Chapter Twenty Six.Leslie Makes a Declaration.“Where is Harry?” said George Vine that same evening, as he sat in his study, surrounded by his living specimens of natural history, and with the paper before him that he had vainly tried to fill.“He must be waiting about down in the town—for news,” said Louise, looking up from her work.“He ought to have been here to dinner, my dear,” said the naturalist querulously; “it would have been some comfort. Tut—tut—tut! I cannot collect my thoughts; everything seems to slip from me.”“Then why not leave it, dear, for the present? This terrible trouble as unhinged you.”She had risen and gone to the back of his chair, to pass her arm lovingly about his neck, and he leaned back, dropping his pen to take her hand and play with it, pressing it to his lips from time to time.“I suppose I had better,” he said sadly; “but I am dreadfully behindhand—four letters from the Society unanswered. I wish they did not expect so much from me, my darling.”“I do not,” said Louise, smiling. “Why should you wish to be less learned than you are?”“Had we not better go on again to Van Heldre’s now?”“I think I would leave it till quite the last thing.”“Ye-es,” said Vine, hesitating, “perhaps so; but I don’t like it, my child. Van Heldre has always been to me like a brother, and it seems so strange and hard to be almost driven from his side. Doctor’s like a tyrant, and as for Crampton—there, wait till the poor fellow is well again, and if we together do not give Master Crampton a severe setting down, my name is not what it is.”“You must forgive it, dear; he is so anxious about his master.”“Yes, yes, of course,” said Vine pettishly; “but the man is so insolently overbearing. Really, my dear, if he has been in the habit of behaving to Harry as he has conducted himself towards us, I do not wonder at the poor boy’s intense dislike to the office routine.”“It is not fair to judge him now,” said Louise.“No, my dear, I suppose not; but it is very painful, when I feel as if you and I have quite a right in that poor fellow’s bedroom, to be literally expelled, Madelaine siding with the doctor, and poor Mrs Van Heldre really utterly broken down.”“We should only make matters more painful by interfering. Let us go and ask how Mr Van Heldre is about ten, and I will get Madelaine to let me sit up with her and help.”“No,” said Vine, rising and pacing the room, “I shall not sit down quietly. I feel that it is my duty to insist upon being there. I shall go up at once.”“Wait till I put on my things, dear.”“No; I shall only go for an hour now, and I will come back and fetch you later on.”“But, papa, dear!”“There, there, there! don’t be alarmed, I shall not get out of temper with Crampton now. That will keep.”“Then you will go—now?”“Yes,” he said decidedly; “I cannot sit here.”“But you hardly tasted your dinner. Let me get you some tea first.”“My dear child, I can touch nothing; and pray don’t oppose me. I am in such a state of nervous irritation that if you do I am sure I shall say something unkind, and then I shall be more upset than I am now.”“I am not afraid,” said Louise, hanging on his shoulder for a few moments, and then kissing his wrinkled, careworn brow.“Thank you, my darling, thank you. You will not mind being left? Harry ought to be here.”“Oh, no, dear; but you will come back soon and tell me all. Harry will be here before then.”“Of course, my dear, of course.”“And you will give my dear love to Madelaine,” Louise cried, as her father moved away from the door.He nodded, and with bended head went off down the path, while, after watching till he had disappeared, Louise stood gazing out to sea, as the evening began to close in, and a soft, melancholy breeze came whispering among the trees.She could not tell why it was, but everything seemed to wear a different aspect, and a profound sense of dejection came upon her, which brought the tears to her eyes.Where could Harry be? It was hours since she had seen him, and as she felt how much she required help and counsel at that time, her thoughts strayed to Duncan Leslie, and she looked across an intervening depression to the steep cliff path, which led up past Uncle Luke’s den to the Mine House, where a faint light twinkled, and away beyond, like a giant finger pointing upward, the great chimney shaft towered.She stood gazing at that faint light for some minutes, with her eyes growing dim, and the troubled feelings which had often assailed her in secret increasing till, with checks burning and an angry ejaculation, she turned into the house, where she fetched her work from the study, and was soon after seated by the window trying to sew. At the end of a few minutes she rose and rang for the lamp, which was brought in by the cook.“Where’s Liza?” said Louise.“Gone down into the town, ma’am,” said the cook, looking at her uneasily.“What for? She did not ask leave.”“She said she would not be long, ma’am,” said the woman evasively.“Tell her to bring in the tea the moment my father returns. Let everything be ready.”“Yes, ma’am.”The woman hurried out, and Louise sat gazing at the door, thinking that the woman’s manner was strange.“I am upset,” she said with a sigh, “and that makes things seem different.”She had been dreaming over her work for a few minutes when she started, for she heard voices talking loudly. She sat up in her chair with her senses on the strain, trembling lest there should be bad news from the Van Heldre’s. She was nor kept long in suspense, for there was a quick step in the hall, a sharp rap at the door, and Liza entered, scarlet with excitement and exertion, her shawl over one arm, her hat hanging by its strings from the other.“Liza!”“Yes, miss, it’s me. Can I speak to you a minute?”“Have you brought news from Mr Van Heldre’s?”“Which I have, miss, and I haven’t.”“How is he?” cried Louise, paying no heed to Liza’s paradoxical declaration.“No better, and no worse, miss; but it wasn’t about that. I leaves you this day month, miss; and as much sooner as you can suit yourself.”“Very well, Liza. That will do.”“No, miss!” cried the girl excitedly, “it won’t do. ’Cusing people o’ being thiefs when it was nothing but a bit of a bundle o’ old rags and things I saved, as might ha’ been burnt, and they bought ’em of me, and I bought the ribbons o’ them.”“I do not wish to hear anymore about that transaction, Liza; but I am glad to hear you can explain it away. You should have been frank at first.”“So ought other people, miss, if you’ll excuse me; and not go taking away a poor servant’s character by alluding to money left on no chimley-pieces as I never took.”“Liza!”“Yes, miss; I know, and thinking o’ sending for the police.”“I had too much feeling for you, Eliza, and for your future character. I did not even send you away.”“I should think not indeed, miss. Mother and me’s as honest as the day; and if you want police send for ’em for them as has been picking and stealing.”“My good girl, what do you mean?”“Oh, you don’t know, o’ course, miss; but you very soon will. And him with his fine airs, and his boots never shiny enough. He’ll find out the difference now; and as to me staying in a home like this where one of us is a thief, I’ve got my character to look after, and—”There was a sharp knock and ring, and from force of habit, Liza turned.“In a month, miss, if you please; and now you’re going to hear what come an hour ago, and is all over the town by now.”Louise caught at the table to steady herself, and her lips parted to question the girl, but she had hurried out of the room. The door was opened, a deep male voice was heard, and directly after Duncan Leslie hurried in.“It is no time for ceremony,” he gasped, breathlessly. “Where is your father?”“At—Mr Van Heldre’s,” panted Louise as she turned to him with extended hands. “Mr Leslie, pray—pray tell me—what is wrong?”“Fell you?” he cried, catching her almost in his arms, and holding her firmly; and his voice sounded deep, hoarse and full of commiseration. “How am I to dare to tell you, Louise?”“Mr Leslie!”She half struggled from him, but he retained her hands. “Tell me,” he cried; “what shall I say? Am I to speak out?”“Yes, quick! You torture me.”“Torture you, whom I would die to save from pain!” She trembled and flushed, and turned pale by turns.“I must tell you,” he said; “there is no time to spare. I have—try and bear it, my child, like the true, brave heart you are. Your brother—”“Yes; quick! what do you mean?” Leslie stood looking at her for a few moments, his mind dragged two ways, and shrinking from giving his news as he gazed into her dilated eyes.“Why do you not speak?” she said passionately. “Do you not see the pain you give me?”“I must speak,” he groaned. “Where is your brother? There is a horrible rumour in the town. Mr Crampton—”“Crampton!”“Accuses your brother of having robbed and struck down Mr Van Heldre.”“It is a lie!” she cried fiercely, as she snatched away her hands, gazing at him with flashing eyes and burning cheeks. “My brother a thief—almost a murderer! Oh!”“It cannot be true,” said Leslie; “but—”“Weak and reckless and foolish; but—oh, why have you come up to say these things?”“Because I love you!” he cried passionately; and he caught her hands in his, and held them tightly. “Because I knew that the horrible charge must soon reach your ears, and that it would be better that it should come from me—when you were in trouble—when you wanted help.”“It is not true—it is not true!” cried Louise, excitedly.“Where is he? Let me see him. I may be able to advise and help. Louise, dear Louise, let this terrible time of trial be that which brings us together. Let me prove to you how I love you by being your counsellor, your aid in this time of need.”She heard his words, uttered with an earnestness which told their truth; but their effect was merely to arouse her indignation. How dared he take advantage of her agony and weakness at a time like this, and insult her with professions! It was an outrage.“Don’t shrink from me,” he whispered. “I will say no more now. Forgive my clumsy blundering out of the words I have for months been longing to speak. Only let me feel that you understand me—that I may love; and then you will turn to me for help in this time of trouble.”For answer she pointed to the door.“It is false,” she cried; “my brother a common thief!”“It must be false,” he echoed, against his own belief; “but the charge has been made, and he must be warned in time.”“Warned in time?” she cried. “And you who profess to be our friend stood by and heard this charge made, and did not strike down the villain who made it.”“Miss Vine—Louise, you are hasty. The shock I know is terrible, but we must be prepared to meet it. He must not be taken unawares.”“My brother can meet such a charge as a gentleman should. It is not the first time that so foul an attack has been made against an innocent man.”“You are too hard upon me,” he pleaded. “How could I, loving you as I do—”“Loving!” she cried, scornfully.“What have I done?” he groaned. “I ran up here directly to try and be of service. In my excitement, I spoke words that I should have kept back for a time, but they would have vent, and—No, I am not ashamed of what I have said,” he cried, drawing himself up. “Louise Vine, I love you, and I must help you and your brother in this terrible strait.”“Then go back to the town, and tell all who have dared to say my brother committed this crime that what they say is false, and that his father, his sister will prove his innocence. Go!”