Duncan Leslie sought patiently and well, but he was as unsuccessful as
the rest, and after searching from a boat and being pulled close in
along the shore, he rose at daybreak one morning, and crossing the
harbour, went up along the cliff away to the east, and wherever he could
find a place possible for a descent, he lowered himself from among the
rocks, and searched there.
The work was toilsome, but it was an outlet for his pent-up energy, and
he went on and on, reaching places where the boat could not land him;
but even here he found that he had been forestalled, for hunting along
among the broken rocks, he could see a figure stepping cautiously from
crag to crag, where the waves washed in, and the slimy sea-wrack made
the task perilous, the more so that it was the figure of a woman, whom
he recognised as the old fish-dealer by the maund hanging on her back
from the band across her forehead.
As he toiled after her she looked round, and waited till he came up, and
addressed him in a singing tone.
"Not found him, have you, sir?"
Leslie shook his head, and continued his search, seeing the old woman on
two alternate days still peering about among the rocks, like many more,
for the young master, and more stubborn in her search than any of the
rest.
By slow degrees the search was given up. It had been kept up long after
what would have been customary under the circumstances, some of the
searchers working from sheer respect for the Vines, others toiling on in
the hope of reward.
But there was no result, and the last of the boats, that containing
Duncan Leslie, returned to the harbour, after days of seeking to and fro
along the coast.
"I felt it were no good all along, Mr Leslie sir," said the old
fisherman who had been chartered for the escape. "Sea's a mystery, sir,
and when she gets hold of a body she hides it where mortal man can't
find it, and keeps it till she's tired, and then she throws it ashore.
I've watched it well these thirty years, and one gets to know by
degrees."
Leslie bowed his head dejectedly.
"Course I wasn't going to say so before, sir, because it's a man's dooty
like to go seeking for what's lost; but, mark my words, sir, one o'
these days that poor fellow will be throwed up pretty close to where he
jumped in. You mark my words, he will, and Poll Perrow will be the
first to see."
Leslie thought but little of the man's words then; in fact he hardly
heard them, for in those hours his mind was full of Louise's sufferings,
and the terrible misfortune which had come upon the homes of those two
families so linked together, and now so torn apart. Unsuccessful in his
search, he was now terribly exercised in mind as to what he should do to
help or show some sympathy for the poor girl who, in the sorrow which
had befallen her home, seemed nearer and dearer to him than ever.
It was a hard problem to solve. He wished to show his willingness to
help, but he felt that his presence at the Vines' could only be looked
upon now as an intrusion, and must inflict pain.
On the other hand, he was in dread lest he should be considered
indifferent, and in this state of perplexity he betook himself to Uncle
Luke.
"Nonsense, my good fellow," said the old man quickly; "what more could
you have done?"
"I don't know," he said desolately. "Tell me; I want to help--to serve
you all if I can, and yet I seem to do nothing."
"There is nothing that we can do," said the old man solemnly. "Time
must be the only cure for their trouble. Look at me, Duncan Leslie; I
came to live up here with the fewest of necessities--alone, without wife
or child, to be away from trouble, and you see I have failed. I cannot
even help myself, so how can you expect to help them? There, leave it
all to time."
"And your brother, how is he?"
Leslie felt that he had been speaking for the sake of saying something,
and he bit his lip, as the old man gave him a peculiar look.
"How is a man likely to be who has lost a son as he has lost his?"
Leslie was silent.
"And now you would ask after my niece, young man, but you feel as if you
dare not."
Leslie gave him an imploring look.
"Broken-hearted as her poor father, Leslie, seeing nothing in the future
but one black cloud of misery. There, let's go out and sit in the
sunshine and think."
Leslie followed the old man without a word. He longed to ask his advice
about that future, and to question him about the friend in France, for
in spite of himself he could not help feeling a thrill of satisfaction
at the thought that for a certainty there must be an end to that
engagement. No scion of a great house could enter into an alliance with
the sister of a man whose career had ended as had ended Harry Vine's.
But he could not lay bare his heart to that cynical old man, who read
him as easily as the proverbial book, and on whose lip there was always
lurking the germ of a sneering smile.
He accompanied him then to his favourite seat among the rocks, just in
front of his cottage, and they sat in silence for a time, Leslie hardly
caring to start a topic lest it should evoke a sneer.
"Let's go down into the town," said Uncle Luke, jumping up suddenly.
Leslie rose without a word, and looked wonderingly at the old man, who,
with his eyes shaded by his hands, was gazing along the rugged coast
towards where, looking like dolls, a couple of fishermen were standing
by something lying on a pebbly patch of sand.
Leslie looked at Uncle Luke, but the old man avoided his gaze, as if
unwilling to lay bare his thoughts, and together they walked pretty
quickly down the steep slope.
"Yes," said Uncle Luke; "the doctor says he will pull him through."
"Mr Van Heldre?"
"Yes. Why don't you go and see him?"
"I have sent to ask again and again, but I felt that any call on my part
in the midst of such trouble would be out of place."
"Walk faster," said the old man excitedly, "if you can. No. Let me go
alone. Look at them--running. Look!"
Leslie had already noted the fact, and out of respect for the old man he
stopped short at once, with the result that Uncle Luke stopped too.
"Why don't you come on?" he cried. "Good heavens, man, what can I do
alone? There, there, Leslie, it's of no use, I can play the cynic no
longer. Man is not independent of his fellows. I never felt more in
need of help than I do now."
