"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 communing 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 go? 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 thought 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 St 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!"
"Ha! 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 arn'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 apiece."
"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?"
"You will do it?"
"Do it for you, Master Vine? Why, sir, bless you, we'd ha' done it fur
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 o' our boot. 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 arn'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--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 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.
Volume 2, Chapter XI.
"IN THE QUEEN'S NAME."
As they stood together at the lower end of the rocky point listening and
waiting, it seemed to Louise Vine as if she were about to be an actor in
some terrible scene.
Vine muttered a few words now and then, but they were inaudible to his
child, who clung to his arm as he walked untiringly to and fro, watching
the harbour and the way back into the town, while when he paused it was
to fix his eyes upon the dimly-seen lantern of the lugger lying out
beyond the point. The portion of their walk nearest the town was well
kept and roughly paved with great slabs of granite, in which were here
and there great rings for mooring purposes, while at some distance apart
were projecting masses roughly hewn into posts. But as the distance
from the town increased and the harbour widened, the jutting point was
almost as if it had been formed by nature, and the footing was
difficult, even dangerous at times.
But in his excitement Vine did not heed this, going on and on regardless
of the difficulties, and Louise unmurmuringly walked or at times climbed
along till they were right out at the extreme point where, some feet
below them, the water rushed and gurgled in and out of the crevices with
terrible gasping noises, such as might be made by hungry sea monsters
thronging round to seize them if either of them should make a slip.
Here Vine paused again and again to watch the lantern in the lugger, and
listen for the rattle of oars in the rowlocks, the oars of the boat
conveying his son to the men who would at once hoist the sails and bear
him away to a place of safety. But the dim light of the horn lantern
rose and fell, there was no rattle of oars, not even the murmur of a
voice: nothing but the sucking, gasping noises at their feet, as the
tide swirled by like the race of waters from some huge mill.
Louise clung more tightly to her father's arm, as he stood again and
again where she had often from a rock behind watched her uncle deftly
throwing out his line to capture some silvery-sided bass or a mackerel,
glowing with all the glories of the sea at sunrise.
"If he should slip," she said to herself, as she tightened her grasp of
her father's thin arm, "if he should slip!" and she shuddered as she
gazed down into the deep, black rushing water, where the star
reflections were all broken up and sparkled deep down as if the current
were charged with gold-dust, swirling and eddying by. Then she started
as her father spoke aloud to himself.
"No, no, no!" he murmured. Then sharply, "Come, let us get back."
Louise crept along by him in silence, her heart giving one violent leap,
as Vine slipped once on the spray-swept rocks, but recovered himself and
went on without a word. Again and again she suffered that terrible
catching of the breath, as her father slipped, caught his foot in some
inequality, or would, but for her guidance, have stumbled over some
projecting rock post and been thrown into the harbour. For, as he
walked on, his eyes were constantly searching the dark surface as he
listened intently for some token of the escaping man.
But all was still as they neared the town, still with the silence of
death. No one could have told that there were watchers by the ferry,
where a rough boat was used for crossing from side to side of the
harbour; that two boats were waiting, and that Duncan Leslie was
patrolling the short arm of granite masonry that ran down to the
tower-like building where the harbour lantern burned.
"Hist!" whispered Louise, for there was a step some little distance
away, but it ceased, and as she looked in its direction, the cliffs
seemed to tower up behind the town till a black, jagged ridge cut the
starry sky.
"Let's go back," said her father, huskily. "I fancied I heard a boat
stealing along the harbour; we cannot see the lugger light from here."
"George!" came from out of the darkness ahead.
"Yes, Luke!" was whispered back sharply, and the old man came up.
"Seen anything of him?"
"No. Have, you?"
"Not a sign. I sent one of the fishermen up to the police to see what
he could find out, and--"
"Uncle!" panted out Louise, as she left her father to cling to the old
man.
"Poor little lassie! poor little lassie!" he said tenderly, as he took
her and patted her head. "No news, and that's good news. They haven't
got him, but they're all out on the watch; the man from London and our
dunderheads. All on the watch, and I fancy they're on the look-out
close here somewhere, and that's what keeps him back."
Louise uttered a low moan.
