It was a week before the London doctor said that Louise Vine might
undertake the journey down home, but when it was talked of she looked up
at her father in a troubled way.
"It would be better, my darling," he whispered. "You shrink from going
back to the old place. Why should you, where there will be nothing but
love and commiseration?"
"It is not that," she said sadly. "Harry!"
"Yes! But we can do no more by staying here."
"Not a bit," said Uncle Luke. "Let's get down to the old sea-shore
again, Louie. If we stop here much longer I shall die. Harry's safe
enough somewhere. Let's go home."
Louise made no more opposition, and it was decided that they should
start at once, but the journey had to be deferred on account of business
connected with Pradelle's examination.
This was not talked of at the hotel, and Louise remained in ignorance of
a great deal of what took place before they were free to depart.
That journey down was full of painful memories for Louise, and it was
all she could do to restrain her tears as the train stopped at the
station, which was associated in her mind with her brother, and again
and again she seemed to see opposite to her, shrinking back in the
corner by the window nearest the platform, the wild, haggard eyes and
the frightened furtive look at every passenger that entered the
carriage.
The journey seemed interminable, and even when Plymouth had been reached
there was still the long slow ride over the great wooden bridges with
the gurgling streams far down in the little rock ravines.
"Hah!" said Uncle Luke cheerily, "one begins to breathe now. Look."
He pointed to the shadow of the railway train plainly seen against the
woods, for the full round moon was rising slowly.
"This is better than a gas-lamp shadow, eh, and you don't get such a
moon as that in town. I've lost count, George. How are the tides this
week?"
Vine shook his head.
"No, you never did know anything about the tides, George. Always did
get cut off. Be drowned some day, shut in under a cliff; and you can't
climb."
They rode on in silence for some time, watching the moonlight effect on
the patches of wood in the dark hollows, the rocky hill-slopes, and upon
one or another of the gaunt deserted engine-houses looking like the
towers of ruined churches high up on the hills, here black, and there
glittering in the moonlight, as they stood out against the sky.
These traces of the peculiar industry of the district had a peculiar
fascination for Louise, who found herself constantly comparing these
buildings with one beyond their house overlooking the beautiful bay.
There it seemed to stand out bold and picturesque, with the long shaft
running snake-like up the steep hillside, to end in the perpendicular
monument-like chimney that formed the landmark by which the sailors set
vessels' heads for the harbour.
But that place did not seem deserted as these. At any time when she
looked she could picture the slowly-moving beam of the huge engine, and
the feathery plume of grey smoke which floated away on the western
breeze. There was a bright look about the place, and always associated
with it she seemed to see Duncan Leslie, now looking appealingly in her
eyes, now bitter and stern as he looked on her that night when Harry
beat him down and they fled, leaving him insensible upon the floor.
What might have been!
That was the theme upon which her busy brain toiled in spite of her
efforts to divert the current of thought into another channel. And when
in despair she conversed with father or uncle for a few minutes, and
silence once more reigned, there still was Duncan Leslie's home, and its
owner gazing at her reproachfully.
"Impossible!" she always said to herself; and as often as she said this
she felt that there would be a terrible battle with self, for
imperceptibly there had grown to be a subtle advocate for Duncan Leslie
in her heart.
"But it is impossible," she always said, and emphasised it. "We are
disgraced. With such a shadow over our house that could never be; and
he doubted, he spoke so cruelly, his eyes flashed such jealous hatred.
If he had loved me, he would have trusted, no matter what befell."
But as she said all this to herself, the advocate was busy, and she felt
the weakness of her case, but grew more determinedly obstinate all the
same.
And the train glided on over the tall scaffold-like bridges, the
tree-tops glistened in the silvery moonlight, and there was a restful
feeling of calm in her spirit that she had not known for days.
"No place like home," said Uncle Luke, breaking a long silence as they
glided away from the last station.
"No place like home," echoed his brother, as he sought for and took his
child's hand. "You will stop with us to-night, Luke?"
"Hear him, Louie?" said the old man. "Now is it likely?"
"But your place will be cheerless and bare to-night."
"Cheerless! Bare! You don't know what you are talking about. If you
only knew the longing I have to be once more in my own bed, listening to
wind and sea. No, thank you."
"But, uncle, for to-night do stay."
"Now that's unkind, Louie, after all the time you've made me be away.
Well, I will, as a reward to you for rousing yourself up a bit. One
condition though; will you come down to-morrow and talk to me while I
fish?"
She remained silent.
"Then I don't stop to-night."
"I will come to-morrow, uncle."
"Then I'll stop."
The train glided on as they watched in silence now for the lights of the
little town. First, the ruddy glow of the great lamp on the east pier
of the harbour appeared; then, glittering faintly like stars, there were
the various lights of the town rising from the water's edge right up to
the high terrace level, with the old granite house--the erst peaceful,
calm old home.
The lights glittered brightly, but they looked dim to Louise, seen as
they were through a veil of tears, and now as they rapidly neared a
strange feeling of agitation filled the brain of the returned wanderer.
It was home, but it could never be the same home again. All would be
changed. A feeling of separation must arise between her and Madelaine.
The two families must live apart, and a dark rift in her life grow wider
as the time glided on, till she was farther and farther away from the
bright days of youth, with little to look forward to but sorrow and the
memory of the shadow hanging over their home.
"Here we are," cried Uncle Luke, as the train glided slowly alongside
the platform and then stopped. "Got all your traps? George, give me my
stick. Now, then, you first."
The station lamps were burning brightly as Louise gave her father her
hand and stepped out. Then she felt blind and troubled with a strange
feeling of dread, and for a few moments everything seemed to swim round
as a strange singing filled her ears.
Then there was a faint ejaculation, two warm soft arms clasped her, and
a well-known voice said, in a loving whisper, "Louise--sister--at last!"
For one moment the dark veil over her eyes seemed to lift, and like a
flash she realised that Madelaine was not in black, and that resting
upon a stick there was a pale face which lit up with smiles as its owner
clasped her to his breast in turn.
"My dearest child! welcome back. The place is not the same without
you."
"Louie, my darling!" in another pleasant voice, as kisses were rained
upon her cheek, and there was another suggestion of rain which left its
marks warm.
"He would come, George Vine;" and the giver of these last kisses, and
warm tears, did battle for the possession of the returned truant.
"Maddy, my dear," she cried reproachfully and in a loud parenthesis,
"let me have one hand. He ought not to have left the house, but he is
so determined. He would come."
"Well, Dutch doll, don't I deserve a kiss?" cried old Luke grimly.
"Dear Uncle Luke!"
"Hah, that's better. George, I think I shall go home with the Van
Heldres. I'm starving."
"But you can't," cried the lady of that house in dismay; "we are all
coming up to you. Ah, Mr Leslie, how _do_ you do?"
"Quite well," said that personage quietly; and Madelaine felt Louise's
hand close upon hers spasmodically.
"Leslie! you here?" said George Vine eagerly.
"Yes; I came down from town in the same train."
"Too proud to be seen with us, eh?" said Uncle Luke sarcastically, as
there was a warm salute from the Van Heldres to one as great a stranger
as the Vines.
"I thought it would be more delicate to let you come down alone," said
Leslie gravely.
George Vine had by this time got hold of the young man's hand.
"My boy--Harry?" he whispered, "have you any news?"
"Yes," was whispered back. "Let me set your mind at rest. He is safe."
"But where? For Heaven's sake, man, speak!" panted the trembling father
as he clung to him.
"Across the sea."
Volume 3, Chapter XXII.