The Vines had hardly reached their home when quietly and in a furtive
way boat after boat put off down the harbour, from the little punt
belonging to some lugger, right up to the heavy fishing-craft, rowed by
six or eight men. There was no communication one with the other; no
general order had been issued, but, with one consent, all were bent upon
the same mission, and hour after hour, every mass of weedy rock, chasm,
hollow, and zorn was scanned, where it was known that the current was
likely to throw up that which it had engulfed; but, though every inch of
shore was searched, the task proved to be without avail, and the
brothers, seated together in the quaint, old-fashioned dining-room,
waiting to be summoned for the reception of their dead, sat waiting, and
without receiving the call.
Louise had refused to leave them, and had clung to her father, asking to
be allowed to stay; but no sooner was the consent obtained than it
proved to be useless, for the poor girl was completely prostrated by the
excitement and horror of the past night, and had to be helped up to her
couch.
And there the brothers sat in silence, George Vine calm, stern, and with
every nerve on the strain; Uncle Luke watching him furtively without
attempting to speak.
When any words had passed between the brothers, the old cynic's voice
sounded less harsh, and its tones were sympathetic, as he strove to be
consolatory to the suffering man. They had been seated some time
together in silence, when Uncle Luke rose, and laid his hand upon his
brother's shoulder.
"I don't know what to say to you, George," he whispered softly. "For
all these years past I've been, what you know, a childless, selfish man;
but I feel for you, my lad--I feel for you, and I'd bear half your
agony, if I could."
George Vine turned upon him with a piteous smile, and took the hand
resting on his shoulder.
"You need not speak, Luke," he said sadly. "Do you think we have lived
all these years without my understanding my brother, and knowing what he
is at heart?"
Luke shook his head, gripped the hand which held his firmly, but could
not speak.
"I am going to bear it like a man, please God; but it is hard, Luke,
hard; and but for poor Louise's sake I could wish that my journey was
done."
"No, no; no, no, George," said the brother huskily. "There is, lad,
much to do here yet--for you, my boy--for Louise--that poor, half-crazy
woman up-stairs, and Uncle Luke, who is not much better, so they say.
No, my boy, you must fight--you must bear, and bear it bravely, as you
will, as soon as this first shock is over, and there's always hope--
always hope. The poor boy may have escaped."
"Ay, to where? Luke, brother, for Heaven's sake let me be in peace. I
cannot bear to speak now. I feel as if the strain is too great for my
poor brain."
Luke pressed his hand, and walked slowly to the window, from whence he
could gaze down at the boats going; and coming into the harbour; and he
shuddered as he thought what any one of them might bring.
"Better it should, and at once," he said to himself. "He'll know no
rest until that is past."
He turned and looked in wonder at the door, which opened then, and Aunt
Marguerite, dressed in one of her stiffest brocades, pale, but with her
eyes stern and fierce, entered the room, to sweep slowly across, till
she was opposite to George Vine, when she crossed her arms over her
breast, and began to beat her shoulder with her large ivory fan, the
thin leaves making a peculiar pattering noise against her whalebone
stiffened bodice.
"Don't talk to him, Margaret," said Uncle Luke, coming forward. "He is
not fit. Say what you have to say another time."
"Silence! you poor weak imbecile!" she cried, as her eyes flashed at
him. "What do you do here at a time like this? Now," she continued,
darting a vindictive look at her broken-hearted brother, "what have you
to say?"
"To say, Margaret?" he replied piteously. "God help me, what can I
say?"
"Nothing, miserable that you are. The judgment has come upon you at
last. Have I not striven to save that poor murdered boy from you--to
raise him from the slough into which you plunged him in your wretched
degradation. Time after time I have raised my voice, but it has been
unheard. I have been treated as your wretched dependant, who could not
even say her soul was her own, and with my heart bleeding, I have
seen--"
"Margaret, you were always crazy," cried Uncle Luke fiercely; "are you
raving mad?"
"Yes," she cried. "Worm, pitiful crawling worm. You are my brother by
birth, but what have I seen of you but your wretched selfish life--of
you who sold your birthright to sink into the degraded creature you are,
so degraded that you side with this man against me, now that he is
worthily punished for his crime against his son."
