"Why doesn't Leslie come?" said Uncle Luke impatiently, as he rose from
a nearly untasted breakfast the next morning to go to the window of his
private room in the hotel and try to look up and down the street. "It's
too bad of him. Here, what in the world have I done to be condemned to
such a life as this?"
"Life?" he exclaimed after a contemptuous stare at the grimy houses
across the street. "Life? I don't call this life! What, an existence!
Prison would be preferable."
He winced as the word prison occurred to him, and began to think of
Harry.
"I can't understand it. Well, he's clever enough at hiding, but it
seems very cowardly to leave his sister in the lurch. Thought she was
with me, I hope. Confound it, why don't Leslie come?"
"Bah! want of pluck!" he cried, after another glance from the window.
"Tide must be about right this week, and the bass playing in that eddy
off the point. Could have fished there again now. Never seemed to
fancy it when I thought poor Harry was drowned off it. Confound poor
Harry! He has always been a nuisance. Now, I wonder whether it would
be possible to get communication with him unknown to these police?"
He took a walk up and down the room for a few minutes.
"Now that's where Leslie would be so useful; and he keeps away. Because
of Louie, I suppose. Well, what is it? Why have you brought the
breakfast back?"
"The young lady said she was coming down, sir," said the chambermaid,
who had entered with a tray.
"Stuff and nonsense!" cried the old man angrily. "Go up and tell her
she is not to get up till the doctor has seen her, and not then unless
he gives her leave."
The maid gave her shoulders a slight shrug, and turned to go, when the
door opened, and, looking very pale and hollow-eyed, Louise entered.
Uncle Luke gave his foot an impatient stamp.
"That's right," he cried; "do all you can to make yourself ill, and keep
me a prisoner in this black hole. No, no, my darling, I didn't mean
that. So you didn't like having your breakfast alone? That'll do; set
it down."
The maid left the room, and Louise stood, with her head resting on the
old man's breast.
"Now tell me, uncle dear," she said in a low voice, and without looking
up, "has poor Harry been taken?"
"No."
"Hah!"
A long sigh of relief.
"And Mr Leslie? What does he say?"
"I don't know. He has not been here since he left with me yesterday."
"And he calls himself our friend!" cried Louise, looking up with
flushing face. "Uncle, why does he not try and save Harry instead of
joining the cowardly pack who are hunting him down?"
"Come, I like that!" cried Uncle Luke. "I'd rather see you in a passion
than down as you were last night."
"I--I cannot help it, uncle; I can think of only one thing--Harry."
"And Mr Leslie, and accuse him of hunting Harry down."
"Well, did he not do so? Did he not come with that dreadful man?"
"To try and save you from the French scoundrel with whom he thought you
had eloped."
"Oh, hush, uncle, dear. Now tell me, what do you propose doing?"
"Nothing."
"Uncle!"
"That's the best policy. There, my darling, I have done all I could
this morning to help the poor boy, but--I must be plain--the police are
in hot pursuit, and if I move a step I am certain to be watched. Look
there!"
He pointed down into the street.
"That man on the other side is watching this house, I'm sure, and if I
go away I shall be followed."
"But while we are doing nothing, who knows what may happen, dear?"
"Don't let's imagine things. Harry is clever enough perhaps to get
away, and now he knows that we have found out the truth, you will see
that he is not long before he writes. I want Leslie now. Depend upon
it, the poor fellow felt that he would be _de trop_, and has gone
straight back home."
Louise uttered a sigh full of relief.
"You scared him away, my dear, and perhaps it's for the best. He's a
very stupid fellow, and as obstinate--well, as a Scot."
"But knowing Harry as he does, uncle, and being so much younger than you
are, would it not be better if he were working with you? We must try
and save poor Harry from that dreadful fate."
"Oh, I don't know," said Uncle Luke slowly. "There, have some tea."
Then rising from his seat, he rang, and going to the writing-table sat
down; and while Louise made a miserable pretence of sipping her tea, the
old man wrote down something and gave it to the waiter who entered.
