foolish, but don’t—don’t let them think that.”

She drew Madelainc toward the door, and in pursuance of her helpfulrôle, the latter went with her patiently, any resentment which she might have felt toward her old enemy, falling away at the pitiful signs of abject misery and dread before her; the reigning idea in the old lady’s mind now being that her brothers would nurture some plan to get rid of her, whose result would be one at which she shuddered, as in her heart of hearts she knew that if such extreme measures were taken, her conduct for years would give plenty of excuse.

Volume Three—Chapter Thirteen.Half Converted.“Well, Leslie,” said Uncle Luke, as he stood gazing at the closed door through which the two women had passed, “what do you think of that?”“Think of that?” said Leslie absently.“Those two. Deadly enemies grown friends. My sister will be adopting you directly, you miserable, low-born Scotch pleb, without a drop of noble French blood in your veins.”“Poor old woman!” said Leslie absently.“Ah, poor old woman! Margaret and I ought to be shut up together in some private asylum. Well, you have slept on all that?”“No,” said Leslie sadly. “I have not slept.”“You’re—well, I won’t say what you are—well?”“Well?” said Leslie sadly.“You have come to your senses I hope.”“Had I lost them?”“Pro tem., young man. And it is a usurpation of our rights. One lunatic family is enough in a town. We’re all off our heads, so you had better keep sane.”Leslie remained silently thinking over Madelaine’s words.“Look here,” said Uncle Luke, “I have slept upon it, and I am cool.”“What have you learned, sir?”“Nothing but what I knew last night—at present.”“And what do you propose doing?”“I propose trying to act as nearly like a quite sensible man as one of my family can.”“And Mr Vine?”“As much like a lunatic as he can. You had better take his side and leave me alone. He is of your opinion.”“And you remain steadfast in yours?”“Of course, sir. I’ve known my niece from a child, as I told you last night; and she could not behave like a weak, foolish, brainless girl, infatuated over some handsome scoundrel.”“But Miss Marguerite—have you questioned her?”“Might as well question a weather-cock. Knows nothing, or pretends she knows nothing. There, I’m going to start at once and see if I cannot trace her out. While I’m gone I should feel obliged if you would keep an eye on my cottage; one way and another there are quite a couple of pounds’ worth of things up yonder which I should not like to have stolen. You may as well come down here too, and see how my brother is going on. Now then, I’ll just step down to Van Heldre’s and say a word before I start.”“By what train shall you go?”“Train? Oh, yes, I had almost forgotten trains. Hateful way of travelling, but saves time. Must arrange to be driven over to catch one at mid-day. Come and see me off.”“Yes,” said Leslie, “I’ll come and see you off. What shall you take with you?”“Tooth-brush and comb,” grunted Uncle Luke. “Dessay I shall find a bit of soap somewhere. Now then, have you anything to say before I go?”“There is no occasion; we can make our plans as we go up.”“We?”“Yes: I am going with you.”Uncle Luke smiled.“I knew you would,” he said, quietly chuckling.“You knew I should? Why did you think that?”“Because you’re only a big boy after all, Duncan, and show how fond you are of Louie at every turn.”“I am not ashamed to own that I loved her,” said the young man, bitterly.“Loved?” said Uncle Luke, quietly. “Wonder what love’s like, to make a man such a goose. Don’t be a sham, Leslie. You always meant to go. You said to yourself, when you thought ill of the poor girl, you would go after her and try and break the man’s neck.”“Not exactly, sir.”“Well, something of the kind. And now Maddy Van Heldre has been giving you a good setting down, and showing you what a weak baby you are—”“Has Miss Van Heldre—”“No, Miss Van Heldre has not said a word; but your face is as plain as a newspaper, and I know what Maddy would say if anybody attacked my niece. There, what’s the use of talking? You will say with your lips that Louise is nothing to you now, and that you believe she has eloped with some French scoundrel.”Leslie bit his lip and made an impatient gesture.“While that noble countenance of yours, of which you are so proud, has painted upon it love and trust and hope, and all the big-boy nonsense in which young men indulge when they think they are only a half, which needs another half to make them complete.”“I am not going to quarrel with you,” said Leslie, flushing angrily, all the same.