Chapter Fifty Three.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,” she 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,” she 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.”
Chapter Fifty Four.Aunt Marguerite Finds a Friend.Uncle Luke met them at the garden gate, and took Madelaine’s hands in his, drawing her towards 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 Louy, 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 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 mother, ask him not to speak to me to-day.”Madelaine crossed quickly to the old man’s side, bent over him, and kissed his forehead, before going to the door, to find Uncle Luke waiting.“Maddy,” he whispered, “tell my brother that Margaret wants to see her. Ask him if she may come in.”Madelaine took the message, and felt startled at the angry look in the old man’s face.“No,” he cried peremptorily. “I could not bear to see her Maddy, my darling, you are almost like a daughter to me. You know all. Tell her from me to keep to her room, I could not trust myself to see her now.”Madelaine clung to him, with the tears gathering in her eyes. From her earliest childhood she had looked up to him as to some near relative, who had treated her as he had treated his own child—her companion, Louise; and now as she saw the agony depicted in his face, she suffered with him, and in her womanly sympathy her tears still fell fast.“But, dear Mr Vine,” she whispered, “forgive me for pressing you at such a time, but there is some mistake.”“Yes,” he said sternly; and she shivered as she saw how he was changed, and heard how harsh his voice had grown. “Yes, Madelaine, my child, there has been a terrible mistake made by a weak, infatuated man, who acted on impulse, and never let his mind stray from the hobby he pursued—mine.”“Mr Vine!”“Hush, my child, I know. You are going to say words that I could not bear to hear now. I know what I have done, I see it too plainly now. In my desire to play a kindly brother’s part, I let that of a father lapse, and my punishment has come—doubly come.”“If you would only let me speak,” she whispered.“Not now—not now. I want strength first to bear my punishment, to bear it patiently as a man.”It seemed to be no time to argue and plead her friend’s cause, but she still clung to him.“Bear with me,” he whispered. “I am not going to reproach you for what you have said. There, my dear, leave me now.”Madelaine sighed, and with her brow wrinkled by the lines of care, she stood watching the old man as he bent over his microscope once more, and then softly left the room.“Well?” said Uncle Luke eagerly, as she joined him in the hall. “What does he say?”“That he will not see her. That he could not trust himself to meet her now.”“Ah!”Madelaine started, and turned sharply round as a piteous wail fell upon her ears.Aunt Marguerite was standing within the dining-room door, wringing her hands, and looking wild and strange.“I can’t bear it,” she cried. “I can’t bear it. He thinks it is my fault. Go in and tell him, Luke. He must not, he shall not blame me.”“Let him alone for a bit,” said Luke, coldly.“But he thinks it is all my fault. I want to tell him—I want him to know that it is no fault of mine.”“Can’t convince him of impossibilities,” said Uncle Luke coldly.“And you think it, too!” cried Aunt Marguerite 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 the 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 Madelaine 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 towards 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 Louy, 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 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 mother, ask him not to speak to me to-day.”
Madelaine crossed quickly to the old man’s side, bent over him, and kissed his forehead, before going to the door, to find Uncle Luke waiting.
“Maddy,” he whispered, “tell my brother that Margaret wants to see her. Ask him if she may come in.”
Madelaine took the message, and felt startled at the angry look in the old man’s face.
“No,” he cried peremptorily. “I could not bear to see her Maddy, my darling, you are almost like a daughter to me. You know all. Tell her from me to keep to her room, I could not trust myself to see her now.”
Madelaine clung to him, with the tears gathering in her eyes. From her earliest childhood she had looked up to him as to some near relative, who had treated her as he had treated his own child—her companion, Louise; and now as she saw the agony depicted in his face, she suffered with him, and in her womanly sympathy her tears still fell fast.
“But, dear Mr Vine,” she whispered, “forgive me for pressing you at such a time, but there is some mistake.”
