George Vine sat in his easy-chair in front of the fireplace, gazing at
the cut paper ornaments and willow shavings, and seeing in them the
career of his son, and the dismal scene in the churchyard, with the rain
falling and making little pearls on the black coffin cloth.
He had not spoken for hours, but from time to time, as Louise laid her
hand upon his arm, he had slowly taken and pressed it between his own
before raising it with a sigh to his lips.
"Don't speak to me, my darling," he had pleaded to her when he first
took his place there that morning. "I want to think."
She had respected his prayer, and in her endeavours to take her thoughts
from the horrors which oppressed her she had stolen into her father's
study, as an idea struck her, but only to come away sadly. Her visit
had been too late; the cherished collection of marine objects were one
and all dead.
Her father looked up as she returned. He had not seemed to notice her,
but he knew where she had been, and as he gave her a questioning look
Liza entered the room.
"Miss Van Heldre, miss."
Vine caught his child's hand, as if too weak for the encounter; but, as
the closely-veiled figure in black crossed the room quickly, and both
realised the meaning of those mourning garments, Louise burst into a
wild fit of sobbing, and turned away for a moment, but only to be
clasped directly in Madelaine's arms.
There was an earnest, loving embrace, and then Madelaine turned to Vine,
laying her hands upon his breast, and kissing him as a child would its
parent.
"So much better," she said, in answer to the wistful, inquiring look
directed at her. "I have come to fetch you both."
"To fetch us?" faltered Vine with a horrified look.
"My father begs you will come to him. I am his ambassador. You will
not refuse?"
"I cannot meet him," said Vine in a faint voice full of despair; "and,"
he added to himself, "I could not bear it."
"He would come to you, but he is weak and suffering," said Madelaine as
she laid her hand upon the stricken man's arm. "`Tell him I beg he will
come to me,' he said," she whispered. "You will not refuse, Mr Vine?"
"No, I will not refuse. Louise, dear?"
"Yes, father, I will go with you," she said slowly; and in a few minutes
she returned, ready for the walk, and crossed to where her father sat
holding Madelaine's hand.
As she entered he rose and met her.
"Louise, my child, must we go?" he said feebly. "I feel as if it were
almost more than I can bear. Must we go?"
"Yes," she replied gravely; "we must go."
Vine bowed his head.
"Come, my child," he said, turning to Madelaine, and he was half-way to
the door when Aunt Marguerite entered.
"Going out?" she said, shrinking from the sombre figure in black.
"Yes, aunt."
"You must attend first to what I have to say, Louise. Miss Van Heldre
can, I dare say, wait."
Madelaine bent her head and drew back.
"I have business with Mr Van Heldre, Marguerite," said Vine more
sternly than he had ever spoken to her before. "You must wait till our
return."
Aunt Marguerite's eyes flashed an indignant look at Madelaine, as the
cause of this rebuff, and she drew back with a stiff courtesy and walked
slowly before them out of the room.
George Vine gazed wildly round him as he walked slowly down the steep
way toward the town. It seemed terrible to him that in such a time of
suffering and mourning, sea, sky, and earth should be painted in such
lovely colours. The heavy rain of the previous days seemed to have
given a brilliancy to leaf and flower that before was wanting; and as,
from time to time, he glanced wildly at the rocky point, the scene of
the tragedy of his life, the waves were curling over, and breaking in
iridescent foam upon the rocks, to roll back in silvery cataracts to the
sea.
He turned away his eyes with a shudder, fighting hard to keep his
thoughts from the horrors of that night; but he was doomed to have them
emphasised, for, just before reaching the foot of the steep way, the
little party came suddenly upon the great burly fisherman, who had
undertaken to sail across to St Malo with the fugitive that night,
"Mornin', master," he said.
Vine turned ghastly pale, and his brain reeled; but he soon recovered
himself.
"Louise, Madelaine, my children, go, and I will follow."
Louise looked at him appealingly; but he was perfectly firm, and she
went on with her friend.
"I fear, in the midst of my trouble, Perrow, that I had forgotten my
engagement with you."
"Like enough, master, and no wonder. There was no hurry."
"Yes, but there is," said Vine slowly. "Will you come to my house
to-night or to-morrow morning? and I'll give you my cheque to take to
the bank."
"For how much?" said the man eagerly.
"One hundred pounds; the amount I promised you."