“No, my boy, you are not. You are coming with me, my unfortunate young hemisphere, to try and find that other half to which you shall some day be joined to make you a complete little world of trouble of your own, to roll slowly up the hill of life, hang on the top for a few hours, and then roll rapidly down. There, we have wasted time enough in talking, and I’ll hold off. Thank ye, though, Leslie, you’re a good fellow after all.”He held out his hand, which Leslie slowly took, and Uncle Luke was shaking it warmly as Madelaine re-entered the room.“Well,” said the old man grimly, “have you put the baby to bed?”“Uncle Luke!” said Madelaine imploringly; “pray be serious and help us.”“Serious, my girl! I was never so serious before. I only called Margaret a baby. So she is in intellect, and a very troublesome and mischievous one. Glad to see though that my little matter-of-fact Dutch doll has got the better of her. Why, Maddy, henceforth you’ll be able to lead her with a silken string.”“Uncle Luke dear—Louise,” said Madelaine imploringly.“Ah, to be sure, yes, Louise,” said the old man with his eyes twinkling mischievously. “Circumstances alter cases. Now look here, you two. I’m only an old man, and of course thoroughly in your confidence. Sort of respectable go-between. Why shouldn’t I try and make you two happy?”Leslie bit his lip, and Madelaine gave the old man an imploring look; but in a mocking way, he went on.“Now suppose I say to you two, what can be better than for you to join hands—partners for life you know, and—”“Mr Luke Vine!” cried Leslie sternly, “setting aside the insult to me, is this gentlemanly, to annoy Miss Van Heldre with your mocking, ill-chosen jokes?”“Hark at the hot-blooded Scotchman, Maddy; and look here how pleasantly and patiently my little Dutch doll takes it, bless her!”He put his arm round Madelaine and held her to his side.“Why, what are you ruffling up for in that fashion? Only a few minutes ago you were swearing that you hated Louie, and that you gave her up to the French nobleman—French nobleman, Maddy!—and I offer you a pleasant anodyne for your sore heart—and a very pleasant anodyne too, eh, Maddy? Ah, don’t—don’t cry—hang it all, girl, don’t. I do hate to see a woman with wet eyes. Now what have you got to sob about?”“Is this helping us?”“No. But I’m going to, little one. I was obliged to stick something into Leslie, here. He is such a humbug. Swore he didn’t care a bit for Louie now, and that he believed everything that was bad of her, and yet look at his face.”“It is impossible to quarrel with you, sir,” said Leslie, with the look of a human mastiff.“Of course it is,” cried Uncle Luke. “Well, Maddy, I’ve converted him. He sees now that it’s a puzzle we don’t understand, and he is coming up to town with me to solve the problem.”“I knew he would,” cried Madelaine warmly. “Mr Leslie, I am very, very glad.”“Of course, you are; and as soon as I bring Louie back, and all is cleared, Leslie shall come and congratulate us. D’ye hear, Leslie? I’m going to marry Madelaine. Marry her and stop up in the churchyard afterwards,” he said with a grim smile full of piteous sadness.“Uncle Luke!”“Well, it’s right enough, my dear. At my time of life hardly worth while to make two journeys up to the churchyard. So you could leave me there and go back, and take possession of my estate.”“Louise.”“Ah, yes. I mustn’t forget Louise,” said the old man. “Let’s see—about Margaret. Leave her all right?”“Yes; she is more calm now.”“Did you question her, and get to know anything?”“Nothing.”“Humph!” ejaculated the old man. “Close as an oyster, or else she doesn’t know anything.”“That is what I think,” said Madelaine eagerly.“Ah, well, we are only wasting time,” said Uncle Luke testily. “So now, Leslie, business. First thing we have to do is to go up to London. No: first thing, Maddy, is to run on to your house, and tell them what we are going to do. You’ll have to stay here, my dear, and look after those two. Comfort George all you can; drive him with that silken thread rein of yours, and keep a good tight curb over Margaret. There, you’ll manage them.”“Yes. Tell them at home I think it better to stay here now,” said Madelaine earnestly. “You will send me every scrap of news?”“Leslie and I are going to secure the wire and ruin ourselves in telegrams. Ready, Miner?”“Yes.”“Then come on.”Madelaine caught Leslie’s extended hand, and leaned towards him.“My life on it,” she whispered, “Louise is true.”He wrung her hand and hurried away.“Good-bye, Uncle Luke. Be happy about them here; and, mind, we are dying for news.”“Ah! yes; I know,” he said testily; and he walked away—turned back, and caught Madelaine to his breast. “Good-bye, Dutch doll. God bless you, my darling,” he said huskily. “If I could only bring back poor Harry too!”Madelaine stood wiping the tears from her eyes as the old man hurried off after Leslie, but she wiped another tear away as well, one which rested on her cheek, a big salt tear that ought almost to have been a fossil globule of crystallised water and salt. It was the first Uncle Luke had shed for fifty years.