“Yes,” he said sternly; and she shivered as she saw how he was changed, and heard how harsh his voice had grown. “Yes, Madelaine, my child, there has been a terrible mistake made by a weak, infatuated man, who acted on impulse, and never let his mind stray from the hobby he pursued—mine.”
“Mr Vine!”
“Hush, my child, I know. You are going to say words that I could not bear to hear now. I know what I have done, I see it too plainly now. In my desire to play a kindly brother’s part, I let that of a father lapse, and my punishment has come—doubly come.”
“If you would only let me speak,” she whispered.
“Not now—not now. I want strength first to bear my punishment, to bear it patiently as a man.”
It seemed to be no time to argue and plead her friend’s cause, but she still clung to him.
“Bear with me,” he whispered. “I am not going to reproach you for what you have said. There, my dear, leave me now.”
Madelaine sighed, and with her brow wrinkled by the lines of care, she stood watching the old man as he bent over his microscope once more, and then softly left the room.
“Well?” said Uncle Luke eagerly, as she joined him in the hall. “What does he say?”
“That he will not see her. That he could not trust himself to meet her now.”
“Ah!”
Madelaine started, and turned sharply round as a piteous wail fell upon her ears.
Aunt Marguerite was standing within the dining-room door, wringing her hands, and looking wild and strange.
“I can’t bear it,” she cried. “I can’t bear it. He thinks it is my fault. Go in and tell him, Luke. He must not, he shall not blame me.”
“Let him alone for a bit,” said Luke, coldly.
“But he thinks it is all my fault. I want to tell him—I want him to know that it is no fault of mine.”
“Can’t convince him of impossibilities,” said Uncle Luke coldly.
“And you think it, too!” cried Aunt Marguerite 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 the 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 Madelaine 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.
Chapter Fifty Five.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 Louy 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 Louy, 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 Louy 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 Louy back, and all is cleared, Leslie shall come and congratulate us. D’ye hear, Leslie? I am 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 run 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 Louy 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 Louy, 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 Louy 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 Louy back, and all is cleared, Leslie shall come and congratulate us. D’ye hear, Leslie? I am 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 run 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.
Chapter Fifty Six.Hard Test.“Harry, dear Harry!” said Louise, as they stood together in a shabbily furnished room in one of the streets off Tottenham Court Road, “I feel at times as if it would drive me mad. Pray, pray let me write!”“Not yet, I tell you; not yet,” he said angrily. “Wait till we are across the Channel, and then you shall.”“But—”“Louy!” he half shouted at her, “have some patience.”“Patience, dear? Think of our father’s agony of mind. He loves us.”“Then the joy of finding we are both alive and well must compensate for what he suffers now.”“But you do not realise what must be thought of me.”“Oh, yes, I do,” he said bitterly; “but you do not realise what would be thought of me, if it were known that I was alive. I shiver every time I meet a policeman. Can’t you see how I am placed?”“Yes—yes,” said Louise wearily; “but at times I can only think of our father—of Madelaine—of Uncle Luke.”“Hush?” he cried with an irritable stamp of the foot. “Have patience. Once we are on the Continent I shall feel as if I could breathe; but this wretched dilatory way of getting money worries me to death.”“Then why not sell the jewels, and let us go?”“That’s talking like a woman again. It’s very easy to talk about selling the jewels, and it is easy to sell them if you go to some blackguard who will take advantage of your needs, and give you next to nothing for them. But, as Pradelle says—”“Pradelle!” ejaculated Louise, with a look of dislike crossing her face.