Madelaine rose as the brothers entered the room, and before coming to
the bed, where Van Heldre lay rapidly mending now, George Vine took the
girl's hands, looked down in her pale face, which sorrow seemed to have
refined, and bent down and kissed her.
"How are you, Maddy?" said Luke Vine, gruffly; and he was going on to
the bed, but Madelaine laid her hand upon his shoulder, leant towards
him, and kissed him.
"Hah! yes, forgot," he said, brushing her forehead roughly with his grey
beard; and then, yielding to a sudden impulse, kissing the girl
tenderly. "How I do hate girls!" he muttered to himself, as he went
straight to the window and stood there for a few moments.
"Poor lad!" he said to himself. "Yes, hopeless, or a girl like that
would have redeemed him."
He turned back from the window.
"Room too hot and stuffy," he said. "Well, how are you, John?"
"Getting well fast," replied Van Heldre, shaking hands. "Splendid fish
that was you sent me to-day; delicious."
"Humph! all very fine! Shilling or fifteen-pence out of pocket,"
grumbled Uncle Luke.
"Get out!" said Van Heldre, after a keen look at George Vine. "Poll
Perrow wouldn't have given you more than ninepence for a fish like that.
It's wholesale, Luke, wholesale."
"Ah! you may grin and wink at George," grumbled Uncle Luke, "but times
are getting hard."
"They are, old fellow, and we shall be having you in the workhouse, if
we can't manage to get you to the Victoria Park place."
"Here, come away, George," snarled Uncle Luke. "He's better. Beginning
to sneer. Temper's getting very bad now, I suppose, my dear?" he added
to Madelaine.
"Terrible. Leads me a dreadful life, Uncle Luke," she said, putting her
arm round Van Heldre's neck to lay her cheek against his brow for a
moment or two before turning to leave the room.
"Cant and carny," said Uncle Luke. "Don't you believe her, John Van;
she'll be coming to you for money to-morrow--bless her," he added _sotto
voce_; then aloud, "What now?"
For Madelaine had gone behind his chair, and placed her hands upon his
shoulders.
"It's all waste of breath, Uncle Luke," she said gently. "We found you
out a long time ago, Louise and I."
"What do you mean?"
"All this pretended cynicism. It's a mere disguise."
"An ass in the lion's skin, eh?"
"No, Uncle Luke," she whispered, with her lips close to his ear, so that
the others should not catch the words, "that is the wrong way, sir.
Reverse the fable."
"What do you mean, hussy?"
"The dear old lion in the ass's skin," she whispered; "and whenever you
try to bray it is always a good honest roar."
"Well, of all--"
He did not finish, for Madelaine had hurried from the room, but a grim
smile came over his cynical countenance, and he rubbed his hands softly
as if he was pleased. Then, drawing his chair nearer to the bed, he
joined in the conversation at rare intervals, the subjects chosen being
all as foreign as possible from the past troubles, till Mrs Van Heldre
came softly into the room.
"I am Doctor Knatchbull's deputy," she said; "and my orders are not to
let John excite himself."
"All nonsense, my dear," said Van Heldre.
"She is quite right, John," said George Vine, rising.
"Quite right," said Uncle Luke, following his brother's example. "Keep
him quiet. Make haste and get well. Good-night. Come, George."
He was at the door by the time he had finished his speech, and without
pausing to shake hands began to descend.
Madelaine came out of the drawing-room as the old man reached the hail.
"What do you think of him?" she said eagerly.
"Going backwards--dying fast," he said shortly. "Oh!"
"Don't be a little goose," he cried, catching her in his arms as she
reeled. "We all are; especially people over fifty. Bonny little nurse.
You've done wonders. Good-night, my dear; God bless you!"
She returned his loving fatherly kiss, given hastily, as if he were
ashamed of his weakness, and then he strode out into the dark night.
"Poor Uncle Luke!" she said softly. "I was right. He must have had
some shock to change his life like this. Good-night, dear Mr Vine. My
dearest love to Louie."