“Well, Leslie,” said Uncle Luke, as he stood gazing at the closed door through which the two women had passed, “what do you think of that?”

“Think of that?” said Leslie absently.

“Those two. Deadly enemies grown friends. My sister will be adopting you directly, you miserable, low-born Scotch pleb, without a drop of noble French blood in your veins.”

“Poor old woman!” said Leslie absently.

“Ah, poor old woman! Margaret and I ought to be shut up together in some private asylum. Well, you have slept on all that?”

“No,” said Leslie sadly. “I have not slept.”

“You’re—well, I won’t say what you are—well?”

“Well?” said Leslie sadly.

“You have come to your senses I hope.”

“Had I lost them?”

“Pro tem., young man. And it is a usurpation of our rights. One lunatic family is enough in a town. We’re all off our heads, so you had better keep sane.”

Leslie remained silently thinking over Madelaine’s words.

“Look here,” said Uncle Luke, “I have slept upon it, and I am cool.”

“What have you learned, sir?”

“Nothing but what I knew last night—at present.”

“And what do you propose doing?”

“I propose trying to act as nearly like a quite sensible man as one of my family can.”

“And Mr Vine?”

“As much like a lunatic as he can. You had better take his side and leave me alone. He is of your opinion.”

“And you remain steadfast in yours?”

“Of course, sir. I’ve known my niece from a child, as I told you last night; and she could not behave like a weak, foolish, brainless girl, infatuated over some handsome scoundrel.”

“But Miss Marguerite—have you questioned her?”

“Might as well question a weather-cock. Knows nothing, or pretends she knows nothing. There, I’m going to start at once and see if I cannot trace her out. While I’m gone I should feel obliged if you would keep an eye on my cottage; one way and another there are quite a couple of pounds’ worth of things up yonder which I should not like to have stolen. You may as well come down here too, and see how my brother is going on. Now then, I’ll just step down to Van Heldre’s and say a word before I start.”

“By what train shall you go?”

“Train? Oh, yes, I had almost forgotten trains. Hateful way of travelling, but saves time. Must arrange to be driven over to catch one at mid-day. Come and see me off.”

“Yes,” said Leslie, “I’ll come and see you off. What shall you take with you?”

“Tooth-brush and comb,” grunted Uncle Luke. “Dessay I shall find a bit of soap somewhere. Now then, have you anything to say before I go?”

“There is no occasion; we can make our plans as we go up.”

“We?”

“Yes: I am going with you.”

Uncle Luke smiled.

“I knew you would,” he said, quietly chuckling.

“You knew I should? Why did you think that?”

“Because you’re only a big boy after all, Duncan, and show how fond you are of Louie at every turn.”

“I am not ashamed to own that I loved her,” said the young man, bitterly.

“Loved?” said Uncle Luke, quietly. “Wonder what love’s like, to make a man such a goose. Don’t be a sham, Leslie. You always meant to go. You said to yourself, when you thought ill of the poor girl, you would go after her and try and break the man’s neck.”

“Not exactly, sir.”

“Well, something of the kind. And now Maddy Van Heldre has been giving you a good setting down, and showing you what a weak baby you are—”

“Has Miss Van Heldre—”

“No, Miss Van Heldre has not said a word; but your face is as plain as a newspaper, and I know what Maddy would say if anybody attacked my niece. There, what’s the use of talking? You will say with your lips that Louise is nothing to you now, and that you believe she has eloped with some French scoundrel.”

Leslie bit his lip and made an impatient gesture.

“While that noble countenance of yours, of which you are so proud, has painted upon it love and trust and hope, and all the big-boy nonsense in which young men indulge when they think they are only a half, which needs another half to make them complete.”

“I am not going to quarrel with you,” said Leslie, flushing angrily, all the same.

“No, my boy, you are not. You are coming with me, my unfortunate young hemisphere, to try and find that other half to which you shall some day be joined to make you a complete little world of trouble of your own, to roll slowly up the hill of life, hang on the top for a few hours, and then roll rapidly down. There, we have wasted time enough in talking, and I’ll hold off. Thank ye, though, Leslie, you’re a good fellow after all.”

He held out his hand, which Leslie slowly took, and Uncle Luke was shaking it warmly as Madelaine re-entered the room.

“Well,” said the old man grimly, “have you put the baby to bed?”