“Yes, Pradelle. That’s right, speak ill of the only friend we have. Why, we owe everything to him. What could we have done? Where could we have gone if it had not been for him, and my finding out where he was through asking at the old meeting-place?”“I do not like Mr Pradelle,” said Louise firmly. “Then you ought to,” said Harry, as he walked up and down the room like some caged animal. “As he says, if you go to sell the things at a respectable place they’ll ask all manner of questions that it is not convenient to answer, and we must not risk detection by doing that.”“Risk detection?” said Louise, clasping her hands about one knee as she gazed straight before her.“The people here are as suspicious of us as can be, and the landlady seems ready to ask questions every time we meet on the stairs.”“Yes,” said Louise in a sad, weary way; “she is always asking questions.”“But you do not answer them?”“I—I hardly know what I have said, Harry. She is so pertinacious.”“We must leave here,” said the young man excitedly. “Why don’t Pradelle come?”“Do you expect him to-night?”“Expect him? Yes. I have only half-a-crown left, and he has your gold chain to pledge, he is to bring the money to-night. I expected him before.”“Harry, dear.”“Well?”“Do you think Mr Pradelle is trustworthy?”“As trustworthy as most people,” said the young man carelessly. “Yes, of course. He is obliged to be.”“But could you not pledge the things yourself instead of trusting him?”“No,” he cried, with an impatient stamp. “You know how I tried, and how the assistant began to question and stare at me, till I snatched the thing out of his hands and hurried out of the shop. I’d sooner beg than try to do it again.”Louise was silent for a few moments, and sat gazing thoughtfully before her.“Let me write, Harry, telling everything, and asking my father to send us money.”“Send for the police at once. There, open the windows, and call the first one up that you see pass. It will be the shortest way.”“But I am sure, dear—”“Once more, so am I. At the present moment I am free. Let me have my liberty to begin life over again honestly, repentantly, and with the earnest desire to redeem the past. Will you let me have that?”“Of course—of course, dear.”“Then say no more to me about communicating with home.”Louise was silent gain, beaten once more by her brother’s arguments in her desire to see him redeem the past.“Harry,” she said at last, after her brother had been standing with his cheek pressed against the window pane, looking down the street in search of the expected visitor.“Well?”“Has it ever occurred to you that Mr Pradelle is trying to keep us here?”“Absurd!”“No; I feel sure it is so, and that he does not want us to go away. Let me take my bracelets and necklet to one of those places where they buy jewellery or lend money.”“You?”“Yes. Why not?”“Are you mad?”“No. Why should I not sell what is my own?”“Can you not understand?” cried Harry, whose voice sounded harsh from the mental irritation which had given him the look of one in constant dread of arrest.“No, dear, I cannot. I want to help you. I want to get away from here—to remove you from the influence of this man, so that we may, if it must be so, get abroad and then set them at rest.”“Now you are bringing that up again,” he cried angrily.“I must, Harry, I must. I have been too weak as it is; but in the excitement of all that trouble I seemed to be influenced by you in all I did.”“There, there, little sis,” he said more gently. “I ought not to speak so crossly, but I am always on thorns, held back as I am for want of a few paltry pounds.”“Then let me go and dispose of these things.”“It is impossible.”“No, dear, you think of the degradation I should not be ashamed. We have made a false step, Harry, but if we must go on, let me do what I can to help you. Let me go.”“But the beggarly disgrace. You don’t know what you are going to undertake.”She looked at him with her frank, clear eyes.“I am going to help you. There can be no disgrace in disposing of these trinkets for you to escape.”“Ah! at last!” cried Harry, leaving the window to hurry to the door, regardless of the look of dislike which came into his sister’s face.“Is that Mr Pradelle?” she said shrinkingly.“Yes, at last. No, Louy, I’m bad enough, but I’m not going to send you to the pawnbroker’s while I stop hiding here, and it’s all right now.”