"Ay, but that was for taking the poor boy across. No, Master Vine,
we've been talking it over, the five on us, and there's the boat, and
one night's fishing gone as might have been a good one or it mightn't
been nothing; so we're going to ask you to pay us a pound apiece."
"But--"
"Good-day, Master Vine, busy now. I'll come on in a day or two."
The man turned away abruptly, and, with his brow heavily wrinkled, as he
felt moved by the man's generosity, Vine walked slowly on, and overtook
Louise and Madelaine.
Mrs Van Heldre was waiting in the hall as the little party entered, and
she hurried forward with extended hands, and her lips parted to speak,
but no words would come. She could only press their old friend's hand
before leading him up to where Van Heldre lay, his face ghastly pale
beneath his bandaged head.
As they entered he held out his hand to Vine, who stood gazing at him
without an attempt to accept the friendly grip.
"Louise, my child," said Van Heldre, turning to her; and she stepped
quickly across to take the extended hand. "Now leave us," he said
quietly; and, in obedience to his wish, the rest quitted the room.
"You did not take my hand, George Vine," said Van Heldre, as soon as
they were alone.
"How can I, after the wrong you have received at mine?"
"Hah! that is why I sent for you," said Van Heldre. "I have lain here
insensible and ignorant of what was done, else those proceedings would
never have been taken. You have much to forgive me, Vine."
"You have much to forgive me," said the latter slowly.
"Then take my hand, and let us forgive, if there is any call for such a
proceeding on either side. Vine, old friend, how you must have
suffered, and I not there to say one kindly word!"
"Van Heldre," said Vine slowly, as, holding his friend's hand, he slowly
seated himself by the bed's head, "did you ever know what it was to pray
for death?"
"Thank Heaven, no," replied Van Heldre with a slight shudder, for there
was something weird and strange about his old friend's manner. "Since I
have regained my senses I have prayed to live. There seems so much to
be done at times like this. But, Vine, old friend, what can I say to
you? For pity's sake don't look at me like that!"
"Look at you--like that?" said Vine slowly.
"Yes; your eyes seem so full of reproach. I tell you, my dear old
fellow, that I would rather have died than that poor boy should have
been prosecuted for my sake."
"I know everything," said Vine slowly. "I do not reproach you, John. I
reproach myself, and at times it seems more than I can bear."
"Louise," said Van Heldre softly.
"Louise! Ah, Louise!" said Vine eagerly. "Without her I must have
died."
The two old friends sat, hand clasped in hand, in perfect silence for
quite an hour before there was a gentle tap at the door, and Madelaine
entered.
"He is so weak yet, Mr Vine," she said, taking and separating their
hands.
"Madelaine--my child!"
"Mr Vine may come again in the evening for a little while," said
Madelaine, smiling, as she bent down and kissed her father's brow.
"So stern and tyrannical," protested Van Heldre.
"Only to make you well, father," replied Madelaine, smiling: and she led
their old friend from the room.
"He spoke as if he wanted my forgiveness," said Vine as he walked slowly
back, noting as they went the kindly deference paid to them by those
they met.
"Mr Van Heldre, father?" said Louise gently.
"Did I speak aloud, my child?"
"Yes, dear."
"Ah, these thoughts are too keen, and will not be crushed down. Yes,
child, yes. My forgiveness, when it is I who should plead, for all the
horrors of the past, plead for his forgiveness, Louise. He must have
suffered terribly to be brought down to this."
Louise looked wistfully in her father's face, whose sunken cheeks and
hollow eyes told of mental suffering greater far than that which their
friend had been called upon to bear.
"Will time heal all this agony and pain?" she asked herself; and it was
with a sigh of relief that she reached the gate, and her father went
straight to his chair, to sit down and stare straight before him at the
sunlit grate, as if seeing in the burning glow scene after scene of the
past, till he started excitedly, for there was a ring at the gate-bell.
Louise rose to lay her hand upon his shoulder.
"Only some visitors, or a letter," she said tenderly.
"I thought--I thought it might be news," he said wearily. "But no, no,
no. There can be no news now."
"Mr Leslie, miss," said Liza from the door.
"To see me, Liza? Say that--"
"No, sir. In the drawing-room, sir. 'Tis to see Miss Louise, if she
will give him an interview, he said."
Louise looked wildly at her father.
"Must I see him, father?" she said, with her face now ghastly pale.