“Uncle Luke!” said Madelaine imploringly; “pray be serious and help us.”

“Serious, my girl! I was never so serious before. I only called Margaret a baby. So she is in intellect, and a very troublesome and mischievous one. Glad to see though that my little matter-of-fact Dutch doll has got the better of her. Why, Maddy, henceforth you’ll be able to lead her with a silken string.”

“Uncle Luke dear—Louise,” said Madelaine imploringly.

“Ah, to be sure, yes, Louise,” said the old man with his eyes twinkling mischievously. “Circumstances alter cases. Now look here, you two. I’m only an old man, and of course thoroughly in your confidence. Sort of respectable go-between. Why shouldn’t I try and make you two happy?”

Leslie bit his lip, and Madelaine gave the old man an imploring look; but in a mocking way, he went on.

“Now suppose I say to you two, what can be better than for you to join hands—partners for life you know, and—”

“Mr Luke Vine!” cried Leslie sternly, “setting aside the insult to me, is this gentlemanly, to annoy Miss Van Heldre with your mocking, ill-chosen jokes?”

“Hark at the hot-blooded Scotchman, Maddy; and look here how pleasantly and patiently my little Dutch doll takes it, bless her!”

He put his arm round Madelaine and held her to his side.

“Why, what are you ruffling up for in that fashion? Only a few minutes ago you were swearing that you hated Louie, and that you gave her up to the French nobleman—French nobleman, Maddy!—and I offer you a pleasant anodyne for your sore heart—and a very pleasant anodyne too, eh, Maddy? Ah, don’t—don’t cry—hang it all, girl, don’t. I do hate to see a woman with wet eyes. Now what have you got to sob about?”

“Is this helping us?”

“No. But I’m going to, little one. I was obliged to stick something into Leslie, here. He is such a humbug. Swore he didn’t care a bit for Louie now, and that he believed everything that was bad of her, and yet look at his face.”

“It is impossible to quarrel with you, sir,” said Leslie, with the look of a human mastiff.

“Of course it is,” cried Uncle Luke. “Well, Maddy, I’ve converted him. He sees now that it’s a puzzle we don’t understand, and he is coming up to town with me to solve the problem.”

“I knew he would,” cried Madelaine warmly. “Mr Leslie, I am very, very glad.”

“Of course, you are; and as soon as I bring Louie back, and all is cleared, Leslie shall come and congratulate us. D’ye hear, Leslie? I’m going to marry Madelaine. Marry her and stop up in the churchyard afterwards,” he said with a grim smile full of piteous sadness.

“Uncle Luke!”

“Well, it’s right enough, my dear. At my time of life hardly worth while to make two journeys up to the churchyard. So you could leave me there and go back, and take possession of my estate.”

“Louise.”

“Ah, yes. I mustn’t forget Louise,” said the old man. “Let’s see—about Margaret. Leave her all right?”

“Yes; she is more calm now.”

“Did you question her, and get to know anything?”

“Nothing.”

“Humph!” ejaculated the old man. “Close as an oyster, or else she doesn’t know anything.”

“That is what I think,” said Madelaine eagerly.

“Ah, well, we are only wasting time,” said Uncle Luke testily. “So now, Leslie, business. First thing we have to do is to go up to London. No: first thing, Maddy, is to run on to your house, and tell them what we are going to do. You’ll have to stay here, my dear, and look after those two. Comfort George all you can; drive him with that silken thread rein of yours, and keep a good tight curb over Margaret. There, you’ll manage them.”

“Yes. Tell them at home I think it better to stay here now,” said Madelaine earnestly. “You will send me every scrap of news?”

“Leslie and I are going to secure the wire and ruin ourselves in telegrams. Ready, Miner?”

“Yes.”

“Then come on.”

Madelaine caught Leslie’s extended hand, and leaned towards him.

“My life on it,” she whispered, “Louise is true.”

He wrung her hand and hurried away.

“Good-bye, Uncle Luke. Be happy about them here; and, mind, we are dying for news.”

“Ah! yes; I know,” he said testily; and he walked away—turned back, and caught Madelaine to his breast. “Good-bye, Dutch doll. God bless you, my darling,” he said huskily. “If I could only bring back poor Harry too!”

Madelaine stood wiping the tears from her eyes as the old man hurried off after Leslie, but she wiped another tear away as well, one which rested on her cheek, a big salt tear that ought almost to have been a fossil globule of crystallised water and salt. It was the first Uncle Luke had shed for fifty years.

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