“Ah, Harry! Day, Miss Louy,” said Pradelle, entering, very fashionably dressed, and with a rose in his buttonhole. “Nice weather, isn’t it?”“Look here, Vic,” cried Harry, catching him by the arm. “How much did you get?”“Get?”“Yes; for the chain?”“Oh, for the chain,” said Pradelle, who kept his eyes fixed on Louise. “Nothing, old fellow.”“Nothing?”“Haven’t taken it to the right place, yet.”“And you promised to. Look here, what do you mean?”“What do I mean? Well, I like that. Hear him, Miss Louy? What a fellow he is! Here have I got him into decent apartments, where he is safe as the bank, when if he had depended upon himself he would have taken you to some slum where you would have been stopped and the police have found you out.”“You promised to pledge those things for me.”“Of course I did, and so I will. Why, if you had been left to yourself, who would have taken you in without a reference?”“Never mind that,” said Harry, so angrily that Louise rose, went to his side, and laid her hand upon his arm. “If you don’t want to help me, say so.”“If I don’t want to help you! Why, look here, Miss Louy, I appeal to you. Haven’t I helped him again and again? Haven’t I lent him money, and acted as a friend should?”“Why haven’t you pledged that chain?” said Harry.“Because people are so suspicious, and I was afraid. There you have the truth.”“I don’t believe it,” cried Harry, excitedly.“Well then, don’t. Your sister will. If you want me to bring the police on your track, say so.”In a furtive way, he noted Harry’s start of dread, and went on.“Take the chain or a watch yourself, and if the pawnbroker is suspicious, he’ll either detain it till you can give a good account of how you came by it, or send for a policeman to follow you to you lodgings.”“But I am quite penniless!” cried Harry.“Then why didn’t you say so, old fellow? Long as I’ve got a pound you’re welcome to it, and always were. I’m not a fine-weather friend, you know that. There you are, two halves. That’ll keep you going for a week.”“But I don’t want to keep borrowing of you,” said Harry. “We have enough to do what I want. A sovereign will do little more than pay for these lodgings.”“Enough for a day or two, old fellow, and do, for goodness’ sake, have a little more faith in a man you have proved.”“I have faith in you, Vic, and I’m very grateful; but this existence maddens me. I want enough to get us across the Channel. I must and will go.”“Right into the arms of those who are searching for you. What a baby you are, Harry! Do you want to be told again that every boat which starts for the Continent will be watched?”Harry made a despairing gesture, and his haggard countenance told plainly of the agony he suffered.“My dear Miss Louy,” continued Pradelle, “do pray help me to bring him to reason. You must see that you are both safe here, and that it is the wisest thing to wait patiently till the worst of the pursuit is over.”“We do not know that there is any pursuit, Mr Pradelle,” said Louise coldly.“Come, I like that!” cried Pradelle, in an ill-used tone. “I thought I told you that they were searching for you both. If you like to believe that you can leave your home as you did without your people making any search, why you have a right to.”Harry began pacing the room, while Pradelle went on in a low, pleading way.“Ever since Harry came to me, I thought I had done all that a friend could, but if I can do more, Miss Louy, you’ve only got to tell me what, and it shall be done.”“You’ve done your best, Prad,” said Harry.“Yes, but you don’t think it. I could go and do all kinds of rash things; but I’ve been working to throw them off the scent, and I don’t think, so far, I’ve done amiss. You’re not taken yet.”Harry drew a long breath and glanced at door and window, as if for a way of escape.“Come, that’s better,” cried Pradelle. “Take a more cheerful view of things. You want change, Harry. You’ve been shut up too much. Have a cigar,” he continued, drawing out his case. “No? I beg your pardon, Miss Louy. Oughtn’t to ask him to smoke here.”Harry shook his head impatiently.“Yes; have one, old fellow. They’re good. Take two or three; and, look here; go and have a walk up and down for an hour. It’s getting dusk now.”Louise gave her brother an excited look, which did not escape Pradelle. “Let’s all go,” he said. “We might go along the back streets as far as the park. Do you both good.”“No, no,” said Harry sharply. “I shall not go out.”