"Ah, it's bad for you, my dear," said Uncle Luke, whose manner seemed
quite changed. "You come with me, and let me take you home. We don't
want another trouble on our hands."
"No, no," she said firmly, "I cannot leave him."
"But you will be ill, child."
"I cannot leave him, uncle," she said again; and going back to her
father, she locked her fingers about his arm.
"Hi! hoi! look out!" came from a distance; and it was answered directly
by a voice not a hundred yards away.
A thrill of excitement shot through the little group as they heard now
the tramp of feet.
"I knew it," whispered Uncle Luke. "He's making for the harbour now."
"Ah!" gasped Vine, as he almost dragged Louise over the rugged stones.
"Stop where you are," said Uncle Luke, excitedly; and he placed
something to his lips and gave a low shrill whistle.
It was answered instantly from the other side of the harbour.
"Leslie's on the look-out. Yes, and the men with the boat," he
whispered, excitedly, as another low whistle was heard.
Then there was a few moments' silence, as if people were listening,
followed by steps once more, and a quick voice exclaimed from out of the
darkness,
"Seen him?"
Neither of the group answered, and a man stepped up to them and flashed
the light of a lantern quickly over them before closing it again.
"That's you, is it?" he said. "I'll have a word with you by and by; but
look here, I call upon you two men in the Queen's name to help me to
take him. If you help him to get away, it's felony, so you may take the
consequences. You haven't got to do with your local police now."
The man turned away and walked swiftly back toward the town, the
darkness seeming to swallow him up. He paused for a few moments at the
edge of the harbour, to throw the light of his lantern across the water.
"The London man," said Uncle Luke, unconcernedly. "Well, God save the
Queen, but I'm sure she don't want us to help to capture our poor boy."
Volume 2, Chapter XII.
"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 was 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 St. 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 businesslike manner, so
that when Harry Vine was congratulating himself upon the ease with which
he was able to escape, one of the local policemen 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 waterside--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, illumining
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 re-crossed 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 clear; yes, my clear," sighed the old man. "I shall be in the
little room, and nne 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 ran now
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
clashed on, blindly now, reckless as to which way he went, so long as he
reached the waterside. 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 divining
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
had 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 a myriad
points of light, and then ran, hissing and rushing in a contending
current, out to sea.
Volume 2, Chapter XIII.
"THE LORD GAVE, AND--"
"Boat ahoy! Whoever you are--this way--boat!"
"Ahoy!" came back from three quarters--from two different points in the
harbour, and from out to sea.
Then came another whistle from far back on the other side of the
harbour, and in a shrill voice from between his hands Uncle Luke yelled:
"Leslie, another boat, man, for the love of heaven!"
"Here! you there, sir! the nearest boat--quick, pull!" roared the
detective in stentorian tones. "Have you no light?"
"Ay, ay," came back; and a lantern that had been hidden under a
tarpaulin coat shone out, dimly showing the boat's whereabouts.
"That's right; pull, my lads, off here. Man overboard off the rocks.
This way."
An order was given in the boat, and her course was altered.
"No, no," cried the officer; "this way, my lads, this way."
"We know what we're about," came back.
"Yes, yes; they know," said Uncle Luke, hoarsely. "Let them be; the
current sets the way they've taken. He's right out there by now."
The old man's arm was dimly seen pointing seawards, but the detective
was not convinced.
"It's a trick to throw me on the wrong scent," he said excitedly.
"Here, you"--to one of the local police--"why don't you speak?"
"Mr Luke Vine's right, sir; he knows the set o' the tide. The poor
lad's swept right out yonder long ago, and Lord ha' mercy upon him, poor
chap. They'll never pick him up."
"Can you see him?" roared the officer, using his hands as a
speaking-trumpet.
There was no reply; but the lantern could be seen rising and falling
now, as the little craft began to reach the swell at the harbour bar.
Then there was a hail out of the harbour, as the second boat came along,
and five minutes after the rapid beat of oars told of the coming of
another boat.
"Ahoy, lad! this way," rose from the boat with the lantern.
"Whose boat's that?" said the detective, quickly.
"Dunno," replied the nearest policeman.
"They'll pick him up, and he'll escape after all. Confound it! Here,
hoi! you in that boat. In the Queen's name, stop and take me aboard."