"I cannot listen to this," cried Uncle Luke furiously.
"Let her speak," said George Vine sadly; "she thinks she is right."
"And so do you," cried Aunt Marguerite. "If you had kept the poor boy a
gentleman all this would not have happened. See to what extent you have
driven the poor, brave-hearted, noble boy, the only true Des Vignes.
You, degenerate creature that you are, maddened him by the life you
forced him to lead, till in sheer recklessness he took this money,
struck down the tyrant to whom you made him slave, and at last caused
him to be hunted down till, with the daring of a Des Vignes, he turned,
and died like one of his chivalrous ancestors, his face to his foes,
his--"
"Bah!" cried Uncle Luke, with a fierce snarl, "his chivalrous
ancestors!"
"Luke!"
"I tell you, George, I'm sick of the miserable cant. Died like a hero!
Woman, it was your miserable teaching made him the discontented wretch
he was."
"For pity's sake, Luke."
"I must speak now," cried the old man furiously; "it's time she knew the
truth; but for you, who, in return for the shelter of your brother's
roof, filled the boy's head with your vain folly, he would have been a
respectable member of society, an honest Englishman, instead of a
would-be murderer and thief."
"It is false!" cried Aunt Marguerite.
"It is true!" thundered the old man, in spite of his brother's imploring
looks; "true, and you know it's true. Died like a hero, with his face
to the foe! He died, if he be dead, like a coward, afraid to face the
officer of the law he had outraged--a disgrace to the name of Vine."
Aunt Marguerite stood gazing at him, as if trying to stay him with the
lightning of her eyes, but his burst of passion was at an end, and he
did not even realise that her vindictive looks had faded out, and that
she had grown ghastly as a sheet, and tottered half palsied from the
room.
For, horrified by the agony he read in his brother's face, Luke Vine had
seized his hands, and was gazing imploringly at him.
"Forgive me, George," he whispered. "I knew not what I said."
"Let me be alone--for a while," faltered his brother. "I am weak. I
cannot bear it now."
But the strain was not yet at an end, for at that moment there was a tap
at the door, and Liza entered, looking red-eyed and strange; and a sob
escaped her as she saw her master's face.
"A gentleman to see you, sir. He must see you at once," she stammered.
"If you please, Mr Vine," said a short, stern voice, and, without
further ceremony, the detective officer entered the room.
George Vine rose painfully, and tried to cross where the man stood
inside the door, looking sharply from one to the other.
"No," he said inaudibly, as his eyes seemed to grasp everything;
"they're honest. Don't know where he is."
George Vine did not cross to the officer; his strength seemed to fail
him.
"You have come," he said slowly, as he tried to master a piteous sigh.
"Luke, you will come with me?"
"Yes, lad, I'll come," said Uncle Luke. Then turning towards the
officer, he whispered, "Where did you find the poor lad?"
"You are labouring under a mistake, sir," said the man. "We have not
found him--yet. My people are searching still, and half the fishermen
are out in their boats, but they say it is not likely that they will
find him till after a tide or two, when he will be cast ashore."
The words sounded hard and brutal, and Luke gave the speaker a furious
look as he saw his brother wince.
"Why have you come here, then?" said Uncle Luke, harshly. "Do you think
he has not suffered enough?"
The officer made no reply, but stood, notebook in hand, thinking. Then
sharply:
"A person named Pradelle has been staying here."
"Yes," said Uncle Luke, with a snap of his teeth; "and if you had taken
him instead of hunting down our poor boy you would have done some good."
"All in good time, sir. I expect he was at the bottom of it all. Have
you any information you can give me as to where he is likely to have
gone?"
"Where do all scoundrels and thieves go to hide? London, I suppose."
"I expected that," said the officer, talking to Uncle Luke, but watching
George Vine's drawn, grief-stricken face the while. "I dare say we
shall be able to put a finger upon him before long. He does not seem to
have a very good record, and yet you gentlemen appear to have given him
a welcome here."
George Vine made a deprecating movement with his hands, the detective
watching him keenly the while, and evidently hesitating over something
he had to say.
"And now, sir," said Uncle Luke, "you'll excuse me if I ask you to go.