“Yes, go,” said a shrill, hard voice. “Louise, go to your room and let me speak to this man.”“Aunt, you have heard?”“Yes, from the servants. And I heard his last insulting words. Go to your room, child.”She threw open the room, and, accustomed to obey from her childhood, Louise moved slowly towards the hall; but as she turned slightly to dart a last indignant look at the man who had set her heart beating wildly as he at the same time roused her indignation, she saw such a look of agony that her courage failed, a strange sense of pity stole through her, and she stepped back and took her aunt’s arm.“Hush, aunt dear,” she said, “there is no need to say more. Mr Leslie has made a great mistake in bringing up that cruel report, and he will go now and contradict it for my brother’s sake.”“And apologise for his insult,” cried Aunt Marguerite fiercely. “Child, I bade you go to your room.”“Yes, aunt. I am going.”“I must speak to this man alone.”“Aunt, dear—”“Pray go, Miss Vine,” said Leslie, approaching and taking her hand.She yielded, and he led her to the door.“Nothing your aunt can say will change my feelings towards you. When you are calm you will forgive me. Believe me, I will do everything to clear your brother from this charge.”She looked at him wildly, and still hesitated to obey her aunt’s words. Finally, she gave way, Leslie held the door open till she was on the stairs, and then closed it, his manner completely changing as he turned and faced Aunt Marguerite, who stood with her head thrown back, and an indignant look of anger in her keen eyes.“So, sir,” she exclaimed, “you, in your common ignorance of everything connected with the social life of such a family as ours, dare to come up as a tale-bearer—as one of our servants did a few minutes back—and tell this pitiful story about my nephew.”“I grieved greatly, Miss Vine,” said Leslie in quiet business-like tones.“You grieved!” she cried. “A theft! Do you know that a des Vignes would prefer death to dishonour?”“No, madam; but I am very glad to hear it, for that being the case Harry Vine must be innocent.”“Innocent!” she cried scornfully. “My nephew Henri! As if it could be for a moment in doubt!”“I shall strive hard to help Mr Vine, your brother, to clear him from this disgrace.”“Disgrace, sir? It is no disgrace. If thecanaillecast mud at one of noble lineage, does it disgrace him? No. The disgrace is where some plebeian—some trading person—is mad enough to advance his pretensions, and dares to address a lady as I heard you address my niece. Let me see, sir, did I not once give you to understand that Miss Louise des Vignes would in all probability be soon married to a gentleman of Auvergne—a gentleman whose lineage is as noble as her own?”“I did understand something of the kind, madam; but until I see Miss Louise Vine another’s wife, I shall boldly advance my pretensions, hoping to the last.”“Even supposing that her brother has committed somefaux pas?”“That would be the greater inducement to me to stand by her in her time of need.”“Most gratifying, I am sure, Mr Leslie, and highly creditable to one of your nationality,” said Aunt Marguerite sneeringly, as she raised her glass to her eye, and gazed at him in an amused way. “Now may I ask you to leave me? My brother and my nephew are from home, and I cannot entertain you as I am sure you would wish. Good-evening, Mr Leslie—good-evening.”She bowed him out with a sneering smile upon her thin lips, and Leslie hurried back towards the town.“What shall I do?” he muttered. “Oh, that sneering old woman, how she does raise one’s gall? Poor Louise! she did look more gentle toward the last; and I don’t believe in the Frenchman of great lineage. If there is one, let’s do battle as they did of old, if he likes. What a fool I was to speak as I did just when she was so full of trouble! I must have been mad—a declaration of love, and an announcement that the poor girl’s brother was in trouble. The young idiot! The scoundrel! How I should like to have his drilling for the next five years! What shall I do? I must help him. It’s true enough, I’m afraid; and he must have the best legal help. If I had only someone to consult with. Van Heldre would have been the man.”There was a pause as the young man thought deeply of what steps he ought to take next.“Yes, with all his sham cynicism and silly whims, the old man is shrewd, and can help when he likes. Uncle Luke?”
“Where is Harry?” said George Vine that same evening, as he sat in his study, surrounded by his living specimens of natural history, and with the paper before him that he had vainly tried to fill.
“He must be waiting about down in the town—for news,” said Louise, looking up from her work.
“He ought to have been here to dinner, my dear,” said the naturalist querulously; “it would have been some comfort. Tut—tut—tut! I cannot collect my thoughts; everything seems to slip from me.”
“Then why not leave it, dear, for the present? This terrible trouble as unhinged you.”
She had risen and gone to the back of his chair, to pass her arm lovingly about his neck, and he leaned back, dropping his pen to take her hand and play with it, pressing it to his lips from time to time.
“I suppose I had better,” he said sadly; “but I am dreadfully behindhand—four letters from the Society unanswered. I wish they did not expect so much from me, my darling.”
“I do not,” said Louise, smiling. “Why should you wish to be less learned than you are?”
“Had we not better go on again to Van Heldre’s now?”
“I think I would leave it till quite the last thing.”
“Ye-es,” said Vine, hesitating, “perhaps so; but I don’t like it, my child. Van Heldre has always been to me like a brother, and it seems so strange and hard to be almost driven from his side. Doctor’s like a tyrant, and as for Crampton—there, wait till the poor fellow is well again, and if we together do not give Master Crampton a severe setting down, my name is not what it is.”
“You must forgive it, dear; he is so anxious about his master.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Vine pettishly; “but the man is so insolently overbearing. Really, my dear, if he has been in the habit of behaving to Harry as he has conducted himself towards us, I do not wonder at the poor boy’s intense dislike to the office routine.”
“It is not fair to judge him now,” said Louise.
“No, my dear, I suppose not; but it is very painful, when I feel as if you and I have quite a right in that poor fellow’s bedroom, to be literally expelled, Madelaine siding with the doctor, and poor Mrs Van Heldre really utterly broken down.”
“We should only make matters more painful by interfering. Let us go and ask how Mr Van Heldre is about ten, and I will get Madelaine to let me sit up with her and help.”
“No,” said Vine, rising and pacing the room, “I shall not sit down quietly. I feel that it is my duty to insist upon being there. I shall go up at once.”
“Wait till I put on my things, dear.”
“No; I shall only go for an hour now, and I will come back and fetch you later on.”
“But, papa, dear!”
“There, there, there! don’t be alarmed, I shall not get out of temper with Crampton now. That will keep.”
“Then you will go—now?”
“Yes,” he said decidedly; “I cannot sit here.”
“But you hardly tasted your dinner. Let me get you some tea first.”
“My dear child, I can touch nothing; and pray don’t oppose me. I am in such a state of nervous irritation that if you do I am sure I shall say something unkind, and then I shall be more upset than I am now.”
“I am not afraid,” said Louise, hanging on his shoulder for a few moments, and then kissing his wrinkled, careworn brow.
“Thank you, my darling, thank you. You will not mind being left? Harry ought to be here.”
“Oh, no, dear; but you will come back soon and tell me all. Harry will be here before then.”
“Of course, my dear, of course.”
“And you will give my dear love to Madelaine,” Louise cried, as her father moved away from the door.
He nodded, and with bended head went off down the path, while, after watching till he had disappeared, Louise stood gazing out to sea, as the evening began to close in, and a soft, melancholy breeze came whispering among the trees.
She could not tell why it was, but everything seemed to wear a different aspect, and a profound sense of dejection came upon her, which brought the tears to her eyes.
Where could Harry be? It was hours since she had seen him, and as she felt how much she required help and counsel at that time, her thoughts strayed to Duncan Leslie, and she looked across an intervening depression to the steep cliff path, which led up past Uncle Luke’s den to the Mine House, where a faint light twinkled, and away beyond, like a giant finger pointing upward, the great chimney shaft towered.
She stood gazing at that faint light for some minutes, with her eyes growing dim, and the troubled feelings which had often assailed her in secret increasing till, with checks burning and an angry ejaculation, she turned into the house, where she fetched her work from the study, and was soon after seated by the window trying to sew. At the end of a few minutes she rose and rang for the lamp, which was brought in by the cook.
“Where’s Liza?” said Louise.
“Gone down into the town, ma’am,” said the cook, looking at her uneasily.
“What for? She did not ask leave.”
“She said she would not be long, ma’am,” said the woman evasively.
“Tell her to bring in the tea the moment my father returns. Let everything be ready.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The woman hurried out, and Louise sat gazing at the door, thinking that the woman’s manner was strange.
“I am upset,” she said with a sigh, “and that makes things seem different.”
She had been dreaming over her work for a few minutes when she started, for she heard voices talking loudly. She sat up in her chair with her senses on the strain, trembling lest there should be bad news from the Van Heldre’s. She was nor kept long in suspense, for there was a quick step in the hall, a sharp rap at the door, and Liza entered, scarlet with excitement and exertion, her shawl over one arm, her hat hanging by its strings from the other.
“Liza!”
“Yes, miss, it’s me. Can I speak to you a minute?”
“Have you brought news from Mr Van Heldre’s?”
“Which I have, miss, and I haven’t.”
“How is he?” cried Louise, paying no heed to Liza’s paradoxical declaration.
“No better, and no worse, miss; but it wasn’t about that. I leaves you this day month, miss; and as much sooner as you can suit yourself.”
“Very well, Liza. That will do.”
“No, miss!” cried the girl excitedly, “it won’t do. ’Cusing people o’ being thiefs when it was nothing but a bit of a bundle o’ old rags and things I saved, as might ha’ been burnt, and they bought ’em of me, and I bought the ribbons o’ them.”
“I do not wish to hear anymore about that transaction, Liza; but I am glad to hear you can explain it away. You should have been frank at first.”
“So ought other people, miss, if you’ll excuse me; and not go taking away a poor servant’s character by alluding to money left on no chimley-pieces as I never took.”
“Liza!”
“Yes, miss; I know, and thinking o’ sending for the police.”
“I had too much feeling for you, Eliza, and for your future character. I did not even send you away.”
“I should think not indeed, miss. Mother and me’s as honest as the day; and if you want police send for ’em for them as has been picking and stealing.”
“My good girl, what do you mean?”
