Chapter Forty Seven.

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

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

“Harry!” she whispered, “alone? yes.”

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

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

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

“Harry! my darling brother.”

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

“Then there is some one left to—My darling sis!”

He began in a half-cynical way, but the genuine embrace was contagious, and clasping her to his breast, he had to fight hard to keep back his own tears and sobs as he returned her kisses.

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

“Where is father?”

“At Mr Van Heldre’s. Let me—”

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

“Gone to bed, dear.”

“And the servants?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now!” he said, “can you listen?”

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

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

She nodded silently.

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

“Oh, my brother?” she answered.

“Waiting till it was safe to come out.”

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

She stopped.

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

“But—”

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

“Yes; they found you—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quite, dear, we are alone.”

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

Louise moaned.

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

“I believe you, Harry,” she whispered.

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

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

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

“Harry!”

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

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

“No,” said the young man sternly.

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

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

“Then I may send for him?”

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

“But Harry, dearest—”

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

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

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

“Harry!”

“But not this shivering, cowardly cur—a man, a true blameless man, whom it will take years to make. Now, then, once more, will you help me, and keep my secret?”

Louise was silent for a few moments.

“Well, never mind, you must keep my secret, for after I am gone if you said you had seen me, people would tell you that you were mad.”

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

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

“But Harry—Madelaine—she loves you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But, Harry, dear, you are safe now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Too late,” he moaned—“too late!”

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

“Harry, dear, tell me what to do.”

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

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

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

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

In five minutes Louise was back.

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

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

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

“What next?” he said vacantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Harry!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Harry!”

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

“We?” she said aghast.

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

“Oh, Harry! my darling brother.”

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

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

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

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

“But my father, dear?”

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

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

“Write,” he said hoarsely.

“Write, Harry?”

“Yes, quick!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Father—brother—what should she do?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” he said sternly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So I suppose,” said Leslie coldly.

“Send him away,” whispered Harry hoarsely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, no. Go now, now!” cried Louise.

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

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

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

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

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

“Mr Leslie, you are mistaken.”

“I am not.”

“Indeed—indeed!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry was at her side in a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bah! then you give in, sir!”

The apparent resignation of his adversary had thrown him off his guard, and the next moment Harry had sprung at him, and with his whole weight borne him backwards, so that he fell with his head upon the bare patch of the hearthstone.

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

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

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

“You have killed him,” she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs Van Heldre took his hand and held it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” said Mrs Van Heldre, sharply.

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

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

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

He did not finish his sentence.

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

Poor little Mrs Van Heldre looked more perplexed than ever, and now burst into tears.

“He said that? The doctor said that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sit down, Luke Vine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A jade! I hate her.”

“No, you do not.”

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

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

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

“Has Louise refused him?”

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

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

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

“I am trying, brother Luke.”

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

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

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

“John is awake now, George Vine,” said Mrs Van Heldre, re-entering the room.

“Will you go up?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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