"OH! ABSALOM, MY SON, MY SON."
Harry Vine had but one thought as he dashed out of his father's house,
and that was to escape--far away to some other country where neither he
nor his crime were known--to some place where, with the slate of his
past life wiped clean, he might begin anew, and endeavour to show to his
father, to his sister, perhaps to Madelaine Van Heldre, that he was not
all bad. How he would try, he told himself. Only let him get aboard
one of the fishing luggers, and after confiding in some one or other of
his old friends, the bluff fishermen who had often given him a sail or a
day's fishing, beg of him to take him across to Jersey or Saint Malo;
anywhere, so as to avoid the terrible exposure of the law--anywhere to
be free.
"I'd sooner die than be taken," he said to himself as he sped on
downward at a rapid rate.
The way to the harbour seemed clear, and, though the officer was
pursuing him, Harry had the advantage of the darkness, and the local
knowledge of the intricate ways of the little town, so that he felt no
fear of being able to reach the harbour and some boat. He was reckoning
without his host. His host, or would-be host, was the detective
sergeant who had gone about his business in a business-like manner, so
that when Harry Vine was congratulating himself upon the ease with which
he was able to escape, one of the local policeman started from his post
right in the fugitive's way, nearly succeeding in catching him by the
arm, an attention Harry avoided by doubling down one of the little
alleys of the place. Over and over again he tried to steal down to the
harbour, but so sure as he left his hiding place in one of the dark
lanes or among the fishermen's stores he heard steps before him, and
with the feeling that the whole town had now risen up against him, and
that the first person he encountered would seize and hold him until the
arrival of the police, he crept back, bathed with cold perspiration, to
wait what seemed to be an interminable time before he ventured again.
His last hiding place was a wooden shed not far from the water-side--a
place of old ropes and sails, and with a loft stored full of carefully
dried nets, put away till the shoals of fish for which they were needed
visited the shore. Here in profound ignorance of what had been done on
his behalf, he threw himself down on a heap of tarred canvas to try and
devise some certain means of escape. He had a vague intention of
getting the fishermen to help him; but after thinking of several, he
could not decide which of the sturdy fellows would stand by such a
culprit as he. And as he lay there the bitter regrets for the past
began to attack him.
"Louise--sister," he muttered to himself. "I must have been mad. And I
lie here groaning like the coward I am," he said fiercely, as, thrusting
back all thoughts of the past with the intention of beginning afresh, he
stole out once more into the dark night, meaning to get to the harbour,
and, failing a better means, to take some small sailing-boat, and to
trust to his own skill to get safely across.
The place was far more quiet now; and, avoiding the larger lanes, he
threaded his way through passage after passage among the net-stores and
boat-houses till he reached the main street, along which he was walking
noiselessly when a heavy regular pace ahead checked him, and, turning
shortly round, he made for the first narrow back lane, reached it, and
turned trembling as he recognised that it was the familiar path leading
by the back of Van Heldre's, the way he knew so well.
Hurrying on, he had nearly reached the bottom, when he became aware of
the fact that there was a policeman waiting. He turned sharply back,
after nearly walking into the arms of one of his enemies, and was nearly
at the top once more, when he found that the man whom he had tried to
avoid was there too waiting.
"I'm caught," he said bitterly, as he paused midway. "Shall I dash for
liberty? No," he said bitterly; "better give up."
He raised his hand to guide himself silently along, when he shivered,
for it touched a gate which yielded, and as the steps advanced from
front and rear, he stepped down. Fate in her irony had decided that, to
avoid arrest, he should take refuge in the premises of the man he had
injured. The steps came nearer, and trembling with horror the fugitive
glanced upward to see that two windows were illumined, and there was
light enough to show that the door leading into the corridor was open.
He shrank from it, and was then driven to enter and stand inside,
listening, for the steps stopped outside, the door yielded, and a voice
said:
"Couldn't have been him. He wouldn't have gone there."
The gate swung gently to, and the fugitive began to breathe more freely,
for after a low whispered conversation, it was evident that the watchers
were about to separate, when there was a loud cough which Harry knew
only too well; and to his horror he saw faintly in at the end of the
passage his figure more plain by a light in the hall, the short stooping
figure of Crampton coming towards him. To have stepped out into the
yard would have been into the light, where the old man must have seen
him; and, obeying his first instinct, Harry crouched down, and as
Crampton advanced, backed slowly along the corridor till farther
progress was stayed by the outer door of the office. Harry sank down in
the corner, a dark shapeless heap to any one who had approached, and
with heart throbbing, he waited.
"He is coming into the office," he thought.