“Oh, you don’t know, o’ course, miss; but you very soon will. And him with his fine airs, and his boots never shiny enough. He’ll find out the difference now; and as to me staying in a home like this where one of us is a thief, I’ve got my character to look after, and—”
There was a sharp knock and ring, and from force of habit, Liza turned.
“In a month, miss, if you please; and now you’re going to hear what come an hour ago, and is all over the town by now.”
Louise caught at the table to steady herself, and her lips parted to question the girl, but she had hurried out of the room. The door was opened, a deep male voice was heard, and directly after Duncan Leslie hurried in.
“It is no time for ceremony,” he gasped, breathlessly. “Where is your father?”
“At—Mr Van Heldre’s,” panted Louise as she turned to him with extended hands. “Mr Leslie, pray—pray tell me—what is wrong?”
“Fell you?” he cried, catching her almost in his arms, and holding her firmly; and his voice sounded deep, hoarse and full of commiseration. “How am I to dare to tell you, Louise?”
“Mr Leslie!”
She half struggled from him, but he retained her hands. “Tell me,” he cried; “what shall I say? Am I to speak out?”
“Yes, quick! You torture me.”
“Torture you, whom I would die to save from pain!” She trembled and flushed, and turned pale by turns.
“I must tell you,” he said; “there is no time to spare. I have—try and bear it, my child, like the true, brave heart you are. Your brother—”
“Yes; quick! what do you mean?” Leslie stood looking at her for a few moments, his mind dragged two ways, and shrinking from giving his news as he gazed into her dilated eyes.
“Why do you not speak?” she said passionately. “Do you not see the pain you give me?”
“I must speak,” he groaned. “Where is your brother? There is a horrible rumour in the town. Mr Crampton—”
“Crampton!”
“Accuses your brother of having robbed and struck down Mr Van Heldre.”
“It is a lie!” she cried fiercely, as she snatched away her hands, gazing at him with flashing eyes and burning cheeks. “My brother a thief—almost a murderer! Oh!”
“It cannot be true,” said Leslie; “but—”
“Weak and reckless and foolish; but—oh, why have you come up to say these things?”
“Because I love you!” he cried passionately; and he caught her hands in his, and held them tightly. “Because I knew that the horrible charge must soon reach your ears, and that it would be better that it should come from me—when you were in trouble—when you wanted help.”
“It is not true—it is not true!” cried Louise, excitedly.
“Where is he? Let me see him. I may be able to advise and help. Louise, dear Louise, let this terrible time of trial be that which brings us together. Let me prove to you how I love you by being your counsellor, your aid in this time of need.”
She heard his words, uttered with an earnestness which told their truth; but their effect was merely to arouse her indignation. How dared he take advantage of her agony and weakness at a time like this, and insult her with professions! It was an outrage.
“Don’t shrink from me,” he whispered. “I will say no more now. Forgive my clumsy blundering out of the words I have for months been longing to speak. Only let me feel that you understand me—that I may love; and then you will turn to me for help in this time of trouble.”
For answer she pointed to the door.
“It is false,” she cried; “my brother a common thief!”
“It must be false,” he echoed, against his own belief; “but the charge has been made, and he must be warned in time.”
“Warned in time?” she cried. “And you who profess to be our friend stood by and heard this charge made, and did not strike down the villain who made it.”
“Miss Vine—Louise, you are hasty. The shock I know is terrible, but we must be prepared to meet it. He must not be taken unawares.”
“My brother can meet such a charge as a gentleman should. It is not the first time that so foul an attack has been made against an innocent man.”
“You are too hard upon me,” he pleaded. “How could I, loving you as I do—”
“Loving!” she cried, scornfully.
“What have I done?” he groaned. “I ran up here directly to try and be of service. In my excitement, I spoke words that I should have kept back for a time, but they would have vent, and—No, I am not ashamed of what I have said,” he cried, drawing himself up. “Louise Vine, I love you, and I must help you and your brother in this terrible strait.”
“Then go back to the town, and tell all who have dared to say my brother committed this crime that what they say is false, and that his father, his sister will prove his innocence. Go!”
“Yes, go,” said a shrill, hard voice. “Louise, go to your room and let me speak to this man.”
“Aunt, you have heard?”
“Yes, from the servants. And I heard his last insulting words. Go to your room, child.”
She threw open the room, and, accustomed to obey from her childhood, Louise moved slowly towards the hall; but as she turned slightly to dart a last indignant look at the man who had set her heart beating wildly as he at the same time roused her indignation, she saw such a look of agony that her courage failed, a strange sense of pity stole through her, and she stepped back and took her aunt’s arm.
“Hush, aunt dear,” she said, “there is no need to say more. Mr Leslie has made a great mistake in bringing up that cruel report, and he will go now and contradict it for my brother’s sake.”
“And apologise for his insult,” cried Aunt Marguerite fiercely. “Child, I bade you go to your room.”
“Yes, aunt. I am going.”
“I must speak to this man alone.”
“Aunt, dear—”
“Pray go, Miss Vine,” said Leslie, approaching and taking her hand.
She yielded, and he led her to the door.
“Nothing your aunt can say will change my feelings towards you. When you are calm you will forgive me. Believe me, I will do everything to clear your brother from this charge.”
She looked at him wildly, and still hesitated to obey her aunt’s words. Finally, she gave way, Leslie held the door open till she was on the stairs, and then closed it, his manner completely changing as he turned and faced Aunt Marguerite, who stood with her head thrown back, and an indignant look of anger in her keen eyes.
“So, sir,” she exclaimed, “you, in your common ignorance of everything connected with the social life of such a family as ours, dare to come up as a tale-bearer—as one of our servants did a few minutes back—and tell this pitiful story about my nephew.”
“I grieved greatly, Miss Vine,” said Leslie in quiet business-like tones.
“You grieved!” she cried. “A theft! Do you know that a des Vignes would prefer death to dishonour?”
“No, madam; but I am very glad to hear it, for that being the case Harry Vine must be innocent.”
“Innocent!” she cried scornfully. “My nephew Henri! As if it could be for a moment in doubt!”
“I shall strive hard to help Mr Vine, your brother, to clear him from this disgrace.”
“Disgrace, sir? It is no disgrace. If thecanaillecast mud at one of noble lineage, does it disgrace him? No. The disgrace is where some plebeian—some trading person—is mad enough to advance his pretensions, and dares to address a lady as I heard you address my niece. Let me see, sir, did I not once give you to understand that Miss Louise des Vignes would in all probability be soon married to a gentleman of Auvergne—a gentleman whose lineage is as noble as her own?”
“I did understand something of the kind, madam; but until I see Miss Louise Vine another’s wife, I shall boldly advance my pretensions, hoping to the last.”
“Even supposing that her brother has committed somefaux pas?”
“That would be the greater inducement to me to stand by her in her time of need.”
“Most gratifying, I am sure, Mr Leslie, and highly creditable to one of your nationality,” said Aunt Marguerite sneeringly, as she raised her glass to her eye, and gazed at him in an amused way. “Now may I ask you to leave me? My brother and my nephew are from home, and I cannot entertain you as I am sure you would wish. Good-evening, Mr Leslie—good-evening.”
She bowed him out with a sneering smile upon her thin lips, and Leslie hurried back towards the town.
“What shall I do?” he muttered. “Oh, that sneering old woman, how she does raise one’s gall? Poor Louise! she did look more gentle toward the last; and I don’t believe in the Frenchman of great lineage. If there is one, let’s do battle as they did of old, if he likes. What a fool I was to speak as I did just when she was so full of trouble! I must have been mad—a declaration of love, and an announcement that the poor girl’s brother was in trouble. The young idiot! The scoundrel! How I should like to have his drilling for the next five years! What shall I do? I must help him. It’s true enough, I’m afraid; and he must have the best legal help. If I had only someone to consult with. Van Heldre would have been the man.”
There was a pause as the young man thought deeply of what steps he ought to take next.
“Yes, with all his sham cynicism and silly whims, the old man is shrewd, and can help when he likes. Uncle Luke?”