“Go together, then,” said Pradelle, half mockingly. “I don’t want to intrude; but for goodness’ sake, man, try and have a little change; it would make life move different, and you’d be more ready to take a friend’s advice.”“What advice?”“To settle down here. London’s the best place in the world for hiding yourself.”“Don’t talk to me any more, old fellow,” said Harry. “I’m out of temper. I can’t help it.”“All right, lad. I’ll go now; and you get him out, Miss Louy, do. It’s the best thing for him.”Harry made an impatient gesture, and threw himself in a chair.“You shall do as you like, and I’ll raise all the money for you that I can,” said Pradelle, rising to go; “but take things more coolly. Good-bye, old boy.”“Good-bye,” said Harry, shaking hands limply.“Good-bye,” said Pradelle, as Harry turned away to rest his aching head upon his hand.“Miss Louy!”He gave his head a jerk towards the door, and Louise rose and followed him.“Come outside,” he whispered. “I want to speak to you.”“Mr Pradelle can say what he has to say here.”“But it’s about him.”“Well, Mr Pradelle?”“Well, Miss Louy, I only wanted to say that some day you’ll find out who is your true friend. I want to help you both. I do, on my honour.”“Your honour!” thought Louise.“Have a little more confidence in a man if you can. I do want to help you. Good-bye.”He held out his hand, and she felt constrained to give him hers, which he held, and, after glancing hastily at Harry, raised to his lips; but the kiss he imprinted was on the yielding air, for the hand was snatched indignantly away.“You’ll know me better by-and-by,” said Pradelle; and giving her a peculiar look, he left the room.Louise stood for a few minutes gazing after him, her brow knit and her eyes thoughtful. Then, going back to where her brother sat with his head resting upon his hand, she laid hers upon his shoulder.“Harry, dear,” she said firmly, “that man is fighting against us.”“Rubbish,” he cried impatiently. “You never liked Pradelle.”“Better for you if you had hated him. Harry, he is striving to keep us here.”“Nonsense! Don’t talk to me now.”“I must, Harry. You must act, and decisively.”“What do you mean?”“Either you must raise money at once, and go right from here—”He looked up sharply.“No, I do not mean that,” she said sadly. “I will not leave you till you are fit to leave; but you must either act as I advise at once, or I shall do what I think best.”“What do you mean?”“Write to our father to come and help us, for you are too weak and broken down to protect me.”“Louy!” he cried excitedly; “I am not so weak as you think. I will act; I will take your advice.”“And get rid of this Mr Pradelle?”“Anything you like, Louy, only don’t let them know at home—yet, and don’t leave me. If you did I should break down at once.”“Then will you be guided by me?”“Yes.”“And take these jewels yourself and raise money?”“Yes; but it is too late now.”Louise glanced at the window, and in her ignorance of such matters half felt the truth of his words.“Then to-morrow you will do as I wish?”“Yes, to-morrow,” he said wearily.“Put not off until to-morrow—” said Louise softly to herself; and she stood watching her brother as he sat with bended head, weak, broken, and despairing, in the gathering gloom.
“Harry, dear Harry!” said Louise, as they stood together in a shabbily furnished room in one of the streets off Tottenham Court Road, “I feel at times as if it would drive me mad. Pray, pray let me write!”
“Not yet, I tell you; not yet,” he said angrily. “Wait till we are across the Channel, and then you shall.”
“But—”
“Louy!” he half shouted at her, “have some patience.”
“Patience, dear? Think of our father’s agony of mind. He loves us.”
“Then the joy of finding we are both alive and well must compensate for what he suffers now.”
“But you do not realise what must be thought of me.”
“Oh, yes, I do,” he said bitterly; “but you do not realise what would be thought of me, if it were known that I was alive. I shiver every time I meet a policeman. Can’t you see how I am placed?”
“Yes—yes,” said Louise wearily; “but at times I can only think of our father—of Madelaine—of Uncle Luke.”
“Hush?” he cried with an irritable stamp of the foot. “Have patience. Once we are on the Continent I shall feel as if I could breathe; but this wretched dilatory way of getting money worries me to death.”