This is not a time for cross-examination."
"Eh? perhaps not," said the officer sharply, as he gave the old man a
resentful glance. Then to himself, "Well--it's duty. He had no
business to. I've no time for fine feelings."
"At another time," continued Uncle Luke, "if you will come to me, I dare
say I can give you whatever information you require."
"Oh, you may rest easy about that, sir," said the officer, half
laughingly, "don't you be afraid. But I want a few words now with this
other gentleman."
"And I say no; you shall not torture him now," cried Uncle Luke angrily.
"He has suffered enough."
"Don't you interfere, sir, till you are called upon," said the officer
roughly. "Now, Mr George Vine, if you please."
"I will not have it," cried Uncle Luke; "it is an outrage."
"Let him speak, brother," said George Vine, with calm dignity. "Now,
sir, go."
"I will, sir. It's a painful duty, but it is a duty. Now, sir, I came
here with a properly signed warrant for the arrest of Henry Vine, for
robbery and attempted murder."
"Ah!" sighed Vine, with his brow wrinkling.
"The young man would have resigned himself quietly, but you incited him
to resist the law and escape."
"It is quite true. I have sinned, sir," said Vine, in a low pained
voice, "and I am ready to answer for what I have done."
"But that is not all," continued the officer. "Not content with aiding
my prisoner to escape, you attacked me, sir, and twice over you struck
me in the execution of my duty."
"Is this true, George?" cried Uncle Luke, excitedly.
"Yes," said his brother, calmly bending to this new storm: "yes, it is
quite true."
"Well, sir, what have you to say?"
"Nothing."
"You know, I suppose, that it is the duty of every citizen to help the
officers of the law?"
"Yes."
"And yet you not only fought against me, but struck me heavily. I have
the marks."
"Yes; I own to it all."
"And you know that it is a very serious offence?"
"Yes," said the wretched man; and he sank into the nearest chair,
looking straight before him into vacancy.
"Well, sir," said the officer sharply, "I'm glad you know the
consequences." Then turning sharply on Uncle Luke, who stood biting his
lips in an excited manner, "Perhaps you'll come into the next room with
me, sir. I should like a few words with you."
Uncle Luke scowled at him, as he led the way into the drawing-room, and
shut the door angrily.
"Now, sir," he began fiercely, "let me--"
"Hold hard, old gentleman!" said the officer; "don't be so excitable. I
want a few words, and then, for goodness' sake, give me a glass of wine
and a biscuit. I've touched nothing since I came here last night."
"Ah!" ejaculated Uncle Luke, furiously; but the man went on--
"Of course it's a serious thing striking an officer; let alone the pain,
there's the degradation, for people know of it. I'm sore at losing my
prisoner, and if he had not held me I should have had the young fellow
safe, and that horrible accident wouldn't have happened."
"And now what are you going to do?" snarled Uncle Luke; "drag him off to
gaol?"
"Going to act like a man, sir. Think I'm such a brute? Poor old
fellow, I felt quite cut, hard as I am, and I'd have asked him to shake
hands over it, only he couldn't have taken it kindly from me. You seem
a man of the world, sir. He's one of those dreamy sort of naturalist
fellows. Tell him from me I'd have given anything sooner than all this
should have happened. It was my duty to see him about his resistance to
the law. But, poor old fellow, he was doing his natural duty in defence
of his boy, just as I felt that I was doing mine."
Uncle Luke did not speak, but stood holding out his hand. The officer
gripped it eagerly, and they two stood gazing in each other's faces for
a few moments.
"Thank you," said Uncle Luke gently; and after a time the officer rose
to go.
"Yes, sir," he said, at parting, "I shall stay down here till the poor
boy is found. Some one in town will be on the look-out for our friend
Pradelle, for, unless I'm very much mistaken, he's the monkey who
handled the cat's paws. Good morning."
Uncle Luke stood at the door watching the officer till he was out of
sight, and then returned to the old dining-room, to find his brother
still gazing into vacancy, just as he had been left.
"News, Luke?" he said, as he looked eagerly. "No, you need not speak.
Perhaps it is better so. Better death than this terrible dishonour."
Volume 2, Chapter XV.