Chapter Twenty Seven.A Brother’s Appeal.Louise Vine stood trembling in her own room, listening till she heard the door close, and Duncan Leslie’s step on the gravel. Her agitation was terrible, and in place of being clear-headed and ready to act in this emergency, she felt as if her brain was in a turmoil of contending emotions. Indignation on her brother’s behalf, anger against Leslie for his announcement, and another form of anger which she could not define struggled with a desire to go to her brother’s help, and at last she placed her hands to her head and pressed them there.“What shall I do?” she panted.“Louise, Louise, my child!”It was Aunt Marguerite’s voice, and there was a sharp tapping on the panel of the door after the handle had been turned.“Louise, my child, unlock this door.”She made no reply, but stood with her hands clasped together, listening to the sharp voice and the quick tapping repeated on the panel. Both ceased after a few minutes, and Aunt Marguerite’s door was heard to close loudly.“I could not talk to her now,” muttered the girl. “She makes me so angry. She was so insulting to Mr Leslie. But he deserved it,” she said aloud, with her cheeks burning once more, and her eyes flashing, as she drew herself up. “My brother—a common thief—the man who injured Mr Van Heldre! It is not true.”She started violently and began to tremble, for there was a sharp pattering on her window panes, as if someone had thrown a few small shots. Would Duncan Leslie dare to summon her like that? The pattering was repeated, and she went cautiously to the window, to make out in the gloom a figure that certainly was not that of Leslie.She opened the casement with nervous anxiety now.“Asleep?” cried a hasty voice. “There, stand aside—I’m coming up.”There was a rustling noise—a sharp crack or two, a hand was thrown over the window-sill, and, panting with exertion, Harry clambered in.“Harry!” cried Louise in alarm, for his acts, his furtive way of coming to the house, and his manifest agitation did not suggest innocence.“Hush! Don’t talk aloud. Where’s the governor?”“Father is at Mr Van Heldre’s.”Harry drew a quick spasmodic breath.“And Aunt Marguerite?”“In her room. But, Harry!”“Be quiet. Don’t talk. Let me get my breath.”Louise stood before him with her hands clasped, and a flow of agonising thoughts seemed to sweep her reason away. All was confusion, but above the flood there was one thing to which she clung—Harry was innocent. In spite of everything in the way of appearance, he was innocent; nothing should turn her from that.“Well,” he said suddenly, “haven’t you anything to say?”There was a savage vindictive tone in his voice which startled her more than his previous threatening way.“Yes; where have you been? Why do you come back like this?”“Where have I been? Up on the cliffs, wandering about among the rocks, and hiding till it grew dark and I could come home. And why did I come home like this? You know. Of course you have heard.”“Mr Leslie came, and—”“Mr Leslie!” cried Harry with a mocking laugh. “Save us from our friends.”Louise’s sympathy swung round on the instant to the side of the attacked; and, hardly knowing what she said—“Mr Leslie came to bear some terrible news, and to offer to help you.”“To help me!” cried Harry with the eagerness of him who catches at straws. “And you—what did you say?”“I said the information was false—a miserable invention. And I repeat it. Harry, it is not true?”He made no reply for a few moments while, sobbing and terrified, Louise clung to him.“Harry,” she said excitedly, “why do you not speak?”“Don’t talk to me,” he said hoarsely, “I’m thinking.”“But, Harry, I laugh at Aunt Marguerite’s follies about descent and our degradation; but it is your duty to make a stand for our father’s sake. Who has dared to accuse you of all this?”“Don’t talk to me,” he said in an angry whisper, as he ran to the window and listened, crossing the room directly after to try the door.Louise gazed at him in a horrified way, and her heart sank down, down, as her brother’s acts suggested the possibility of his guilt. Then, like a flash of light, a thought irradiated her darkening soul, and she caught her brother’s arm.“I know!” she cried.“You—you know?”“Yes, I see it all now; and why this charge has been made. It was Mr Pradelle.”“Pradelle!”“And that is why he left so suddenly. Harry, my poor brother!”“Let Pradelle be,” he said huskily. “I’m not going to hide behind another man.”“Oh! But, Harry!”“Look here,” he said uneasily; “I want your help, and you do nothing but talk.”“I will be silent; but tell me it is not true.”“Do you want me to make matters worse by telling some paltry lie?” he said. “Yes; it is true.”“Harry!”“No; not all true. I did not steal that money.”“Ah!” ejaculated Louise; and she reeled to her bed, and would have fallen but for the post she grasped.“I’ve no time to explain, but you must know. Yes; I did knock old Van Heldre down.”“Harry!” she groaned.“And Crampton saw me come away; he has sent for the London police; and, unless I can get off, I shall be taken and tried.”Louise literally tottered towards him.“No, no,” he said angrily. “You are going to talk and preach. You don’t want to see me disgracing you all by being cast in gaol?”Disgracing them! Louise’s first thought was of Duncan Leslie, and a pang of agony shot through her. How could she ever look him in the face again? A chill that seemed to paralyse shot through her. The hope that she had nursed was cast out, and her brother’s words seemed to open out a future so desolate and blank that she turned upon him angrily.“Harry!” she cried, “this is not—cannot be true.” He paid no heed to her words, but stood biting his nails, evidently thinking, and at last he turned upon her like one at bay, as she said, after a painful pause: “You do not answer. Am I to believe all this? No, I cannot—will not believe it. Harry. It can’t—it can’t be true.”“Yes,” he said, as if waking from a dream. “One of the lads would take me over in his lugger. Saint Malo: that would do. Louy, what money have you?”“Then it is true?” she said.“True? Yes; it’s true enough.”“Then you—oh, Harry, for pity’s sake—Harry!”She burst into a wild fit of sobbing.“That’s right,” he cried savagely. “I came to you for help and you go into hysterics. There, unlock that door, and get me something to eat, and while I’m enjoying myself, you can send Liza for the police.”“Harry!”“Then why don’t you act like a sensible girl? Listen: nobody must know that I have been here; not even the governor. I’m going to steal down to the harbour by-and-by; and I shall get Joe Lennen or Dick Paul to take me over to France. If I stay here I shall be arrested, and disgrace you all. There never was such an unlucky fellow as I am. Here, once more, what money have you?”“Very little, Harry,” she said; “about three sovereigns.”“Has aunt any? No; she must not know that I’m here. Louy, you must let me have your watch.”“Yes, Harry,” she said, as she stood before him cold, and striving hard to master her emotion as a mute feeling of despair attacked her.“And you’ll help me, won’t you?”“Yes, Harry,” she said, in the same cold mechanical way.“Let me have your chain and rings, and any other trinket that will fetch money. Must have something to live upon till this trouble has blown over. You see I am penniless, I am not a thief. I shall soon get right again, and you shall have all these things a dozen times over.” She suppressed a sigh. “Be quick then—there’s a good girl. I’ve no time to waste.”Louise moved across the room to the drawers and took from the top a small rosewood box, which she placed upon the table. Then taking her watch from her waist, she was in the act of unfastening the chain, when there was the sound of a closing door below, and her father’s voice, sounding loud and excited, as it called her by name.
Louise Vine stood trembling in her own room, listening till she heard the door close, and Duncan Leslie’s step on the gravel. Her agitation was terrible, and in place of being clear-headed and ready to act in this emergency, she felt as if her brain was in a turmoil of contending emotions. Indignation on her brother’s behalf, anger against Leslie for his announcement, and another form of anger which she could not define struggled with a desire to go to her brother’s help, and at last she placed her hands to her head and pressed them there.
“What shall I do?” she panted.
“Louise, Louise, my child!”
It was Aunt Marguerite’s voice, and there was a sharp tapping on the panel of the door after the handle had been turned.
“Louise, my child, unlock this door.”
She made no reply, but stood with her hands clasped together, listening to the sharp voice and the quick tapping repeated on the panel. Both ceased after a few minutes, and Aunt Marguerite’s door was heard to close loudly.
“I could not talk to her now,” muttered the girl. “She makes me so angry. She was so insulting to Mr Leslie. But he deserved it,” she said aloud, with her cheeks burning once more, and her eyes flashing, as she drew herself up. “My brother—a common thief—the man who injured Mr Van Heldre! It is not true.”
She started violently and began to tremble, for there was a sharp pattering on her window panes, as if someone had thrown a few small shots. Would Duncan Leslie dare to summon her like that? The pattering was repeated, and she went cautiously to the window, to make out in the gloom a figure that certainly was not that of Leslie.
She opened the casement with nervous anxiety now.
“Asleep?” cried a hasty voice. “There, stand aside—I’m coming up.”
There was a rustling noise—a sharp crack or two, a hand was thrown over the window-sill, and, panting with exertion, Harry clambered in.
“Harry!” cried Louise in alarm, for his acts, his furtive way of coming to the house, and his manifest agitation did not suggest innocence.
“Hush! Don’t talk aloud. Where’s the governor?”
“Father is at Mr Van Heldre’s.”
Harry drew a quick spasmodic breath.
“And Aunt Marguerite?”
“In her room. But, Harry!”
“Be quiet. Don’t talk. Let me get my breath.”
Louise stood before him with her hands clasped, and a flow of agonising thoughts seemed to sweep her reason away. All was confusion, but above the flood there was one thing to which she clung—Harry was innocent. In spite of everything in the way of appearance, he was innocent; nothing should turn her from that.
“Well,” he said suddenly, “haven’t you anything to say?”
There was a savage vindictive tone in his voice which startled her more than his previous threatening way.
“Yes; where have you been? Why do you come back like this?”
“Where have I been? Up on the cliffs, wandering about among the rocks, and hiding till it grew dark and I could come home. And why did I come home like this? You know. Of course you have heard.”
“Mr Leslie came, and—”
“Mr Leslie!” cried Harry with a mocking laugh. “Save us from our friends.”
Louise’s sympathy swung round on the instant to the side of the attacked; and, hardly knowing what she said—
“Mr Leslie came to bear some terrible news, and to offer to help you.”
“To help me!” cried Harry with the eagerness of him who catches at straws. “And you—what did you say?”
“I said the information was false—a miserable invention. And I repeat it. Harry, it is not true?”
He made no reply for a few moments while, sobbing and terrified, Louise clung to him.
“Harry,” she said excitedly, “why do you not speak?”
“Don’t talk to me,” he said hoarsely, “I’m thinking.”
“But, Harry, I laugh at Aunt Marguerite’s follies about descent and our degradation; but it is your duty to make a stand for our father’s sake. Who has dared to accuse you of all this?”
“Don’t talk to me,” he said in an angry whisper, as he ran to the window and listened, crossing the room directly after to try the door.
Louise gazed at him in a horrified way, and her heart sank down, down, as her brother’s acts suggested the possibility of his guilt. Then, like a flash of light, a thought irradiated her darkening soul, and she caught her brother’s arm.
“I know!” she cried.
“You—you know?”
“Yes, I see it all now; and why this charge has been made. It was Mr Pradelle.”
“Pradelle!”
“And that is why he left so suddenly. Harry, my poor brother!”
“Let Pradelle be,” he said huskily. “I’m not going to hide behind another man.”
“Oh! But, Harry!”
“Look here,” he said uneasily; “I want your help, and you do nothing but talk.”
“I will be silent; but tell me it is not true.”
“Do you want me to make matters worse by telling some paltry lie?” he said. “Yes; it is true.”
“Harry!”
“No; not all true. I did not steal that money.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Louise; and she reeled to her bed, and would have fallen but for the post she grasped.
“I’ve no time to explain, but you must know. Yes; I did knock old Van Heldre down.”
“Harry!” she groaned.
“And Crampton saw me come away; he has sent for the London police; and, unless I can get off, I shall be taken and tried.”
Louise literally tottered towards him.
“No, no,” he said angrily. “You are going to talk and preach. You don’t want to see me disgracing you all by being cast in gaol?”
Disgracing them! Louise’s first thought was of Duncan Leslie, and a pang of agony shot through her. How could she ever look him in the face again? A chill that seemed to paralyse shot through her. The hope that she had nursed was cast out, and her brother’s words seemed to open out a future so desolate and blank that she turned upon him angrily.
