"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?"
"Trust _you_?"
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. He _must_ escape."
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.