"Good-night, my darling," he whispered huskily, and the next minute he
was walking slowly away beside his brother in the direction of the
turning up to the granite house.
"Good-night, Luke," said George Vine. "It is of no use to say come up."
"Yes, it is," said Uncle Luke snappishly. "I want to see Louie, and
have a decent cup of tea."
"I am very glad," said his brother warmly. "Hah! that's right. Come
more often, Luke. We are getting old men now, and it's pleasant to talk
of the days when we were boys."
"And be driven from the place by Madge with her pounce-box and her
civet-cat airs. You kick her out, and I'll come often."
"Poor Marguerite!"
"There you go; encouraging the silly French notions. Why can't you call
her Margaret, like a British Christian?"
"Let her finish her span in peace, brother," said George Vine, whose
visit to his old friend seemed to have brightened him, and made voice
and step elastic. "We are crotchety and strange too, I with my mollusc
hobby, you with your fishing."
"If you want to quarrel, I'm not coming up."
"Yes you are, Luke. There, come often, and let poor Margaret say what
she likes. We shall have done our duty by her, so that will be enough
for us."
"Hang duty! I'm getting sick of duty. No matter what one does, or how
one tries to live in peace and be left alone, there is always duty
flying in one's face."
"Confession of failure, Luke," said his brother, taking his arm. "You
had given up ordinary social life, invested your property, sent your
plate to your banker's, and settled down to the life of the humblest
cottager, to, as you say, escape the troubles of every-day life."
"Yes, and I've escaped 'em--roguish tradespeople, household anxieties,
worries out of number."
"In other words," said Vine, smiling, "done everything you could to
avoid doing your duty, and for result you have found that trouble comes
to your cottage in some form or another as frequently as it does to my
big house."
Uncle Luke stopped short, and gave his stick a thump on the path.
"I have done, Luke," said Vine quietly. "Come along; Louise will think
we are very long."
"Louise will be very glad to have had an hour or two to herself without
you pottering about her. Hah! what idiots we men are, fancying that the
women are looking out for us from our point of view when they are
looking out from theirs for fear of being surprised, and--"
"Here we are, Luke. Come in, my clear boy."
Uncle Luke grunted.
"Oh, I don't know," he said, "it's getting late. Perhaps I had better
not come in now."
"The tea will be waiting," said his brother, holding his arm lightly as
he rang.
"Horribly dark for my walk back afterwards," grumbled Uncle Luke.
"Really dangerous place all along there by the cliff. No business to be
out at night. Ought to be at home."
"Tea ready, Liza?" said George Vine, as the door was opened, and the
pleasant glow from the hall shone upon them in a way that, in spite of
his assumed cynicism, looked tempting and attractive to Uncle Luke.
"Miss Louise hasn't rung for the urn yet, sir."
"Hah! that will do. Give me your hat, Luke."
"Bah! nonsense! Think I can't hang up my own hat now."
George Vine smiled, and he shook his head at his brother with a
good-humoured smile as he let him follow his own bent.
"That's right. Come along. Louie dear, I've brought Uncle Luke up to
tea. All dark? Liza, bring the lamp."
Liza had passed through the baize-covered door which separated the
domestic offices from the rest of the house, and did not hear the order.
"Louie! Louie dear!"
"Oh! I don't mind the dark," said Uncle Luke. "Here, why don't the
girl let in some air these hot nights?" he continued, as he crossed the
room towards the big embayment, with its stained glass heraldic device.
_Crack_! _crackle_!
"Hullo here! broken glass under one's feet," said Luke Vine, with a
chuckle. "This comes of having plenty of servants to keep your place
clean."
"Glass?"
"Yes, glass. Can't you hear it?" snarled Uncle Luke, who, as he found
his brother resume his old demeanour, relapsed into his own. "There!
glass--glass--glass crunching into your Turkey carpet."
As he spoke he gave his foot a stamp, with the result that at each
movement there was a sharp crackling sound.
"It's very strange. Louise!"
"Oh!"