“Harry!” she cried, “this is not—cannot be true.” He paid no heed to her words, but stood biting his nails, evidently thinking, and at last he turned upon her like one at bay, as she said, after a painful pause: “You do not answer. Am I to believe all this? No, I cannot—will not believe it. Harry. It can’t—it can’t be true.”
“Yes,” he said, as if waking from a dream. “One of the lads would take me over in his lugger. Saint Malo: that would do. Louy, what money have you?”
“Then it is true?” she said.
“True? Yes; it’s true enough.”
“Then you—oh, Harry, for pity’s sake—Harry!”
She burst into a wild fit of sobbing.
“That’s right,” he cried savagely. “I came to you for help and you go into hysterics. There, unlock that door, and get me something to eat, and while I’m enjoying myself, you can send Liza for the police.”
“Harry!”
“Then why don’t you act like a sensible girl? Listen: nobody must know that I have been here; not even the governor. I’m going to steal down to the harbour by-and-by; and I shall get Joe Lennen or Dick Paul to take me over to France. If I stay here I shall be arrested, and disgrace you all. There never was such an unlucky fellow as I am. Here, once more, what money have you?”
“Very little, Harry,” she said; “about three sovereigns.”
“Has aunt any? No; she must not know that I’m here. Louy, you must let me have your watch.”
“Yes, Harry,” she said, as she stood before him cold, and striving hard to master her emotion as a mute feeling of despair attacked her.
“And you’ll help me, won’t you?”
“Yes, Harry,” she said, in the same cold mechanical way.
“Let me have your chain and rings, and any other trinket that will fetch money. Must have something to live upon till this trouble has blown over. You see I am penniless, I am not a thief. I shall soon get right again, and you shall have all these things a dozen times over.” She suppressed a sigh. “Be quick then—there’s a good girl. I’ve no time to waste.”
Louise moved across the room to the drawers and took from the top a small rosewood box, which she placed upon the table. Then taking her watch from her waist, she was in the act of unfastening the chain, when there was the sound of a closing door below, and her father’s voice, sounding loud and excited, as it called her by name.
Chapter Twenty Eight.In Defence of his Young.“Louise! Where is Louise?” The step on the stairs sounded like that of a younger man; and as the door was tried, Harry had reached the window, from whence he was about to climb, when he fancied he saw some one below, and he hastily closed the casement, and drew back trembling. “Louise! open this door.”“No, no,” whispered Harry. “He must not know I am here.”“Not know?”“Am I to break this door?” was thundered from the other side.Harry glanced once more at the window. It was fancy. No one was below now that he could see; and he was in the act of unfastening it when there was a crash, the door flew open, and his father strode into the room. It did not seem to be the same man, and Harry shrank from the fierce, erect, angry figure which approached.“As I might have guessed. You coward! So you would strip your sister of what money and jewels she has, and then escape!” Harry stood before him silent and with his head averted. “You did not counsel this flight, Louise?”“No, father,” she said, in a low voice full of pain; and she looked from one to the other, as if mentally stunned, and unable to realise the force of all that was taking place.“I thought not. You abject, miserable wretch!”Harry started, and gazed half in fear, half in wonder, at the stern, commanding figure before him.“It—it was to save you all from disgrace.”Vine burst into a discordant laugh.“From disgrace—to save us from disgrace? And is this part of your childish aunt’s teaching?”“Father! Pray!” whispered Louise, rousing herself and clinging to his arm.“Silence, my child!” he cried. “I am not angry with you. I blame myself. Weak and indulgent. Tolerating that foolish woman’s whims, that her old age might pass peacefully away, I have allowed all her follies to go on; but I did not believe these seeds could strike so deep a root. To save us from disgrace! So this is being the aristocratic gentleman of French descent! The man who would prefer death to dishonour—the man who scorns to sully his hands by embarking in some honest trade! And I, wrapped in my pursuits, riding my weak hobby, have let things go on till they have ended thus!”“But, father, think! Be merciful.”“Think? I dare not, girl. Merciful? No. He is no longer my son. We must bear the disgrace as best we can; hide our shame elsewhere. You and I, father and sister of a miserable convict, who in the pursuit of money and title could stoop to rob.”“No, no, father; not rob.”“Scoundrel! don’t speak or I may forget myself, and strike you down as you struck down your benefactor, the man who stretched out his hand to save you from the ruin that dogged your heels.”“It was a miserable accident, father. I did not steal.”“Bah! Lies come easily to such as you; but I have no words to waste, there is no time for that.”“No, father; quick before it is too late,” whispered Louise. “Let him go; let him escape to France—to repent, father. He is your son.”“No. I disown him. And you counsel this—you, girl?”“Yes, father, you will spare him,” sobbed Louise; “he is my brother.”“He has broken those ties; neither son nor brother to us, my child. He has blasted your future by branding you as a convict’s sister, and embittered the few years left to me, so that I would gladly end them now.”“Father!”“Hush, my child! I am rightly punished for my weakness. I hoped that he would change. I was not blind, only patient, for I said that these follies would soon pass, and now I am awakened to this. My son in the hands of the police!” he laughed in a wild, discordant tone. “Monsieur le Comte des Vignes, I must have been mad.”“Go on!” said Harry, fiercely. “Trample me down. There, let me pass. Better in the hands of the police than here.”“No, no?” cried Louise excitedly. “Father, he must escape. It is one great horror, do not make it worse by letting him go there.”“Worse, girl? there is no worse!” cried Vine, sternly. “I thank my God that we are living in a land where stern, good laws are pre-eminent, and where justice rules with unswerving hand. You know not what you say.”“Yes, father—dearest father, help him to go and repent the evil he has done.”“Go and repent? Yes, that is the only hope; but it shall be as the honest repentant man, ready to acknowledge and bear the punishment of his crime.”“Father!”“Yes; look at him—look at the base, cowering wretch, ready to go and hide his face in any shelter to escape the fate he has earned! Look at his guilty conscience, branding him even now! And you say, let him go!”“Yes, father. What could I say?”“Nothing!” cried Harry, turning round, as the trampled worm turns beneath the boot that crushes it into the earth. “It is true; I struck poor old Van Heldre down; but whatever I may have thought before, I did not go to steal that money. I did not steal it. And now what do you want me to do?”“Go; act as a man who claims such descent as ours should do, in the country which opened to him its arms, and whose laws he has transgressed. The police are here from London. Go and give yourself up; suffer your punishment as one who would atone, and years hence in the future, when you are freed, come to me and ask my pardon—kneeling humbly by my grave.”“Father!”“No more. The way is open now. Go at once, before you are dragged through the streets handcuffed like some common felon. To save us from disgrace, you say—that is the only way.”He stood erect, with his eyes flashing, his brows, and nostrils quivering, pointing to the door, while with his left arm he supported Louise, whose face gazed wildly into his, no mean representative of thatHaute Noblessewhich had sought refuge here when persecution drove them from their land.“Father! Harry!” cried Louise, but only the latter spoke.“Yes,” he said, drawing himself up. “You are right, I’ll go.”He strode quickly toward the door; but before he reached it, Liza threw it back.“Miss Louise,” she cried, “the police!”With hasty strides the old man rushed to the door and thrust it to.“Oh!” he gasped, and then after a pause, there was one low, hoarse appeal to heaven for aid, “My God!”The adjuration spoke volumes, and for a few moments the old man stood there as if in a catalyptic state. Then a change came over him, his pale face flushed, the veins in his forehead stood out and throbbed, and he dashed to his son.“Quick, Harry! France!”As he spoke, Harry broke from him, and dashed to the window, threw it open, and was about to spring out, but he drew back. There was no fancy this time; two policemen could be dimly-seen below.“Too late, father,” he said calmly.“No, my boy! this way, hush!”He snatched open the door, and a quick-looking, well-knit man stood framed in the entry.“Ah!” he said sharply, as he fixed Harry with his eye, “Mr Harry Vine, I arrest you on a warrant. Robbery and attempt to murder.”“No,” roared the father frantically; and he flung himself upon the officer. “Run, Harry, run!”Louise stood clinging to the ironwork of her bedstead, sick with horror, as a terrible struggle ensued. It only lasted a few moments; and as she saw her father and the detective officer wrestling together, her brother clenched his fists, set his teeth, and dashed at them.“No, no; run!” roared the father in a voice she did not know; and in obedience, Harry dashed through the doorway and was gone.“You’re mad, old man!” cried the detective, tearing himself free, drawing back, and then rushing towards the door.But with a wonderful display of activity and vigour, the old naturalist sprang at him once more, and with clenched fist struck him so fierce a blow full on the cheek, that the man swerved sidewise, and would have fallen but for the wall.“When I come back!” he roared savagely, as he recovered himself, and, springing through the door, he bounded down the stairs after Harry Vine, father and sister staggering to the landing just as the door across the hall swung to with a heavy bang, and the sound of feet rapidly beating the shingle rose loudly on the silence of the night.
“Louise! Where is Louise?” The step on the stairs sounded like that of a younger man; and as the door was tried, Harry had reached the window, from whence he was about to climb, when he fancied he saw some one below, and he hastily closed the casement, and drew back trembling. “Louise! open this door.”
“No, no,” whispered Harry. “He must not know I am here.”
“Not know?”
“Am I to break this door?” was thundered from the other side.
Harry glanced once more at the window. It was fancy. No one was below now that he could see; and he was in the act of unfastening it when there was a crash, the door flew open, and his father strode into the room. It did not seem to be the same man, and Harry shrank from the fierce, erect, angry figure which approached.
“As I might have guessed. You coward! So you would strip your sister of what money and jewels she has, and then escape!” Harry stood before him silent and with his head averted. “You did not counsel this flight, Louise?”
“No, father,” she said, in a low voice full of pain; and she looked from one to the other, as if mentally stunned, and unable to realise the force of all that was taking place.
“I thought not. You abject, miserable wretch!”
Harry started, and gazed half in fear, half in wonder, at the stern, commanding figure before him.
“It—it was to save you all from disgrace.”
Vine burst into a discordant laugh.
“From disgrace—to save us from disgrace? And is this part of your childish aunt’s teaching?”
“Father! Pray!” whispered Louise, rousing herself and clinging to his arm.