"They won't pick him up," said the nearest policeman solemnly. "You
don't know this coast."
There was a low groan from a figure crouching upon its knees, and
supporting a woman's head, happily insensible to what was passing
around.
"George, lad," whispered Uncle Luke, "for the poor girl's sake, let's
get her home. George! don't you hear me? George! It is I--Luke."
There was no reply, and the excitement increased as a swift boat now
neared the end of the point.
"Where is he? Is he swimming for the boat?" cried a voice, hardly
recognisable in its hoarse excitement for that of Duncan Leslie.
"He jumped off, Mr Leslie, sir," shouted one of the policemen.
"Row, my lads. Pull!" shouted Leslie; "right out."
"No, no," roared the detective; "take me aboard. In the Queen's name,
stop!"
"Pull," cried Leslie to the men; and then turning to the detective,
"While we stopped to take you the man would drown, and you couldn't get
aboard at this time of the tide."
"He's quite right," said the policeman who had last spoken. "It's risky
at any time; it would be madness now."
The detective stamped, as in a weird, strange way the voices kept coming
from out of the darkness, where two dim stars could be seen, as the
lanterns were visible from time to time; and now Leslie's voice followed
the others, as he shouted:
"This way, Vine, this way. Hail, man! Why don't you hail?"
"Is this part of the trick to get him away?" whispered the detective to
one of his men. The man made no reply, and his silence was more
pregnant than any words he could have spoken.
"But they'll pick him up," he whispered, now impressed by the other's
manner.
"Look out yonder," said the policeman, a native of the place; "is it
likely they'll find him there?"
"Hah!" ejaculated the detective.
"And there's no such current anywhere for miles along the coast as runs
off here."
"Hah!" ejaculated the man again, as he stood now watching the lights,
one of which kept growing more distant, while the hails somehow seemed
to be more faint and wild, and at last to resemble the despairing cries
of drowning men.
"Listen," whispered the detective in an awe-stricken tone, as he strove
to pierce the darkness out to sea.
"It was Master Leslie, that," said the second policeman; "I know his
hail."
Just then there was a wild hysterical fit of sobbing, and George Vine
rose slowly from his knees, and staggered towards the group.
"Luke!" he cried, in a half-stunned, helpless way, "Luke, you know--
Where are you? Luke!"
"Here, George," said Uncle Luke sadly, for he had knelt down in the
place his brother had occupied the moment before.
"You know the currents. Will they--will he--"
He faltered and paused, waiting his brother's reply, and the three
officers of the law shuddered, as, after a few minutes' silence, broken
only by a groan from the kneeling man, George Vine cried in a piteous
voice that sounded wild and thrilling in the solemn darkness of the
night:
"God help me! Oh, my son, my son!"
"Quick, mind! Good heavens, sir! Another step and--"
The detective had caught the stricken father as he tottered and would
have fallen headlong into the tide, while, as he and another of the men
helped him back to where Louise still lay, he was insensible to what
passed around.
But still the dim lights could be seen growing more and more distant,
and each hail sounded more faint, as the occupants of the boats called
to each other, and then to him they sought, while, after each shout, it
seemed to those who stood straining their eyes at the end of the pier,
that there was an answering cry away to their left; but it was only the
faint echo repeating the call from the face of the stupendous cliffs
behind the town.
"Why don't they come back here and search?" cried the officer angrily.
"What for?" said a voice at his elbow; and he turned to see dimly the
shrunken, haggard face of Uncle Luke.
"What for?" retorted the officer. "He may have swum in the other
direction."
"So might the world have rolled in the other direction, and the sun rise
to-morrow in the west," said the old man angrily. "No swimmer could
stem that current."
"But why have they gone so far?"
"They have gone where the current took them," said Uncle Luke, coldly.
"Want the help of your men to get these poor creatures home."
The detective made no reply, but stood gazing out to sea and listening
intently. Then turning to his men--
"One of you keep watch here in case they try to land with him. You come
with me."
The two policemen followed his instructions, one taking his place at the
extreme end of the point, the other following just as voices were heard,
and a group of fishermen, who had been awakened to the fact that there
was something wrong, came down the rocky breakwater.
"Here, some of you, I want a boat--a swift boat, and four men to pull.
Ah, you!"