A low, piteous moan.
"What's that?" cried Uncle Luke sharply.
George Vine stood in the darkness paralysed with dread. Some fresh
trouble had befallen his house--some new horror assailed him; and his
hand wandered vaguely about in search of support as a terrible feeling
of sickness came over him, and he muttered hoarsely, "Louise! my child!
my child!"
Luke Vine was alarmed, but he did not lose his presence of mind.
"Margaret--a fit," he said to himself, as, turning quickly, his foot
kicked against another portion of the lamp-globe, which tinkled loudly
as it fell to pieces.
He brushed by his brother, hurrying out into the hall, to return
directly bearing the lamp which stood on a bracket, and holding it high
above his head as he stepped carefully across the carpet.
"There! there!" whispered George Vine, pointing towards the fireplace,
where he could see a figure lying athwart the hearth-rug.
Then, as Luke held the light higher, George Vine seemed to recover his
own presence of mind, and going down on one knee as he bent over, he
turned the face of the prostrate man to the light.
"Duncan Leslie!" cried Uncle Luke excitedly, as he quickly set down the
lamp and knelt on the other side. "Where's Louie? The poor boy's in a
fit."
"No, no," whispered his brother hoarsely. "Look! look!"
Luke drew in a quick, hissing breath.
"Call Louie," he said sharply. "Tell her to bring something to bind up
his head--scissors, sponge, and water."
"Has he been struck down?" faltered George Vine, with the thought of his
old friend rushing to his mind.
"No, no. Don't talk. Here, your handkerchief, man," said Luke, who was
far the more matter-of-fact. "A fall. Head cut. Slip on the cliff, I
suppose, and he has come here for help."
Taking the handkerchief passed to him by his brother, he rapidly bound
it round the place where a deep cut was slowly welling, while George
Vine dragged sharply at the bell, and then ran to the door and called,
"Louise! Louise!"
Liza came hurrying into the hall, round-eyed and startled.
"Where is your mistress?" cried Vine.
"Miss Louise, sir? Isn't she there?"
"No. Go up to her room and fetch her. Perhaps she is with Miss Vine."
"I'll go and see, sir," said the girl wonderingly; and she ran
up-stairs.
"Help me to get him on the sofa, George," said Uncle Luke; and together
they placed the injured man with his head resting on a cushion.
"Now, then, I think we had better have Knatchbull. He must have had a
nasty fall. Send your girl; or no, I'll go myself."
"No," said Leslie feebly; "don't go."
"Ah: that's better. You heard what I said?"
"Yes; what you said."
It was a feeble whisper, and as the brothers bent over the injured man,
they could see that he was gazing wildly at them with a face full of
horror and despair.
"I'll trot down and fetch Knatchbull," whispered Uncle Luke.
"No."
The negative came from Leslie, who was lying back with his eyes closed,
and it was so decisive that the brothers paused.
At that moment Liza entered the room.
"She isn't up-stairs, sir.--Ow!"
The girl had caught sight of Leslie's ghastly face, and she uttered an
excited howl, and thrust her fingers into her ears.
Leslie looked up at George Vine vacantly for a moment, and then light
seemed to come to his clouded brain, and his lips moved.
"Say it again," said Vine, bending over him.
"Send--her--away," whispered the injured man.
"Yes, of course. Liza, go and wait--no; get a basin of water, sponge,
and towel, and bring them when I ring."
The girl looked at him wildly, but she had not heard his words; and
Uncle Luke put an end to the difficulty by taking her arm and leading
her into the hall.
"Go and get sponge and basin. Mr Leslie has fallen and hurt himself.
Now, don't be stupid. You needn't cry."
The girl snatched her arm away and ran through the baize door.
"Just like a woman!" muttered Uncle Luke as he went back; "no use when
she's wanted. Well, how is he?"
Leslie heard the whisper, and turned his eyes upon him with a look of
recognition.
"Better," he whispered. "Faint--water."