“Silence, my child!” he cried. “I am not angry with you. I blame myself. Weak and indulgent. Tolerating that foolish woman’s whims, that her old age might pass peacefully away, I have allowed all her follies to go on; but I did not believe these seeds could strike so deep a root. To save us from disgrace! So this is being the aristocratic gentleman of French descent! The man who would prefer death to dishonour—the man who scorns to sully his hands by embarking in some honest trade! And I, wrapped in my pursuits, riding my weak hobby, have let things go on till they have ended thus!”
“But, father, think! Be merciful.”
“Think? I dare not, girl. Merciful? No. He is no longer my son. We must bear the disgrace as best we can; hide our shame elsewhere. You and I, father and sister of a miserable convict, who in the pursuit of money and title could stoop to rob.”
“No, no, father; not rob.”
“Scoundrel! don’t speak or I may forget myself, and strike you down as you struck down your benefactor, the man who stretched out his hand to save you from the ruin that dogged your heels.”
“It was a miserable accident, father. I did not steal.”
“Bah! Lies come easily to such as you; but I have no words to waste, there is no time for that.”
“No, father; quick before it is too late,” whispered Louise. “Let him go; let him escape to France—to repent, father. He is your son.”
“No. I disown him. And you counsel this—you, girl?”
“Yes, father, you will spare him,” sobbed Louise; “he is my brother.”
“He has broken those ties; neither son nor brother to us, my child. He has blasted your future by branding you as a convict’s sister, and embittered the few years left to me, so that I would gladly end them now.”
“Father!”
“Hush, my child! I am rightly punished for my weakness. I hoped that he would change. I was not blind, only patient, for I said that these follies would soon pass, and now I am awakened to this. My son in the hands of the police!” he laughed in a wild, discordant tone. “Monsieur le Comte des Vignes, I must have been mad.”
“Go on!” said Harry, fiercely. “Trample me down. There, let me pass. Better in the hands of the police than here.”
“No, no?” cried Louise excitedly. “Father, he must escape. It is one great horror, do not make it worse by letting him go there.”
“Worse, girl? there is no worse!” cried Vine, sternly. “I thank my God that we are living in a land where stern, good laws are pre-eminent, and where justice rules with unswerving hand. You know not what you say.”
“Yes, father—dearest father, help him to go and repent the evil he has done.”
“Go and repent? Yes, that is the only hope; but it shall be as the honest repentant man, ready to acknowledge and bear the punishment of his crime.”
“Father!”
“Yes; look at him—look at the base, cowering wretch, ready to go and hide his face in any shelter to escape the fate he has earned! Look at his guilty conscience, branding him even now! And you say, let him go!”
“Yes, father. What could I say?”
“Nothing!” cried Harry, turning round, as the trampled worm turns beneath the boot that crushes it into the earth. “It is true; I struck poor old Van Heldre down; but whatever I may have thought before, I did not go to steal that money. I did not steal it. And now what do you want me to do?”
“Go; act as a man who claims such descent as ours should do, in the country which opened to him its arms, and whose laws he has transgressed. The police are here from London. Go and give yourself up; suffer your punishment as one who would atone, and years hence in the future, when you are freed, come to me and ask my pardon—kneeling humbly by my grave.”
“Father!”
“No more. The way is open now. Go at once, before you are dragged through the streets handcuffed like some common felon. To save us from disgrace, you say—that is the only way.”
He stood erect, with his eyes flashing, his brows, and nostrils quivering, pointing to the door, while with his left arm he supported Louise, whose face gazed wildly into his, no mean representative of thatHaute Noblessewhich had sought refuge here when persecution drove them from their land.
“Father! Harry!” cried Louise, but only the latter spoke.
“Yes,” he said, drawing himself up. “You are right, I’ll go.”
He strode quickly toward the door; but before he reached it, Liza threw it back.
“Miss Louise,” she cried, “the police!”
With hasty strides the old man rushed to the door and thrust it to.
“Oh!” he gasped, and then after a pause, there was one low, hoarse appeal to heaven for aid, “My God!”
The adjuration spoke volumes, and for a few moments the old man stood there as if in a catalyptic state. Then a change came over him, his pale face flushed, the veins in his forehead stood out and throbbed, and he dashed to his son.
“Quick, Harry! France!”
As he spoke, Harry broke from him, and dashed to the window, threw it open, and was about to spring out, but he drew back. There was no fancy this time; two policemen could be dimly-seen below.
“Too late, father,” he said calmly.
“No, my boy! this way, hush!”
He snatched open the door, and a quick-looking, well-knit man stood framed in the entry.
“Ah!” he said sharply, as he fixed Harry with his eye, “Mr Harry Vine, I arrest you on a warrant. Robbery and attempt to murder.”
“No,” roared the father frantically; and he flung himself upon the officer. “Run, Harry, run!”
Louise stood clinging to the ironwork of her bedstead, sick with horror, as a terrible struggle ensued. It only lasted a few moments; and as she saw her father and the detective officer wrestling together, her brother clenched his fists, set his teeth, and dashed at them.
“No, no; run!” roared the father in a voice she did not know; and in obedience, Harry dashed through the doorway and was gone.
“You’re mad, old man!” cried the detective, tearing himself free, drawing back, and then rushing towards the door.
But with a wonderful display of activity and vigour, the old naturalist sprang at him once more, and with clenched fist struck him so fierce a blow full on the cheek, that the man swerved sidewise, and would have fallen but for the wall.
“When I come back!” he roared savagely, as he recovered himself, and, springing through the door, he bounded down the stairs after Harry Vine, father and sister staggering to the landing just as the door across the hall swung to with a heavy bang, and the sound of feet rapidly beating the shingle rose loudly on the silence of the night.
Chapter Twenty Nine.On His Behalf.“What have I done? what have I done?” groaned Vine. “I might have forgiven him and let him escape, and then—Louise, Louise, my child, come with me. We must find him and help.”Louise hurried back into her room to get hat and scarf, and returned to the landing to find her father and Aunt Margaret face to face.“It is a judgment upon you, George—a judgment!” cried the old lady excitedly. “Yes; you dragged the poor boy down to that wretched life, and in his madness and misery he made one bold stroke for freedom.”“Louise, my child, quick!” cried Vine. “I cannot answer her now. Quick! get me away, or I shall say words to her that I shall repent as long as I live.”“I say it is a judgment!” cried Aunt Margaret. “Poor boy! if you had taken my advice—”The door closed. They were out in the clear, starry night, hurrying down the path toward the town, but Aunt Margaret’s words were ringing in Vine’s ears. A judgment.Why? What had he done?“Have I been to blame? Is she right? Have I been to blame?” he muttered, as they hurried down, the words being the secret communings of his heart, but they were loud enough for Louise to hear, and as she clung to his arm she whispered emphatically—“No, father, no!”“No? Louise, what are you saying?”“That you have not been to blame. My dear, patient, indulgent father.”“Indulgent?” he said hoarsely. “Yes; indulgent. I have been indulgent, and yet heaven knows how I have striven to make ours a happy home for all.”“And you have, father,” sobbed Louise, “till Harry proved so wilful and went astray.”“Yes; went astray. But he must go, my child; he must not be taken. I have a little money with me, and will send him more. I want to do that which is just and right, but I could not bear to see him taken off to gaol.”Louise uttered a low moan as they hurried on down the path.“Where will he hide? where will he hide?” whispered Vine excitedly. “He could not escape by the road, the railway station is certain to be watched, and there is the telegraph.”“Stop!” said Louise, holding one hand to her head, as in the terrible confusion of conflicting thoughts she tried to recall something her brother had said.“Yes, I recollect now,” she said. “He told me he meant to escape across to France, and that he would ask one of the fishermen to sail with him to Saint Malo.”“Hah! yes. Then he will escape. Whom did he say?”“I cannot recollect the name, and yet it is familiar.”“Try, my child, try.”“I am trying hard, father,” said Louise sadly, “but I cannot recollect.”“Oh!” groaned her father, as they hurried on down the path, “for pity’s sake, try, my child, try.”“Yes, I remember,” she cried at last—“Paul.”“Dick Paul—the man who sailed with us to the rocks near Scilly?”“Yes, yes!”“Hah! then if he has escaped so far he will be there.”“Do you know which is his cottage?”“Yes, I know. Quick, girl, quick!”They almost ran down the rest of the way, each looking excitedly about in the expectation of there being a hue and cry, and of seeing the fugitive rush by, hunted by a senseless crowd, eager to see him caught.But all was perfectly still, the great stars shone down on the sleepy place, the lights burned in windows here and there, and as they reached a turn where the harbour lay before them the light at the mouth shone out like a lurid, fiery eye, staining the calm water with a patch of light, which seemed weird and strange amidst the spangled gleams reflected from the stars. Hardly a sound, till a swing door was opened a short distance in front, and there floated out in harmony one of the West-Country ditties the fishermen loved to sing. The door swung to, and the part-song became a murmur.Vine gripped his daughter’s hand with spasmodic violence, but she did not wince. There was a pain, an agony in her breast which neutralised all other, as she hurried on by her father’s side, thinking now of her erring brother, now of Duncan Leslie. That dream, that growing love which she had tremblingly avowed to herself she felt for the frank, manly young mine-owner, was over, was crushed out, with all its bright-hued hopes of happiness; but he had said he loved her, and offered his aid. Why was he not there now to help, when her brother was in such peril? Why was he not there?The answer came like a dull blow. She had reviled him, insulted him, and driven him away. Then her heart replied: He loves me, he will forgive my hasty words, and will save my brother if I humble myself and ask.She started back to the reality from what seemed a dream, as her father hurried on along by a row of ill-built, rugged cottages on the cliff.“It is in one of these,” he said huskily, “but I cannot recall which.”As he hesitated one of the doors was opened, and a great, burly merman appeared, pipe in mouth.