This to a couple of the coastguard who had put in an appearance, and
after a few hurried words one party went toward the head of the
breakwater, while another, full of sympathy for the Vines, went on to
the end of the point.
There was plenty of willing help, but George Vine had now recovered from
his swoon, and rose up to refuse all offers of assistance.
"No, Luke," he said more firmly now; "I must stay."
"But our child, Louise?"
"She must stay with me."
Louise had risen to her feet as he spoke, and clung to his arm in mute
acquiescence; and once more they stood watching the star-spangled sea.
Ten minutes later a well-manned boat passed out of the harbour, with the
detective officer in her bows and a couple of the strongest lights they
could obtain.
Just as this boat came abreast of the point the rowing ceased, and a
brilliant glare suddenly flashed out as the officer held aloft a blue
signal light; and while the boat was forced slowly along he carefully
scanned the rocks in the expectation of seeing his quarry clinging
somewhere to their face.
The vivid light illumined the group upon the point, and the water
flashed and sparkled as it ran eddying by, while from time to time a
gleaming drop of golden fire dropped with a sharp hissing explosion into
the water, and a silvery grey cloud of smoke gathered overhead.
The officer stayed till the blue light had burned out, and then tossing
the wooden handle into the water, he gave his orders to the men to row
on out toward the other boats. The transition from brilliant light to
utter darkness was startling as it was sudden; and as the watchers
followed the dim-looking lanterns, they saw that about a mile out they
had paused.
George Vine uttered a gasping sigh, and his child clung to him as if
both realised the meaning of that halt. But they were wrong, for when
the men in the detective's boat had ceased rowing, it was because they
were close abreast of the lugger, whose crew had hailed them.
"Got him?"
"_No_. Is he aboard your boat?"
Without waiting for an answer, the detective and his men boarded the
lugger, and, to the disgust of her crew, searched from end to end.
"Lucky for you, my lads, that he is not here," said the officer.
"Unlucky for him he arn't," said one of the men. "If he had been we
shouldn't have had you aboard to-night."
"What do you mean?"
"Only that we should have been miles away by now."
"Do you think either of the other boats has picked him up?"
"Go and ask 'em," said another of the men sulkily.
"No, sir," said one of the coastguard, "they haven't picked him up."
"Back!" said the detective shortly; and, as soon as they were in the
boat, he gave orders for them to row towards the faint light they could
see right away east. They were not long in coming abreast, for the boat
was returning.
"Got him?" was shouted.
"No."
"Then why did you make the signal?"
The detective officer was a clever man, but it had not occurred to him
that the blue light he had obtained from the coastguard station and
burned would act as a recall. But so it was, and before long the second
boat was reached, and that which contained Duncan Leslie came up, the
latter uttering an angry expostulation at being brought back from his
search.
"It's no good, Mr Leslie, sir," said the fisherman who had made the
bargain with Vine.
"No good?" cried Leslie angrily. "You mean you're tired, and have not
the manhood to continue the search."
"No, sir, I don't," said the man quietly. "I mean I know this coast as
well as most men. I'll go searching everywhere you like; but I don't
think the poor lad can be alive."
"Ay, ay, that's right, mate," growled two others of his fellows.
"He was a great swimmer," continued the man sadly; "but it's my belief
he never come up again."
"Why do you say that?" cried the detective from his boat, as the four
hung clustered together, a singular-looking meeting out there on the
dark sea by lantern light.
"Why do I say that? Why 'cause he never hailed any on us who knew him,
and was ready to take him aboard. Don't matter how good a swimmer a man
is, he'd be glad of a hand out on a dark night, and with the tide
running so gashly strong."
"You may be right," said Leslie, "but I can't go back like this. Now,
my lads, who's for going on?"
"All on us," said the fisherman who had first spoken, and the boats
separated to continue their hopeless task.
All at once there was a faint streak out in the east, a streak of dull
grey, and a strange wild, faint cry came off the sea.
"There!" cried the detective; "pull, my lads, pull! he is swimming
still. No, no, more towards the right."
"Swimming?--all this time, and in his clothes!" said one of the
coastguard quietly. "That was only a gull."
The detective struck his fist into his open left hand, and stood gazing
round over the glistening water; as the stars paled, the light in the
east increased till the surface of the sea seemed steely grey, and by
degrees it grew so light that near the harbour a black speck could be
seen, toward which the officer pointed.