“Then why not sell the jewels, and let us go?”
“That’s talking like a woman again. It’s very easy to talk about selling the jewels, and it is easy to sell them if you go to some blackguard who will take advantage of your needs, and give you next to nothing for them. But, as Pradelle says—”
“Pradelle!” ejaculated Louise, with a look of dislike crossing her face.
“Yes, Pradelle. That’s right, speak ill of the only friend we have. Why, we owe everything to him. What could we have done? Where could we have gone if it had not been for him, and my finding out where he was through asking at the old meeting-place?”
“I do not like Mr Pradelle,” said Louise firmly. “Then you ought to,” said Harry, as he walked up and down the room like some caged animal. “As he says, if you go to sell the things at a respectable place they’ll ask all manner of questions that it is not convenient to answer, and we must not risk detection by doing that.”
“Risk detection?” said Louise, clasping her hands about one knee as she gazed straight before her.
“The people here are as suspicious of us as can be, and the landlady seems ready to ask questions every time we meet on the stairs.”
“Yes,” said Louise in a sad, weary way; “she is always asking questions.”
“But you do not answer them?”
“I—I hardly know what I have said, Harry. She is so pertinacious.”
“We must leave here,” said the young man excitedly. “Why don’t Pradelle come?”
“Do you expect him to-night?”
“Expect him? Yes. I have only half-a-crown left, and he has your gold chain to pledge, he is to bring the money to-night. I expected him before.”
“Harry, dear.”
“Well?”
“Do you think Mr Pradelle is trustworthy?”
“As trustworthy as most people,” said the young man carelessly. “Yes, of course. He is obliged to be.”
“But could you not pledge the things yourself instead of trusting him?”
“No,” he cried, with an impatient stamp. “You know how I tried, and how the assistant began to question and stare at me, till I snatched the thing out of his hands and hurried out of the shop. I’d sooner beg than try to do it again.”
Louise was silent for a few moments, and sat gazing thoughtfully before her.
“Let me write, Harry, telling everything, and asking my father to send us money.”
“Send for the police at once. There, open the windows, and call the first one up that you see pass. It will be the shortest way.”
“But I am sure, dear—”
“Once more, so am I. At the present moment I am free. Let me have my liberty to begin life over again honestly, repentantly, and with the earnest desire to redeem the past. Will you let me have that?”
“Of course—of course, dear.”
“Then say no more to me about communicating with home.”
Louise was silent gain, beaten once more by her brother’s arguments in her desire to see him redeem the past.
“Harry,” she said at last, after her brother had been standing with his cheek pressed against the window pane, looking down the street in search of the expected visitor.
“Well?”
“Has it ever occurred to you that Mr Pradelle is trying to keep us here?”
“Absurd!”
“No; I feel sure it is so, and that he does not want us to go away. Let me take my bracelets and necklet to one of those places where they buy jewellery or lend money.”
“You?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“Are you mad?”
“No. Why should I not sell what is my own?”
“Can you not understand?” cried Harry, whose voice sounded harsh from the mental irritation which had given him the look of one in constant dread of arrest.
“No, dear, I cannot. I want to help you. I want to get away from here—to remove you from the influence of this man, so that we may, if it must be so, get abroad and then set them at rest.”
“Now you are bringing that up again,” he cried angrily.
“I must, Harry, I must. I have been too weak as it is; but in the excitement of all that trouble I seemed to be influenced by you in all I did.”
“There, there, little sis,” he said more gently. “I ought not to speak so crossly, but I am always on thorns, held back as I am for want of a few paltry pounds.”
“Then let me go and dispose of these things.”
“It is impossible.”
“No, dear, you think of the degradation I should not be ashamed. We have made a false step, Harry, but if we must go on, let me do what I can to help you. Let me go.”
“But the beggarly disgrace. You don’t know what you are going to undertake.”
She looked at him with her frank, clear eyes.