“Dick Paul’s,” he said, in answer to a question, “first door furder on. Fine night, master.”“Yes, yes; thank you, thank you,” cried Vine hastily.“But he aren’t at home.”“What?”“Him and four more went out at sundown to shoot their nets.”Vine uttered a low groan.“Good night!” said the man, and he moved off.“Stop!” cried Vine, and the man’s heavy boots ceased to clatter on the rugged pebbles with which the way was paved.“Call me, Master Vine!”“Yes. You know me?”“Know you? Ay, and the young lady too. Liza Perrow’s Uncle Bob. Didn’t I take you ’long the coast one day?”“Yes, yes, of course,” said Vine hastily. “Look here, my man; you have a boat.”“Third share master, just going out now. My mates are waiting yonder.”“In the harbour?”“Ay. That’s their lantern.”“Look here, Perrow,” said Vine excitedly, as he held the man tightly by the arm, “you are going fishing?”“Going to have a try, master.”“And you will perhaps earn a pound a-piece.”“If we are lucky. P’r’aps naught.”“Perrow,” whispered the old man, with his lips close to the man’s face, “will you do me a service—a great service?”“Sarvice, sir?—Ay, sure I will.”“Then look here. Your boat would sail across to France?”“To France?” said the great bluff fellow, with a chuckle. “Why didn’t some of our mates sail to Spain in a lugger a foot shorter than ours, and not so noo a boot! France, ay, or Spain either.”“Then look here; take a passenger over for me to-night; and I’ll give you fifty pounds.”“Fifty pounds, Master Vine?”“Yes. Be ready; take him safely over, and bring me back word from him that he’s safe, and I’ll pay you a hundred.”“Will you shake hands on that, master?”“Will you do it?”“Do it for you, Master Vine? Why, sir, bless you, we’d ha’ done it for five. But if you tempt poor men wi’ a big lump o’ money like that—Do it? I should think we will.”“But your partners?” said Louise excitedly.“Never you mind about them, miss. I’m cap’n of our boat. Where’s our passenger? Lor’, miss, don’t do that.”The man started, for Louise had caught his rough hand and kissed it.“I’ll soon bring him to you,” said the old man, with his voice trembling; “but look here, my man—you must ask no questions, you will not be put off, you will not refuse at the last moment?”“Look here, Master Vine, sir,” said the man stolidly, “I aren’t a fool. Hundred pound’s a lot o’ money, and of course it’s to smuggle some one away on the quiet. Well, so be it.”“Hah!” ejaculated Vine.“It’s to ’blige you as I’ve knowd for a kind-hearted gent these ever so many years, though there was that bit o’ trouble ’bout my brother’s lass, as I don’t believe took that there money.”“No, no, she was innocent,” cried Louise.“Thanks for that, miss, and—say, has young Master Harry been up to some game?”There was no reply.“Never mind. Don’t you speak without you like, Master Vine, sir. Yonder’s our boot, and I’ll go down to her, and she shall lie off just outside, and I’ll wait in our little punt down by the harbour steps. Will that do?”“Yes; and you will trust me to pay you a hundred pounds?”“Trustyou?”The man uttered a low chuckle.“How long will he be, master?”“I don’t know. Wait till he comes.”“Master Harry?” whispered the man.“Yes.”“All right, sir. You trust me. I’ll trust you. Night, miss. I’ll wait there if it’s a week.”“Hah!” ejaculated Vine, as the man’s heavy step went on before them. “There is a way of escape for him. I am a father, and what I ought to do by my friend pales before that. Now to find him, my child, to find him. Hemustescape.”Louise clung to his arm, and they stood there on the cliff path listening, and each mentally asking the question, what to do?“If I could only get the faintest clue of his movements,” muttered Vine. “Louise, my child, can you not suggest something?”She did not answer, for a terrible dread was upon her now. Her brother might have been taken; and if so, there was no need to hesitate as to the way to go.As if the same thoughts had impressed him, Vine suddenly exclaimed:“No, no, they would not have taken him. The man was a stranger, and Harry would be too quick.”For the next hour they hurried here and there, passing Van Heldre’s house, where a dim light in the window showed where the injured man lay. There was a vague kind of feeling that sooner or later they would meet Harry, but the minutes glided slowly by, and all was still.Out beyond the harbour-light the faint gleam of a lantern could be seen, showing that Bob Perrow had kept faith with them, and that the lugger was swinging in the rapid current, fast to one of the many buoys used by the fishermen in fine weather. But there was no sign or sound apparent; and with their hearts, sinking beneath the impression that Harry had been taken, and yet not daring to go and ask, father and daughter still wandered to and fro along the various streets of the little town.“Can he have taken boat and gone?” whispered Vine at last.“No,” said Louise, “there would not have been time, and we should have seen the lights had a boat gone out.”“George!”Two figures suddenly appeared out of the darkness, and stopped before them.“Luke? You here?”“Yes; have you seen him?”“No; but is—is he—”“No, Mr Vine,” said Leslie quickly. “I have been up to the station twice.”“Sir!”“For heaven’s sake don’t speak to me like that, Mr Vine,” cried Leslie. “I know everything, and I am working for him as I would for my own brother.”“Yes, it’s all right, George,” said Uncle Luke, with his voice softening a little. “Leslie’s a good fellow. Look here; we must get the young dog away. Leslie has chartered a fast boat, and she lies in the head of the harbour ready.”“Ah!”It was an involuntary ejaculation from Louise.“We’ll have him taken across the Channel if we can find him. Where can he be hidden?”“We have been twice on to your house, Mr Vine,” said Leslie, who kept right away from Louise, and out of delicacy seemed to ignore her presence, but spoke so that she could hear every word. “I have three of my miners on the look-out—men I can trust, and law or no law, we must save him from arrest.”“Heaven bless you, Mr Leslie. Forgive—”“Hush, sir. There is no time for words. The men from London with our own police are searching in every direction. He got right away, and he is hiding somewhere, for he certainly would not take to the hills or the road, and it would be madness to try the rail.”“Yes,” said Uncle Luke. “He’s safe to make for the sea, and so get over yonder. There’s a boat lying off though, and I’m afraid that’s keeping him back. The police have that outside to stop him.”“No; that is a boat I have chartered, Luke, waiting to save my poor boy.”“Then before many hours are gone he’ll be down by the harbour, that’s my impression,” said Uncle Luke. “Confound you, George, why did you ever have a boy?”George Vine drew a long breath and remained silent.“If you will allow me, gentlemen,” said Leslie, “I think we ought not to stay here like this. The poor fellow will not know what precautions his friends have taken, and some one ought to be on the look-out to give him warning whenever he comes down to the harbour.”“Yes; that’s true.”“Then if I may advise, I should suggest, sir, that you patrol this side to and fro, where you must see him if he comes down to make for the west point; I’ll cross over and watch the east pier, and if Mr Luke Vine here will stop about the head of the harbour, we shall have three chances of seeing him instead of one.”Louise pressed her hand to her throbbing heart, as she listened to these words, and in spite of her agony of spirits, noted how Leslie avoided speaking to her, devoting himself solely to the task of helping her brother; and as she felt this, and saw that in future they could be nothing more than the most distant friends, a suffocating feeling of misery seemed to come over her, and she longed to hurry away, and sob to relieve her overcharged breast.“Leslie’s right,” said Uncle Luke, in a decisive way. “Let’s separate at once. And look here, whoever sees him is to act, give him some money, and get him off at once. He must go. The trouble’s bad enough now, it would be worse if he were taken, and it’s the last thing Van Heldre would do, hand him to the police. Leslie!”He held up his hand, but the steps he heard were only those of some fishermen going home from the river.“Now, then, let’s act; and for goodness’ sake, let’s get the young idiot away, for I warn you all, if that boy’s taken there’ll be far worse trouble than you know of now.”“Uncle Luke!” cried Louise piteously.“Can’t help it, my dear. There will, for I shall end a respectable life by killing old Crampton and being hung. Come along, Leslie.”The little party separated without a word, and Louise and her father stood listening till the steps of their late companions died away.
“What have I done? what have I done?” groaned Vine. “I might have forgiven him and let him escape, and then—Louise, Louise, my child, come with me. We must find him and help.”
Louise hurried back into her room to get hat and scarf, and returned to the landing to find her father and Aunt Margaret face to face.
“It is a judgment upon you, George—a judgment!” cried the old lady excitedly. “Yes; you dragged the poor boy down to that wretched life, and in his madness and misery he made one bold stroke for freedom.”
“Louise, my child, quick!” cried Vine. “I cannot answer her now. Quick! get me away, or I shall say words to her that I shall repent as long as I live.”
“I say it is a judgment!” cried Aunt Margaret. “Poor boy! if you had taken my advice—”
The door closed. They were out in the clear, starry night, hurrying down the path toward the town, but Aunt Margaret’s words were ringing in Vine’s ears. A judgment.
Why? What had he done?
“Have I been to blame? Is she right? Have I been to blame?” he muttered, as they hurried down, the words being the secret communings of his heart, but they were loud enough for Louise to hear, and as she clung to his arm she whispered emphatically—
“No, father, no!”
“No? Louise, what are you saying?”
“That you have not been to blame. My dear, patient, indulgent father.”
“Indulgent?” he said hoarsely. “Yes; indulgent. I have been indulgent, and yet heaven knows how I have striven to make ours a happy home for all.”
“And you have, father,” sobbed Louise, “till Harry proved so wilful and went astray.”
“Yes; went astray. But he must go, my child; he must not be taken. I have a little money with me, and will send him more. I want to do that which is just and right, but I could not bear to see him taken off to gaol.”
Louise uttered a low moan as they hurried on down the path.
“Where will he hide? where will he hide?” whispered Vine excitedly. “He could not escape by the road, the railway station is certain to be watched, and there is the telegraph.”
“Stop!” said Louise, holding one hand to her head, as in the terrible confusion of conflicting thoughts she tried to recall something her brother had said.
“Yes, I recollect now,” she said. “He told me he meant to escape across to France, and that he would ask one of the fishermen to sail with him to Saint Malo.”
“Hah! yes. Then he will escape. Whom did he say?”
“I cannot recollect the name, and yet it is familiar.”
“Try, my child, try.”
“I am trying hard, father,” said Louise sadly, “but I cannot recollect.”