"Buoy," said the nearest rower laconically, and the officer swept the
surface again. Then there was a faint shade of orange nearly in the
zenith, a flock of gulls flew past, and here and there there were flecks
and splashes of the pale silvery water, which ere long showed the
reflection of the orange sky, and grew golden. The rocks that lay at
the foot of the huge wall of cliff were fringed with foam, and wherever
there was a break in the shore and some tiny river gurgled down, a
wreathing cloud of mist hung in the hollow.
Moment by moment the various objects grew more distinct; black masses of
rock fringed with green or brown sea-wrack, about which the tide eddied
and played, now hiding, now revealing for some crested wave to pounce
upon as a sea monster might upon its prey. The dark slaty rocks
displayed their wreaths of ivy, and the masses of granite stood up piled
in courses of huge cubes, as if by titanic hands, grey with parched
moss, dull and dead-looking; and then all at once, as the sun slowly
rose above the sea, glorious in God's light, sparkling as if set with
myriads of gems, the grey became gold, and all around there was a scene
of beauty such as no painter could do more than suggest. Everything was
glorified by the rising sun; sea, sky, the distant houses, and shipping,
all gleamed as if of burnished gold--all was of supreme beauty in the
birth of that new day. No, not all: here and there, slowly using their
oars as they scanned sea and rock, sat a crew of haggard men, while back
on the golden point clustered a crowd watching their efforts, and
hanging back with natural kindly delicacy from the group of three at the
extreme edge of the granite point--two pale-faced, grey, wild-eyed men,
and the girl who sat crouching on a fragment of rock, her hair loose,
her hands clasped round her knees, and a look of agonised sorrow in the
piteous drawn face, ever directed towards the east.
"They're all coming back," said some one close at hand.
The man was right; slowly one by one the boats crept over the glorious
sea towards the harbour, Duncan Leslie's last.
"Nothing?" said Uncle Luke in a low whisper as the coastguard boat was
backed toward the point, and the detective sprang ashore.
"Nothing, sir. Poor foolish, misguided lad! Might have been my boy,
sir. I've only done my duty; but this is a dark night's work I shall
never forget. I feel as if I were answerable for his death."
Ten minutes later Duncan Leslie landed in the same way, and laid his
hand upon Uncle Luke's arm.
"I was obliged to come back," he said; "my men are fagged out."
"No signs of him!"
Leslie shook his head and spoke in a whisper.
"I'll be off again as soon as I can get a fresh crew, and search till I
do find him. For Heaven's sake, sir, take them home!"
It was a kindly whisper, but Louise heard every word, and shuddered as
she turned and hid her face in her father's breast. For she knew what
it meant; it was to spare her the agonising sight, when the sea,
according to its wont, threw something up yonder among the rugged
stones, where, to use the fishermen's words, the current bit hardest on
the shore. She fought hard to keep back the wild cry that struggled in
her breast; but it was in vain, and many a rough fellow turned aside as
he heard the poor girl's piteous wail out there in the sunshine of that
glorious morn.
"Harry! brother! what shall I do?" George Vine's lips parted as he bent
down over his child. "The Lord gave, and--"
His voice failed, but his lips completed poor old stricken Job's words,
and there was a pause. Then he seemed to draw himself up, and held out
his hand for a moment to Duncan Leslie.
"Luke!" he said then calmly and gravely. "Your arm too. Let us go
home."
The little crowd parted left and right, and every hat was doffed in the
midst of a great silence, as the two old men walked slowly up the rough
pier, supporting the stricken girl.
Duncan Leslie followed, and as they passed on through the narrow lane of
humble, sympathising people of the port, these turned in and slowly
followed, two and two, bareheaded, as if it were a funeral procession.
Just then, high above the top of the grand cliff, a lark soared up,
sprinkling the air as from a censer of sound, with his silvery notes
joyous, loud, and thrilling; and one patriarchal fisherman, who had seen
many a scene of sorrow in his time, whispered to the mate walking at his
side--
"Ay, lad, and so it is; midst of life we are in death."
"Ah," sighed his companion; "but on such a morn as this!"
Volume 2, Chapter XIV.