Leslie took the old man's arm, and could feel that he was trembling, as
they hurried on down towards the harbour, which they would have to cross
by the ferry before they could reach the little crowd gathering round
the first two men on the patch of sand.
"Keep a good heart, sir," said Leslie, gently. "It may not be after
all."
"Yes, it is--it is," groaned Uncle Luke. "I've hung on so to the belief
that being a clever swimmer he had managed to get away; but I might have
known better, Leslie, I might have known better."
"Let's wait first and be sure, sir."
"There is no need. I don't think I cared for the boy, Leslie; there
were times when he made me mad with him for his puppyism; but he was my
brother's son, and I always hoped that after a few years he would change
and become another man."
"Well, sir, let's cling to that hope yet."
"No, no," said the old man gloomily. "There is the end. He was no
thief, Leslie. Believe that of him. It was his wretched scoundrel of a
friend, and if Harry struck down poor Van Heldre, it was in his horror
of being taken. He was no thief."
As they reached the lowest turn of the cliff-path, the old man gripped
Leslie's arm with spasmodic violence and stopped short, for the far side
of the harbour lay before them, and they could see clearly all that was
going on amid the rocks behind.
"We should be too late," he said huskily. "Your eyes are younger than
mine. That's the police sergeant yonder in that boat, isn't it?"
"Yes."
Uncle Luke stood motionless, watching, and they could see that a boat
rowed out from the harbour had gone on, and put in just opposite to the
patch of the sand where that remote something had been cast up by the
sea. To have carried it would have meant the use of a boat at the
little ferry, and it was evident that the sergeant had decided to bring
the sad flotsam and jetsam round to the harbour steps.
Leslie felt the old man's arm tremble, and his efforts to be firm, as
they stood and watched the boat put off again, after a few minutes'
delay. Then the little crowd which had collected came slowly back over
the rugged shore till they reached the eastern arm of the harbour just
as the boat was coming in, and a piece of sail spread in the stern
sheets told but too plainly the nature of her load.
"Mr Luke Vine," said Leslie.
"Yes," cried the old man, starting and speaking in a harsh way, as if
suddenly brought back to the present.
"Will you let me make a suggestion?"
The old man only stared hard at him.
"Let me spare you this painful scene. It may not be as you think, and
if it is not, it will be a shock; but if--there, let me go, and if it
prove to be according to your fears, let me send you word by a trusty
messenger, and you can then go up to your brother's house and break the
terrible news as gently as you can."
Uncle Luke shook his head and began to descend the slope, timing his
speed so as to reach the harbour steps at the same time as the boat.
There was a crowd waiting, but the people parted respectfully to allow
the old man and his companion to pass, and the next minute Uncle Luke
was questioning the sergeant with his eyes.
The man stepped ashore, and gave an order or two which sent a constable
off at a trot, and another policeman took his post at the head of the
steps, to keep the way down to the boat.
"Am I to speak plainly, sir?" said the detective in a low voice.
"Yes; let me know the worst."
"I'm afraid it is, sir. We have made no examination yet."
He did not finish all he had to say aloud, but whispered in the old
man's ear. Uncle Luke made an effort to be firm, but he shuddered and
turned to Leslie.
"Up to the King's Arms," he said huskily; and taking Leslie's arm, the
old man walked slowly towards the waterside inn; but they had not gone
half-way before they encountered George Vine coming hastily down.
Uncle Luke's whole manner changed.
"Where are you going?" he cried half angrily.
His brother merely pointed to the boat.
"How did you know? Who told you?" he said harshly.
"Nne," was the calm reply. "Luke, do you suppose I could rest without
watching for what I knew must come?"
His piteous, reproachful voice went to the heart of his hearers.
"Tell me," he continued earnestly, "Mr Leslie, the truth."
"There is nothing to tell, sir," said Leslie gravely, "so far it is only
surmise. Come with us and wait."
Their suspense was not of long duration. In a very short time they were
summoned from where they were waiting to another room, where Dr
Knatchbull came forward with a face so full of the gravity of the
situation that any hope which flickered in Duncan Leslie's breast died
out on the instant; and he heard George Vine utter a low moan, as, arm
in arm, the two brothers advanced for the identification, and then Luke
led his brother away.
Leslie followed to lend his aid, but Uncle Luke signed to him to go
back.
He stood watching them till they disappeared up the narrow path leading
to the old granite house, and a sense of misery such as he had never
before felt swelled in the young man's breast, for, as he watched the
bent forms of the two brothers, he saw in imagination what must follow,
and his brow grew heavy as he seemed to see Louise sobbing on her
father's neck, heart-broken at her loss.
"And yet I could not help clinging to the hope that he had swum ashore,"
muttered Leslie, as he walked back to the inn, where he found Dr
Knatchbull in conversation with the officer.
"I wish I had never seen Cornwall, sir," said the latter warmly; "poor
lad! poor lad!"
"Then there is no doubt whatever?" said Leslie hurriedly.
"Identification after all these days in the water is impossible," said
the doctor; "I mean personal identification."
"Then it may not be after all," said Leslie excitedly.
The detective shrugged his shoulders, and took a packet from a little
black bag. This he opened carefully, and placed before Leslie a morocco
pocket-book and a card-case, both stamped with a gold coronet and the
motto, _Roy et Foy_, while, when the card-case was drawn open and its
water-soaked contents were taken out, the cards separated easily, and
there, plainly enough, was the inscription, the result of Aunt
Marguerite's inciting--
"_Henri Comte des Vignes_."
Volume 2, Chapter XIX.