Chapter XVI: Part 16

"How could I do it?" cried the old man testily. "I didn't do it to find him, of course, but to try and run you to earth. How could I know that Harry was alive?"

"But you will not let him be imprisoned. Has he not suffered enough?"

"Not more than he deserves to suffer, my child; but we must stop all that judge and jury business somehow. Get Van Heldre not to prosecute."

"I will go down on my knees to him, and stay at his feet till he promises to spare him--poor foolish boy! But, uncle, what are you going to do? You will not send word down?"

"Not send word? Why, I sent to Madelaine a couple of hours ago, while you lay there insensible."

"You sent?"

"Yes, a long telegram."

"Uncle, what have you done?"

"What I ought to do, my child, and bade her tell her father and mother, and then go and break it gently to my brother."

"Uncle!"

"There, there, my dear, you said I ought to put myself in your place; suppose you put yourself in mine."

"Yes, yes, uncle, dear; I see now; I see."

"Then try and be calm. You know how these difficulties sometimes settle themselves."

"Not such difficulties as these, uncle. Harry! my brother! my poor brother!"

"Louie, my dear child!" said the old man, with a comical look of perplexity in his face, "have some pity on me."

"My dearest uncle," she sobbed, as she drew his face down to hers.

"Yes," he said, kissing her; "that's all very well, and affectionate, and nice; but do look here. You know how I live, and why I live as I do."

"Yes, uncle."

"To save myself from worry and anxiety. I am saving myself from trouble, am I not? Here, let go of my hand, and I'll send off another message to hasten your father up, so as to set me free."

"No, uncle, dear, you will not leave me," she said, with a pleading look in her eyes.

"There you go!" he cried. "I wish you wouldn't have so much faith in me, Louie. You ought to know better; but you always would believe in me."

"Yes, uncle, always," said Louise, as she placed his hand upon her pillow, and her cheek in his palm.

"Well, all I can say is that it's a great nuisance for me. But I'm glad I've found you, my dear, all the same."

"After believing all manner of evil of me, uncle."

"No, no, not quite so bad as that. There: never mind what I thought. I found you out, and just in the nick of time. I say, where the dickens can Leslie be?"

"Mr Leslie!"

Louise raised her face, with an excited look in her eyes.

"Well, why are you looking like that?"

"Tell me, uncle--was he very much hurt, that night?"

"Nearly killed," said the old man grimly, and with a furtive look at his niece.

"Uncle!"

"Well, what of it? He's nothing to you. Good enough sort of fellow, but there are thousands of better men in the world."

Louise's brow grew puckered, and a red spot burned in each of her cheeks.

"Been very good and helped me to find you; paid the detective to hunt you out."

"Uncle! surely you will not let Mr Leslie pay."

"Not let him! I did let him. He has plenty of money, and I have none-- handy."

"But, uncle!"

"Oh! it pleased him to pay. I don't know why, though, unless, like all young men, he wanted to make ducks and drakes of his cash."

Louise's brow seemed to grow more contracted.

"Bit of a change for him to run up to town. I suppose that's what made him come," continued the old man; "and now I've found you, I suppose he feels free to go about where he likes. I never liked him."

If Uncle Luke expected his niece to make some reply he was mistaken, for Louise lay back with her eyes half-closed, apparently thinking deeply, till there was a tap at the door.

"Hah! that's Leslie," cried the old man, rising.

"You will come back and tell me if there is any news of Harry, uncle," whispered Louise. Then, with an agonised look up at him as she clung to his hands, "He will not help them?"

"What, to capture that poor boy? No, no. Leslie must feel bitter against the man who struck him down, but not so bad as that."

The knock was repeated before he could free, his hands and cross the room.

"Yes, what is it?"

"That gentleman who has been to see you before, sir," said the waiter, in a low voice.

"Not Mr Leslie? He has not returned?"

"No, sir."

"I'll come directly. Where is he?"

"In the coffee-room, sir."

Uncle Luke closed the door and recrossed the room, to where Louise had half risen and was gazing at him wildly.

"News of Harry, uncle?"

"Don't know, my dear."

"You are keeping it from me. That man has taken him, and all this agony of suffering has been in vain."

"I'd give something if Madelaine were here," said Uncle Luke. "No, no; I am not keeping back anything. I don't know anything; I only came back to beg of you to be calm. There, I promise you that you shall know all."

"Even the worst?"

"Even the worst."

Louise sank back, and the old man descended to the coffee-room, to find Parkins impatiently walking up and down.

"Well?"

"No, sir; no luck yet," said that officer.