“I am going to help you. There can be no disgrace in disposing of these trinkets for you to escape.”
“Ah! at last!” cried Harry, leaving the window to hurry to the door, regardless of the look of dislike which came into his sister’s face.
“Is that Mr Pradelle?” she said shrinkingly.
“Yes, at last. No, Louy, I’m bad enough, but I’m not going to send you to the pawnbroker’s while I stop hiding here, and it’s all right now.”
“Ah, Harry! Day, Miss Louy,” said Pradelle, entering, very fashionably dressed, and with a rose in his buttonhole. “Nice weather, isn’t it?”
“Look here, Vic,” cried Harry, catching him by the arm. “How much did you get?”
“Get?”
“Yes; for the chain?”
“Oh, for the chain,” said Pradelle, who kept his eyes fixed on Louise. “Nothing, old fellow.”
“Nothing?”
“Haven’t taken it to the right place, yet.”
“And you promised to. Look here, what do you mean?”
“What do I mean? Well, I like that. Hear him, Miss Louy? What a fellow he is! Here have I got him into decent apartments, where he is safe as the bank, when if he had depended upon himself he would have taken you to some slum where you would have been stopped and the police have found you out.”
“You promised to pledge those things for me.”
“Of course I did, and so I will. Why, if you had been left to yourself, who would have taken you in without a reference?”
“Never mind that,” said Harry, so angrily that Louise rose, went to his side, and laid her hand upon his arm. “If you don’t want to help me, say so.”
“If I don’t want to help you! Why, look here, Miss Louy, I appeal to you. Haven’t I helped him again and again? Haven’t I lent him money, and acted as a friend should?”
“Why haven’t you pledged that chain?” said Harry.
“Because people are so suspicious, and I was afraid. There you have the truth.”
“I don’t believe it,” cried Harry, excitedly.
“Well then, don’t. Your sister will. If you want me to bring the police on your track, say so.”
In a furtive way, he noted Harry’s start of dread, and went on.
“Take the chain or a watch yourself, and if the pawnbroker is suspicious, he’ll either detain it till you can give a good account of how you came by it, or send for a policeman to follow you to you lodgings.”
“But I am quite penniless!” cried Harry.
“Then why didn’t you say so, old fellow? Long as I’ve got a pound you’re welcome to it, and always were. I’m not a fine-weather friend, you know that. There you are, two halves. That’ll keep you going for a week.”
“But I don’t want to keep borrowing of you,” said Harry. “We have enough to do what I want. A sovereign will do little more than pay for these lodgings.”
“Enough for a day or two, old fellow, and do, for goodness’ sake, have a little more faith in a man you have proved.”
“I have faith in you, Vic, and I’m very grateful; but this existence maddens me. I want enough to get us across the Channel. I must and will go.”
“Right into the arms of those who are searching for you. What a baby you are, Harry! Do you want to be told again that every boat which starts for the Continent will be watched?”
Harry made a despairing gesture, and his haggard countenance told plainly of the agony he suffered.
“My dear Miss Louy,” continued Pradelle, “do pray help me to bring him to reason. You must see that you are both safe here, and that it is the wisest thing to wait patiently till the worst of the pursuit is over.”
“We do not know that there is any pursuit, Mr Pradelle,” said Louise coldly.
“Come, I like that!” cried Pradelle, in an ill-used tone. “I thought I told you that they were searching for you both. If you like to believe that you can leave your home as you did without your people making any search, why you have a right to.”
Harry began pacing the room, while Pradelle went on in a low, pleading way.
“Ever since Harry came to me, I thought I had done all that a friend could, but if I can do more, Miss Louy, you’ve only got to tell me what, and it shall be done.”
“You’ve done your best, Prad,” said Harry.
“Yes, but you don’t think it. I could go and do all kinds of rash things; but I’ve been working to throw them off the scent, and I don’t think, so far, I’ve done amiss. You’re not taken yet.”