George Vine opened the cellarette, and gave him a little brandy, whose
reviving power proved wonderful. But after heaving a deep sigh, he lay
back with his forehead puckered.
"Hadn't I better fetch Knatchbull, my lad?" said Uncle Luke gruffly, but
with a kindly ring in his voice. "Cut on the back of your head. He'd
soon patch it up."
"No. Better soon," said Leslie in a low voice. "Let me think."
"Be on the look out," whispered Uncle Luke to his brother. "Better not
let Louise come in."
Leslie's eyes opened quickly, and he gazed from one to the other.
"Better not let her see you till you are better," said Uncle Luke,
taking the injured man into their confidence.
A piteous sigh escaped from Leslie, and he closed his eyes tightly.
"Poor boy!" said Uncle Luke, "he must have had an ugly fall. Missed his
way in the dark, I suppose. George, you'll have to keep him here
to-night."
"Yes, yes, of course," said George Vine uneasily, for his ears were on
the strain to catch his child's step, and her absence troubled him.
All at once Leslie made an effort to sit up, but a giddy sensation
overcame him, and he sank back, staring at them wildly.
"Don't be alarmed," said George Vine kindly. "You are faint. That's
better."
Leslie lay still for a few moments, and then made a fresh effort to sit
up. This time it was with more success.
"Give him a little more brandy," whispered Uncle Luke.
"No; he is feverish, and it may do harm. Yes," he said to Leslie, as
the injured man grasped his arm, "you want to tell us how you fell
down."
"No," said Leslie quickly, but in a faint voice, "I did not fall. It
was in the struggle."
"Struggle?" cried Uncle Luke. "Were you attacked?"
Leslie nodded quickly.
"Where? Along the road?"
"No," said Leslie hoarsely; "here."
"Here?" exclaimed the brothers in a breath; and then they exchanged
glances, each silently saying to the other, "The poor fellow is
wandering."
"There," said Leslie, "I can think clearly now. It all seemed like a
dream. You must know, Mr Vine. I must tell you," he added piteously.
"Mr Vine, what do you propose doing?"
"Hush!" said George Vine, laying his hand upon the young man's shoulder,
"you are ill and excited now. Don't talk at present. Wait a little
while."
"Wait?" cried Leslie, growing more excited. "You do not know what you
are saying. How long have I been lying here? What time is it?"
"About nine," said Vine kindly. "Come, come, lie back for a few
moments. We'll get some cold water, and bathe your temples."
"Man, you will drive me mad," cried Leslie. "Do you not--no, you have
not understood yet. Louise--Miss Vine!"
George Vine staggered as if he had been struck, and his brother caught
his arm as he stood there gasping, with his hand to his throat.
"What do you mean?" cried Uncle Luke sternly.
"I am sick and faint," said Leslie, pressing his hands to his brow, as
if unable to think clearly. "I remember now. I came in to ask about
Mr Van Heldre, and a stranger was with Miss Vine. I tried to stop
him--till you returned. We struggled, and he threw me. I recollect no
more."
"You're mad!" said Uncle Luke savagely. "Where is Louise?"
His brother caught hold of the back of a chair to support himself, and
his lips moved, but no sound came.
"Yes, I can recollect it all clearly now," panted Leslie. "You must
know!"
And he told them all.
They heard him in silence, devouring his words, and from time to time
exchanging a hurried glance of inquiry.
"Bah!" ejaculated Uncle Luke, as the young man finished. Then, changing
his manner, "Yes, of course. There, lie back, my lad, and tell us again
after you've had a rest."
"No, no," cried Leslie passionately, "it is wasting time. She was
forced to go. She was imploring him to let her stay when I came in, and
they must be miles away by now. For Heaven's sake do something before
it is too late."
"A Frenchman?" said Uncle Luke eagerly.
"Yes; he spoke to her in French, as well as in English."
"And did my niece speak to him in French?"
"No; she was appealing to him in English, but he spoke at times in
French."
"Do you hear this, George? Has Louise a French friend?"
"No," cried her father angrily, "it is a delusion."