"What do you mean with your no luck?" cried Uncle Luke angrily. "You don't suppose I want him found?"

"Perhaps not, sir, but I do. I never like to undertake a job without carrying it through, and I feel over this that I have been regularly tricked."

"What's that to me, sir?"

"Nothing, sir; but to a man in my position, with his character as a keen officer at stake, a great deal. Mr Leslie, sir. Has he been back?"

"There, once for all, it's of no use for you to come and question me, Parkins. I engaged you to track out my niece; you have succeeded, and you may draw what I promised you, and five-and-twenty guineas besides for the sharp way in which you carried it out. You have done your task, and I discharge you. I belong to the enemy now."

"Yes, sir; but I have the other job to finish, in which you did not instruct me."

"Look here, Parkins," said Uncle Luke, taking him by the lapel of his coat, "never mind about the other business."

"But I do, sir. Every man has some pride, and mine is to succeed in every job I take in hand."

"Ah! well, look here; you shall succeed. You did your best over it, and we'll consider it was the last act of the drama when my foolish nephew jumped into the sea."

"Oh, no, sir. I--"

"Wait a minute. What a hurry you men are in! Now look here, Parkins. I'm only a poor quiet country person, and I should be sorry for you to think I tried to bribe you; but you've done your duty. Now go no farther in this matter, and I'll sell out stock to a hundred pounds, and you shall transfer it to your name in the bank."

Parkins shook his head and frowned.

"For a nest egg, man."

"No, sir."

"Then look here, my man; this is a painful family scandal, and I don't want it to go any farther, for the sake of those who are suffering. I'll make it two hundred."

"No, sir; no."

"Then two hundred and fifty; all clean money, Parkins."

"Dirty money, sir, you mean," said the sergeant quietly. "Look here, Mr Luke Vine, you are, as you say, a quiet country gentleman, so I won't be angry with you. You'll give me five hundred pounds to stop this business and let your nephew get right away?"

Uncle Luke drew a long breath.

"Five hundred!" he muttered. "Well, it will come out of what I meant to leave him, and I suppose he'll be very glad to give it to escape."

"Do you understand me, sir? You'll give me five hundred pounds to stop this search?"

Uncle Luke drew another long breath.

"You're a dreadful scoundrel, Parkins, and too much for me; but yes: you shall have the money."

"No, sir, I'm not a dreadful scoundrel, or I should make you pay me a thousand pounds."

"I wouldn't pay it--not a penny more than five hundred."

"Yes, you would, sir; you'd pay me a thousand for the sake of that sweet young lady up-stairs. You'd pay me every shilling you've got if I worked you, and in spite of your shabby looks I believe you're pretty warm."

"Never you mind my looks, sir, or my warmth," cried Uncle Luke indignantly. "That matter is settled, then? Five hundred pounds?"

"Thousand would be a nice bit of money for a man like me to have put away against the day I get a crack on the head or am shot by some scoundrel. Nice thing for the wife and my girl. Just about the same age as your niece, sir."

"That will do; that will do," said Uncle Luke stiffly. "The business is settled, then."

"No, sir; not yet. I won't be gruff with you, sir, because your motive's honest, and I'm sorry to have to be hard at a time like this."

"You dog!" snarled Uncle Luke; "you have me down. Go on, worry me. There, out with it. I haven't long to live. Tell me what I am to give you, and you shall have it."

"Your--hand, sir," cried the sergeant; and as it was unwillingly extended he gripped it with tremendous force. "Your hand, sir, for that of a fine, true-hearted English gentleman. No, sir: I'm not to be bought at any price. If I could do it I would, for the sake of that poor broken-hearted girl; but it isn't to be done. I will not insult you, though, by coming here to get information. Good-day, sir; and you can write to me. Good-bye."

He gave Uncle Luke's hand a final wring, and then, with a short nod, left the room.

"Diogenes the second," said Uncle Luke, with a dry, harsh laugh; "and I've beaten Diogenes the first, for he took a lantern to find his honest man, and didn't find him. I have found one without a light."

Volume 3, Chapter XX.

UNCLE LUKE TURNS PROPHET.

"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.

LESLIE MAKES AN ANNOUNCEMENT.

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.

HARRY'S MESSAGE.

"Do you wish me to repeat it? Have you not heard from your father or your uncle?"

"Yes; but I want to hear it all again from you. Harry sent me some message."

Leslie was silent.

"Why do you not speak? You are keeping something: back."

"Yes; he gave me a message for you, one I was to deliver."

"Well," said Louise quickly, "why do you not deliver it?"