Harry drew a long breath and glanced at door and window, as if for a way of escape.
“Come, that’s better,” cried Pradelle. “Take a more cheerful view of things. You want change, Harry. You’ve been shut up too much. Have a cigar,” he continued, drawing out his case. “No? I beg your pardon, Miss Louy. Oughtn’t to ask him to smoke here.”
Harry shook his head impatiently.
“Yes; have one, old fellow. They’re good. Take two or three; and, look here; go and have a walk up and down for an hour. It’s getting dusk now.”
Louise gave her brother an excited look, which did not escape Pradelle. “Let’s all go,” he said. “We might go along the back streets as far as the park. Do you both good.”
“No, no,” said Harry sharply. “I shall not go out.”
“Go together, then,” said Pradelle, half mockingly. “I don’t want to intrude; but for goodness’ sake, man, try and have a little change; it would make life move different, and you’d be more ready to take a friend’s advice.”
“What advice?”
“To settle down here. London’s the best place in the world for hiding yourself.”
“Don’t talk to me any more, old fellow,” said Harry. “I’m out of temper. I can’t help it.”
“All right, lad. I’ll go now; and you get him out, Miss Louy, do. It’s the best thing for him.”
Harry made an impatient gesture, and threw himself in a chair.
“You shall do as you like, and I’ll raise all the money for you that I can,” said Pradelle, rising to go; “but take things more coolly. Good-bye, old boy.”
“Good-bye,” said Harry, shaking hands limply.
“Good-bye,” said Pradelle, as Harry turned away to rest his aching head upon his hand.
“Miss Louy!”
He gave his head a jerk towards the door, and Louise rose and followed him.
“Come outside,” he whispered. “I want to speak to you.”
“Mr Pradelle can say what he has to say here.”
“But it’s about him.”
“Well, Mr Pradelle?”
“Well, Miss Louy, I only wanted to say that some day you’ll find out who is your true friend. I want to help you both. I do, on my honour.”
“Your honour!” thought Louise.
“Have a little more confidence in a man if you can. I do want to help you. Good-bye.”
He held out his hand, and she felt constrained to give him hers, which he held, and, after glancing hastily at Harry, raised to his lips; but the kiss he imprinted was on the yielding air, for the hand was snatched indignantly away.
“You’ll know me better by-and-by,” said Pradelle; and giving her a peculiar look, he left the room.
Louise stood for a few minutes gazing after him, her brow knit and her eyes thoughtful. Then, going back to where her brother sat with his head resting upon his hand, she laid hers upon his shoulder.
“Harry, dear,” she said firmly, “that man is fighting against us.”
“Rubbish,” he cried impatiently. “You never liked Pradelle.”
“Better for you if you had hated him. Harry, he is striving to keep us here.”
“Nonsense! Don’t talk to me now.”
“I must, Harry. You must act, and decisively.”
“What do you mean?”
“Either you must raise money at once, and go right from here—”
He looked up sharply.
“No, I do not mean that,” she said sadly. “I will not leave you till you are fit to leave; but you must either act as I advise at once, or I shall do what I think best.”
“What do you mean?”
“Write to our father to come and help us, for you are too weak and broken down to protect me.”
“Louy!” he cried excitedly; “I am not so weak as you think. I will act; I will take your advice.”
“And get rid of this Mr Pradelle?”
“Anything you like, Louy, only don’t let them know at home—yet, and don’t leave me. If you did I should break down at once.”
“Then will you be guided by me?”
“Yes.”
“And take these jewels yourself and raise money?”
“Yes; but it is too late now.”
Louise glanced at the window, and in her ignorance of such matters half felt the truth of his words.
“Then to-morrow you will do as I wish?”
“Yes, to-morrow,” he said wearily.
“Put not off until to-morrow—” said Louise softly to herself; and she stood watching her brother as he sat with bended head, weak, broken, and despairing, in the gathering gloom.