"I would to Heaven it were," groaned Leslie, "I would to Heaven it
were!"
George Vine crossed to the bell-pull, and rang sharply, repeating the
summons before Liza had time to enter the room.
"When did you see your mistress last?" he said sharply.
"When I took in the lamp, sir."
Liza knew no more, and was dismissed, after staring wonderingly from one
to the other.
"Stop!" cried Uncle Luke. "Go up and ask Miss Vine if my niece has been
with her."
Liza returned with an answer in the negative; and as soon as they were
alone, Leslie said piteously,
"You disbelieve me."
"No, no, my lad," said Uncle Luke; "we only think you are suffering from
your fall, and distrust what you have, or think you have, seen."
"Think!" said Leslie angrily.
"You say some man was with my niece--a Frenchman."
"Yes; I am bound to tell you for her sake."
"It is not true," cried George Vine fiercely.
They looked at him with surprise, for he seemed transformed from the
quiet, mild-looking man to one full of fierce determination as he stood
there with flashing eyes.
"My daughter knew no Frenchman."
Leslie winced as if stung, for the mental suggestion was there that
Louise had hoodwinked her father and kept up some clandestine engagement
with this man.
"Do you hear me?" cried Vine angrily.
"I say it is not true. Mr Leslie, you have been deceived, or you have
deceived yourself. I beg your pardon. You are not yourself. It is
useless to discuss this further. Luke, all this seems mysterious
because we have no key to the puzzle. Pish! puzzle! it is no puzzle.
Louise will be here shortly. Mr Leslie, be advised; lie still for an
hour, and then my brother and I will see you home. Or, better still,
let me offer you the hospitality of my house for the night."
The cloud that had obscured Leslie's brain had now passed away, leaving
his mental perceptions clear, while his temper was exacerbated by the
injury he had received, and by the agony he suffered on account of
Louise.
In place of lying back, he rose from the couch and faced George Vine,
with his lips quivering and an angry look in his eyes.
"Look," he said hoarsely, "I am weak and helpless. If I take a few
steps I shall reel and fall, or I would do what I tried to do before,
act on her behalf. You mock at my words. You, her father, and stand
there wasting time; valuable time, which, if used now, might save that
poor girl from a life of misery. Do you hear me? I tell you she has
gone--fled with that man. He forced her to go with threats. Do you not
hear me?"
"Leslie, my lad," said Uncle Luke, "be calm, be calm."
"You are as mad and blind as he!" cried Leslie. "Heaven help me, and I
am as weak as a child."
He strode towards the door, and proved the truth of his words, for he
tottered, and would have fallen but for Uncle Luke.
"There, you see," he cried fiercely, "I can do nothing, and you, uncle
and father, stand blind to the misery and disgrace which threaten you."
"Silence!" cried George Vine; "I can hear no more."
He turned upon Leslie fiercely.
"Your words, sir, are an insult to me, an insult to my child. I tell
you I can hear no more. What you say is false. My daughter could not
leave my house like this. Go, sir, before I say words which I may
afterwards repent, and--and--"
"George, man, what is it?" cried Uncle Luke, as his brother's words
trailed off, and he stopped suddenly in the agitated walk he had kept up
to and fro while he was addressing Leslie.
There was no answer to the agitated question, for George Vine was gazing
down at something beside the table, lying half covered by the
dragged-aside cloth.
Whatever it was it seemed to act as a spell upon the old naturalist,
whose eyes were fixed, and his whole aspect that of one suddenly fixed
by some cataleptic attack.
"What is it? Are you ill?" cried Uncle Luke excitedly, as he stepped
forward. "Hah, a letter!"
He was in the act of stooping to pick it up, but his act seemed to rouse
his brother from his lethargy, and he caught him by the arm.
"No, no," he whispered; and slowly putting his brother back, he stooped
and stretched out his hand to pick up the half-hidden letter.
They could see that his hand trembled violently, and the others stood
watching every act, for the feeling was strong upon both that the letter
which Vine raised and held at arm's length contained the explanation
needed.