“Oh!” groaned her father, as they hurried on down the path, “for pity’s sake, try, my child, try.”
“Yes, I remember,” she cried at last—“Paul.”
“Dick Paul—the man who sailed with us to the rocks near Scilly?”
“Yes, yes!”
“Hah! then if he has escaped so far he will be there.”
“Do you know which is his cottage?”
“Yes, I know. Quick, girl, quick!”
They almost ran down the rest of the way, each looking excitedly about in the expectation of there being a hue and cry, and of seeing the fugitive rush by, hunted by a senseless crowd, eager to see him caught.
But all was perfectly still, the great stars shone down on the sleepy place, the lights burned in windows here and there, and as they reached a turn where the harbour lay before them the light at the mouth shone out like a lurid, fiery eye, staining the calm water with a patch of light, which seemed weird and strange amidst the spangled gleams reflected from the stars. Hardly a sound, till a swing door was opened a short distance in front, and there floated out in harmony one of the West-Country ditties the fishermen loved to sing. The door swung to, and the part-song became a murmur.
Vine gripped his daughter’s hand with spasmodic violence, but she did not wince. There was a pain, an agony in her breast which neutralised all other, as she hurried on by her father’s side, thinking now of her erring brother, now of Duncan Leslie. That dream, that growing love which she had tremblingly avowed to herself she felt for the frank, manly young mine-owner, was over, was crushed out, with all its bright-hued hopes of happiness; but he had said he loved her, and offered his aid. Why was he not there now to help, when her brother was in such peril? Why was he not there?
The answer came like a dull blow. She had reviled him, insulted him, and driven him away. Then her heart replied: He loves me, he will forgive my hasty words, and will save my brother if I humble myself and ask.
She started back to the reality from what seemed a dream, as her father hurried on along by a row of ill-built, rugged cottages on the cliff.
“It is in one of these,” he said huskily, “but I cannot recall which.”
As he hesitated one of the doors was opened, and a great, burly merman appeared, pipe in mouth.
“Dick Paul’s,” he said, in answer to a question, “first door furder on. Fine night, master.”
“Yes, yes; thank you, thank you,” cried Vine hastily.
“But he aren’t at home.”
“What?”
“Him and four more went out at sundown to shoot their nets.”
Vine uttered a low groan.
“Good night!” said the man, and he moved off.
“Stop!” cried Vine, and the man’s heavy boots ceased to clatter on the rugged pebbles with which the way was paved.
“Call me, Master Vine!”
“Yes. You know me?”
“Know you? Ay, and the young lady too. Liza Perrow’s Uncle Bob. Didn’t I take you ’long the coast one day?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Vine hastily. “Look here, my man; you have a boat.”
“Third share master, just going out now. My mates are waiting yonder.”
“In the harbour?”
“Ay. That’s their lantern.”
“Look here, Perrow,” said Vine excitedly, as he held the man tightly by the arm, “you are going fishing?”
“Going to have a try, master.”
“And you will perhaps earn a pound a-piece.”
“If we are lucky. P’r’aps naught.”
“Perrow,” whispered the old man, with his lips close to the man’s face, “will you do me a service—a great service?”
“Sarvice, sir?—Ay, sure I will.”
“Then look here. Your boat would sail across to France?”
“To France?” said the great bluff fellow, with a chuckle. “Why didn’t some of our mates sail to Spain in a lugger a foot shorter than ours, and not so noo a boot! France, ay, or Spain either.”
“Then look here; take a passenger over for me to-night; and I’ll give you fifty pounds.”
“Fifty pounds, Master Vine?”
“Yes. Be ready; take him safely over, and bring me back word from him that he’s safe, and I’ll pay you a hundred.”
“Will you shake hands on that, master?”
“Will you do it?”
“Do it for you, Master Vine? Why, sir, bless you, we’d ha’ done it for five. But if you tempt poor men wi’ a big lump o’ money like that—Do it? I should think we will.”
“But your partners?” said Louise excitedly.
“Never you mind about them, miss. I’m cap’n of our boat. Where’s our passenger? Lor’, miss, don’t do that.”
The man started, for Louise had caught his rough hand and kissed it.
“I’ll soon bring him to you,” said the old man, with his voice trembling; “but look here, my man—you must ask no questions, you will not be put off, you will not refuse at the last moment?”
“Look here, Master Vine, sir,” said the man stolidly, “I aren’t a fool. Hundred pound’s a lot o’ money, and of course it’s to smuggle some one away on the quiet. Well, so be it.”
“Hah!” ejaculated Vine.
“It’s to ’blige you as I’ve knowd for a kind-hearted gent these ever so many years, though there was that bit o’ trouble ’bout my brother’s lass, as I don’t believe took that there money.”
“No, no, she was innocent,” cried Louise.
“Thanks for that, miss, and—say, has young Master Harry been up to some game?”
There was no reply.
“Never mind. Don’t you speak without you like, Master Vine, sir. Yonder’s our boot, and I’ll go down to her, and she shall lie off just outside, and I’ll wait in our little punt down by the harbour steps. Will that do?”
“Yes; and you will trust me to pay you a hundred pounds?”
“Trustyou?”
The man uttered a low chuckle.
“How long will he be, master?”
“I don’t know. Wait till he comes.”
“Master Harry?” whispered the man.
“Yes.”
“All right, sir. You trust me. I’ll trust you. Night, miss. I’ll wait there if it’s a week.”
“Hah!” ejaculated Vine, as the man’s heavy step went on before them. “There is a way of escape for him. I am a father, and what I ought to do by my friend pales before that. Now to find him, my child, to find him. Hemustescape.”
Louise clung to his arm, and they stood there on the cliff path listening, and each mentally asking the question, what to do?
“If I could only get the faintest clue of his movements,” muttered Vine. “Louise, my child, can you not suggest something?”
She did not answer, for a terrible dread was upon her now. Her brother might have been taken; and if so, there was no need to hesitate as to the way to go.
As if the same thoughts had impressed him, Vine suddenly exclaimed:
“No, no, they would not have taken him. The man was a stranger, and Harry would be too quick.”
For the next hour they hurried here and there, passing Van Heldre’s house, where a dim light in the window showed where the injured man lay. There was a vague kind of feeling that sooner or later they would meet Harry, but the minutes glided slowly by, and all was still.
Out beyond the harbour-light the faint gleam of a lantern could be seen, showing that Bob Perrow had kept faith with them, and that the lugger was swinging in the rapid current, fast to one of the many buoys used by the fishermen in fine weather. But there was no sign or sound apparent; and with their hearts, sinking beneath the impression that Harry had been taken, and yet not daring to go and ask, father and daughter still wandered to and fro along the various streets of the little town.
“Can he have taken boat and gone?” whispered Vine at last.
“No,” said Louise, “there would not have been time, and we should have seen the lights had a boat gone out.”
“George!”
Two figures suddenly appeared out of the darkness, and stopped before them.
“Luke? You here?”
“Yes; have you seen him?”
“No; but is—is he—”
“No, Mr Vine,” said Leslie quickly. “I have been up to the station twice.”
“Sir!”
“For heaven’s sake don’t speak to me like that, Mr Vine,” cried Leslie. “I know everything, and I am working for him as I would for my own brother.”
“Yes, it’s all right, George,” said Uncle Luke, with his voice softening a little. “Leslie’s a good fellow. Look here; we must get the young dog away. Leslie has chartered a fast boat, and she lies in the head of the harbour ready.”
“Ah!”
It was an involuntary ejaculation from Louise.
“We’ll have him taken across the Channel if we can find him. Where can he be hidden?”
“We have been twice on to your house, Mr Vine,” said Leslie, who kept right away from Louise, and out of delicacy seemed to ignore her presence, but spoke so that she could hear every word. “I have three of my miners on the look-out—men I can trust, and law or no law, we must save him from arrest.”
“Heaven bless you, Mr Leslie. Forgive—”
“Hush, sir. There is no time for words. The men from London with our own police are searching in every direction. He got right away, and he is hiding somewhere, for he certainly would not take to the hills or the road, and it would be madness to try the rail.”
“Yes,” said Uncle Luke. “He’s safe to make for the sea, and so get over yonder. There’s a boat lying off though, and I’m afraid that’s keeping him back. The police have that outside to stop him.”
“No; that is a boat I have chartered, Luke, waiting to save my poor boy.”
“Then before many hours are gone he’ll be down by the harbour, that’s my impression,” said Uncle Luke. “Confound you, George, why did you ever have a boy?”
George Vine drew a long breath and remained silent.
“If you will allow me, gentlemen,” said Leslie, “I think we ought not to stay here like this. The poor fellow will not know what precautions his friends have taken, and some one ought to be on the look-out to give him warning whenever he comes down to the harbour.”
“Yes; that’s true.”
“Then if I may advise, I should suggest, sir, that you patrol this side to and fro, where you must see him if he comes down to make for the west point; I’ll cross over and watch the east pier, and if Mr Luke Vine here will stop about the head of the harbour, we shall have three chances of seeing him instead of one.”
Louise pressed her hand to her throbbing heart, as she listened to these words, and in spite of her agony of spirits, noted how Leslie avoided speaking to her, devoting himself solely to the task of helping her brother; and as she felt this, and saw that in future they could be nothing more than the most distant friends, a suffocating feeling of misery seemed to come over her, and she longed to hurry away, and sob to relieve her overcharged breast.
“Leslie’s right,” said Uncle Luke, in a decisive way. “Let’s separate at once. And look here, whoever sees him is to act, give him some money, and get him off at once. He must go. The trouble’s bad enough now, it would be worse if he were taken, and it’s the last thing Van Heldre would do, hand him to the police. Leslie!”
He held up his hand, but the steps he heard were only those of some fishermen going home from the river.
“Now, then, let’s act; and for goodness’ sake, let’s get the young idiot away, for I warn you all, if that boy’s taken there’ll be far worse trouble than you know of now.”
“Uncle Luke!” cried Louise piteously.
“Can’t help it, my dear. There will, for I shall end a respectable life by killing old Crampton and being hung. Come along, Leslie.”
The little party separated without a word, and Louise and her father stood listening till the steps of their late companions died away.