"Directly," he said; and the man left the room.
"Yes, on second thoughts you are quite right, my dear."
Louise looked up at him inquiringly.
"So I have telegraphed down to Hakemouth for Leslie to come up
directly."
Louise's eyes dilated, and she caught his arm.
"No, no," she whispered, "don't do that. No; you and I will do what is
to be done. Don't send to him, uncle, pray."
"Too late, my dear; the deed is done."
Just then the waiter re-entered.
"Telegram, sir."
Louise turned if possible more pale.
"Tut--tut!" whispered Uncle Luke. "It can't be an answer back. Hah!
from Madelaine."
"_Your news seems too great to be true. Mr George Vine started for
town by the first train this morning. My father regrets his
helplessness_."
"Hah! Come. That's very business-like of George," said the old man.
"Louie, my dear, I'm going to turn prophet. All this trouble is certain
to turn in the right direction after all. Why, my child!"
She had sunk back in her chair with the cold, dank dew of suffering
gathering upon her forehead, and a piteous look of agony in her eyes.
"How can I meet him now!"
The terrible hours of agony that had been hers during the past month had
so shattered the poor girl's nerves, that even this meeting seemed more
than she could bear, and it called forth all the old man's efforts to
convince her that she had nothing to fear, but rather everything to
desire.
It was a weary and a painful time though before Louise was set at rest.
She was seated in the darkening room, holding tightly by the old man's
hand, as a frightened child might in dread of punishment. As the hours
had passed she had been starting at every sound, trembling as the hollow
rumbling of cab-wheels came along the street, and when by chance a
carriage stopped at the hotel her aspect was pitiable.
"I cannot help it," she whispered. "All through these terrible troubles
I seem to have been strong, while now I am so weak and unstrung--uncle,
I shall never be myself again."
"Yes, and stronger than ever. Come, little woman, how often have you
heard or read of people suffering from nervous reaction and--Thank God!"
he muttered, as he saw the door softly open behind his niece's chair,
and his brother stand in the doorway.
"I did not catch what you said, dear," said Louise feebly, as she lay
back with her eyes closed.
Uncle Luke gave his brother a meaning look, and laid his niece's hand
back upon her knees.
"No; it's very hard to make one's self heard in this noisy place. I was
only saying, my dear, that your nerves have been terribly upset, and
that you are suffering from the shock. You feel now afraid to meet your
father lest he should reproach you, and you can only think of him as
being bitter and angry against you for going away, as you did; but when
he thoroughly grasps the situation, and how you acted as you did to save
your brother from arrest, and all as it were in the wild excitement of
that time, and under pressure--"
"Don't leave me, uncle."
"No, no, my dear. Only going to walk up and down," said the old man as
he left his chair. "When he grasps all this, and your dread of Harry's
arrest, and that it was all nonsense--there, lie back still, it is more
restful so. That's better," he said, kissing her, and drawing away.
"When, I say, he fully knows that it was all nonsense due to confounded
Aunt Margaret and her noble Frenchmen, and that instead of an elopement
with some scoundrel, you were only performing a sisterly duty, he'll
take you in his arms--"
Uncle Luke was on the far side of the room now, and in obedience to his
signs, and trembling violently, George Vine had gone slowly towards the
vacated seat.
"You think he will, uncle, and forgive me?" she faltered, as she lay
back still with her eyes closed.
"Think, my darling? I'm sure of it. Yes, he'll take you in his arms."
A quiet sigh.
"And say--"
George Vine sank trembling into the empty chair.
"Forgive me, my child, for ever doubting you."
"Oh, no, uncle."
"And I say, yes; and thank God for giving me my darling back once more."
"Forgive me! Thank God for giving me my darling back once more!
Louise!"
"Father!"
A wild, sobbing cry, as they two were locked in each other's arms.
At that moment the door was closed softly, and Uncle Luke stood blowing
his nose outside upon the mat.
"Nearly seventy, and sobbing like a child," he muttered softly. "Dear
me, what an old fool I am!"
Volume 3, Chapter XXI.