George Vine held the letter toward the shaded lamp, and then passed his
left hand over his eyes, and uttered a hoarse sigh, which seemed as if
torn from his heart.
"I--I can't read," he whispered--"eyes dim to-night, Luke. Read."
Uncle Luke's hand trembled now as he took the missive, and slowly tore
open the envelope; but as he drew out the letter it was snatched from
his hands by his brother, who held it beneath the lamp-shade and bent
down to read.
He raised himself up quickly and passed his hand across his eyes, as if
to sweep away some film which hindered his reading, and the silence in
that room was terrible as he bent down again.
A strong pang of suffering shot through Duncan Leslie as he saw the old
man's lips quivering, while he read in a slow, laborious way, the few
lines contained in the note, and then, after once more making an effort
to clear his vision, he seemed to read it again.
"George--brother--why don't you speak?" said Uncle Luke at last.
George Vine looked up in a curiously dazed way.
"Speak?" he said huskily; "speak?"
"Yes; is that from Louise?"
He bowed his head in assent.
"Well, what does she say, man? What does it mean?"
George Vine looked in his brother's eyes once more--the same curiously
dazed look as if he hardly comprehended what was taking place. Then he
slowly placed the note in Luke's hands.
There was no slow, dazed manner here, for the old cynic was full of
excitement, and he seemed to read the note at a glance.
"Gone!" he said. "Then she has gone?"
"Yes," said his brother slowly; "she has gone."
"But this man, George--this man, Leslie. Don't stare, man, speak."
"What do you wish me to say, sir?" said Leslie, hoarsely.
"Who was he? What was he like?"
"I could not see his face, he kept it averted. I can tell you no more,
sir. I tried to force him to stay till Mr Vine's return, as I before
told you, and you saw the result."
"A Frenchman?"
"He spoke in French."
"George, had you any suspicion of this?"
"No."
"You never heard word?"
"I never heard word."
"But it must have been going on for long enough. And you knew nothing
whatever?"
"And I knew nothing whatever," said George Vine, his words coming slowly
and in a voice which sounded perfectly calm.
"Then you know from what black cloud this bolt has come?"
"I--I know nothing," said Vine, in the same slow, strange way.
"Then, I can tell you," cried Luke, furiously. "If ever man nursed
viper at his fireside, you have done this, for it to sting you to the
heart. Hah!" he cried, as the door opened and Aunt Marguerite sailed
in, drawing herself up in her most dignified way, as she saw who was
present, and then ignoring both strangers, she turned to her brother.
"What is the meaning of these inquiries?" she said sternly. "Where is
Louise?"
"Ask your own heart, woman," cried Uncle Luke, furiously. "Gone--gone
with some wretched French impostor of your introduction here."
Aunt Marguerite gazed at him angrily.
"I say where is Louise?" she cried excitedly.
"Mr Leslie," said George Vine, after drawing a long breath, his
sister's shrill voice having seemed to rouse him; "you will forgive a
weak, trusting old man for what he said just now?"
"Forgive you, Mr Vine!"
"I was sure of it. Thank you. I am very weak."
"But Louise?" cried Aunt Marguerite.
"Read her letter. Gone!" cried Uncle Luke fiercely, as he thrust the
note in the old woman's face.
"Gone!" said George Vine, staring straight before him with the curious
look in his eyes intensified, as was the stony aspect of his face.
"Gone! Thank God--thank God!"
"George, what are you saying?" cried Uncle Luke excitedly.
"I say thank God that my dear wife was not spared to me to see the blow
that has fallen upon my home to-night."
Brother, sister, Duncan Leslie stood gazing at the silvered head,
dimly-seen above the shaded lamp. The face was unnaturally calm and
strange; and weak as he was, Duncan Leslie sprang forward. He had seen
what was coming, and strove vainly to save the stricken man, for George
Vine seemed to have been robbed of all power, and fell with a weary moan
senseless at his brother's feet.
Volume 3, Chapter IX.