But as the old man reached the opening into the yard he paused. There
was a faint rustling, then a flash and a match flared out illuminating
the old clerk's stern countenance, and it seemed as the tiny splint
burned that discovery must take place now. But Crampton was intent upon
the business which had brought him there. He had stolen out from his
self-appointed task of watching over the house to have his nightly pipe,
and for fully an hour, Harry Vine crouched in the corner by the office
door, seeing over and over again the horrors of the past, and trembling
as he waited for the fresh discovery, while old Crampton softly paced
the little yard, smoking pipe after pipe.
That hour seemed as if it would never end, and at last in despair Harry
was about to rise, when he heard Madelaine's voice, gently calling to
the old man.
"Hah!" he said softly; "a bad habit, Miss Madelaine, but it seems to
soothe me now."
Would he fasten the door and gate, and complete the horror of Harry's
position by making him a prisoner? The young man crouched there
trembling, for Crampton recrossed the yard, and there was the sound of
two bolts being shot. Then he regained the glass door, and was about to
close that.
"No," said Madelaine softly; "the night is so hot. Leave that open, Mr
Crampton."
"Yes, my dear; yes, my dear," sighed the old man. "I shall be in the
little room, and no one is likely to come here now."
Gone at last, and trembling so in his wild excitement that he could
hardly stir, Harry Vine literally crept along the corridor, rose up and
ran across the yard with the horrible sensation that the old clerk's
hand was about to descend upon his shoulder. The two bolts were shot
back with a loud snap, the gate was flung open; and, reckless now, he
dashed out and down the narrow lane.
"He could bear no more," he said. "The harbour and a boat." He now ran
rapidly, determined to end the terrible suspense, and for the first few
moments, he felt that his task would be easy; then he heard a warning
shout, and in his dread took refuge in the first alley leading down to
the harbour.
Steps passed, and he emerged at the lower end, gained the main street by
returning through another of the alleys by which, after the fashion of
Yarmouth, the little town was scored.
"Five minutes will take me there now," he panted; and, forcing himself
to walk, he was hurrying on when a shout told him that his enemies were
well upon the alert. With the horrible sense of being hunted, he dashed
on, blindly now, reckless as to which way he went, so long as he reached
the water-side. As he ran, he was about to strike down to the left
where the landing steps lay; and had he reached them there was a boat
and men waiting, but the London detective had discovered that and was on
the alert.
Harry almost ran into his arms, but with a cry of rage he doubled back
and ran for the shore, where he might set pursuit at defiance by hiding
in the rocks below the cliff. But another man sprang up in his way, and
in his despair he ran off to his left again, right along the great pier,
towards the point.
"We've got him now," shouted a voice behind as Harry rushed out, just
conscious of a shriek as he brushed by a group of figures, hardly seen
in the darkness. He heard, too, some confused words in which "boat" and
"escape" seemed to be mingled. But in his excitement he could only
think of those behind, as there came the patter of his pursuers' feet on
the rough stones.
There was a shrill whistle from the other side of the harbour, followed
by a hail, and the splash of oars in the darkness, while a low "ahoy!"
came from off the point.
"Yes," muttered the officer between his teeth, "you're a nice party down
here, but I've got my man."
What followed was the work of moments. Harry ran on till the rugged
nature of the point compelled him to walk, then step cautiously from
rock to rock. The harbour was on one side, the tide rushing in on the
other; before him the end of the point, with its deep water and eddying
currents, which no swimmer could stem, and behind him the London officer
with the local police close up.
There was a boat, too, in the harbour, and the fugitive had heard the
whistle, and cries. He saw the light of the lugger out ahead, and to
him, in his mad horror of capture, they meant enemies--enemies on every
hand.
And so he reached the extreme point, where, peering wildly about, like
some hunted creature seeking a way of escape, he turned at bay.
"There, sir, the game's up," cried the officer. "You've made a good
fight of it, so now give in."
"Keep back!" roared Harry hoarsely. And he stooped and felt about for a
loose piece of rock where every scrap had been washed away.
"Will you give in?" cried the officer.
"Keep back!" cried Harry again, in a tone so fierce that for a moment
the officer paused.
There was another whistle from across the harbour, a shout and a hail
out of the darkness, but nothing save the dim lantern light could be
seen.
"Now then, you two," said the officer decidedly, "back me up."
There was a faint click as he drew something from his pocket, and
without hesitation stepped boldly over the few feet which separated him
from Harry Vine.
Panting, half wild, hearing the whistles, the cries, and still dividing
nothing but that there were enemies on every hand, the young man uttered
a hoarse cry as the detective caught at his breast. With one well-aimed
blow he struck out, sent the man staggering back, and then, as those who
hail watched and waited came panting up, he turned quickly, stepped to
the very edge, raised his hands and plunged into the rushing tide.
"Harry! my son!" rang out on the darkness of the night.
But there was no answer. The black water seemed to flash with myriad
points of light and then ran, hissing and rushing in a contending
current, out to sea.