"Because Harry is, in spite of his trouble, still young and thoughtless. It is a message that would make you more bitter against me than you are now."

Louise rose from where she was seated in the dining-room, walked across to the bay window, looked out upon the sea, and then returned.

"I am not bitter against you, Mr Leslie. How could I be against one who has served us so well? But tell me my brother's message now."

He looked at her with so deep a sense of passionate longing in his eyes, that as she met his ardent gaze her eyes sank, and her colour began to heighten.

"No," he said, "I cannot deliver the message now. Some day, when time has worked its changes, I will tell you word for word. Be satisfied when I assure you that your brother's message will not affect his position in the least, and will be better told later on."

She looked at him half wonderingly, and it seemed to him that there was doubt in her eyes.

"Can you not have faith in me," he said quietly, "and believe when I tell you that it is better that I should not speak?"

"Yes," she said softly, "I will have faith in you and wait."

"I thank you," he said gravely.

"Now tell me more about Harry."

"There is very little to tell," replied Leslie. "As I went down-stairs that day, I found him just about to enter the house. For a moment I was startled, but I am not a superstitious man, and I grasped at once how we had all been deceived, and who it was dealt me the blow and tripped me that night; and in the reaction which came upon me, I seized him, and dragged him to the first cab I could find.

"I was half mad with delight," continued Leslie, speaking, in spite of his burning words, in a slow, calm, respectful way. "I saw how I had been deceived that night, who had been your companion, and why you had kept silence. For the time I hardly knew what I did or said in my delirious joy, but I was brought to myself, as I sat holding your brother's wrist tightly, by his saying slowly,

"`There, I'm sick of it. You can leave go. I shan't try to get away. It's all over now.'"

"He thought you had made him a prisoner?"

"Yes; and I thought him a messenger of peace, who had come to point out my folly, weakness, and want of faith."

Louise covered her face with her hands, and he saw that she was sobbing gently.

"It was some time before I could speak," continued Leslie. "I was still holding his wrist tightly, and it was not until he spoke again that I felt as if I could explain.

"`Where are you taking me?' he said. `Is it necessary for Mr Leslie, my father's friend, to play policeman in the case?'

"`When will you learn to believe and trust in me, Harry, Vine?' I said.

"`Never,' he replied bitterly, and in the gladness of my heart I laughed, and could have taken him in my arms and embraced him as one would a lost brother just returned to us from the dead.

"`You will repent that,' I said, and I felt then that my course was marked out, and I could see my way."

Louise let fall her hands, and sank into a chair, her eyes dilating as she gazed earnestly at the quiet, enduring man, who now narrated to her much that was new; and ever as he spoke something in her brain seemed to keep on repeating in a low and constant repetition,

"He loves me--he loves me--but it can never be."

"`Where am I taking you?' I said," continued Leslie. "`To where you can make a fresh start in life.'" And as Louise gazed at him she saw that he was looking fixedly at the spot upon the carpet where her brother had last stood when he was in that room.

"`Not to--'

"He stopped short there; and I--Yes, and I must stop short too. It is very absurd, Miss Vine, for me to be asked all this."

"Go on--go on!" said Louise hoarsely.

Leslie glanced at her, and withdrew his eyes.

"`Will you go abroad, Harry, and make a new beginning?' I said.

"Poor lad! he was utterly broken down, and he would have thrown himself upon his knees to me if I had not forced him to keep his seat."

"My brother!" sighed Louise.

"I asked him then if he would be willing to leave you all, and go right away; and I told him what I proposed--that I had a brother superintending some large tin-mines north of Malacca. That I would give him such letters as would insure a welcome, and telegraph his coming under an assumed name."

"And he accepted?"

"Yes. There, I have nothing to add to all this. I went across with him to Paris, and, after securing a berth for him, we went south to Marseilles, where I saw him on board one of the Messageries Maritimes vessels bound for the East, and we parted. That is all."

"But money; necessaries, Mr Leslie? He was penniless."

"Oh, no," said Leslie, smiling; and Louise pressed her teeth upon her quivering lip.

"There," said Leslie, "I would not have said all this, but you forced it from me; and now you know all, try to be at rest. As I told Mr Vine last night, I suppose it would mean trouble with the authorities if it were known, but I think I was justified in what I did. We understand Harry's nature better than any judge, and our plan for bringing him back to his life as your brother is better than theirs. So," he went on with a pleasant smile, "we will keep our secret about him. My brother Dick is one of the truest fellows that ever stepped, and Harry is sure to like him. The climate is not bad. It will be a complete change of existence, and some day when all this trouble is forgotten he can return."

"My brother exiled: gone for ever."

"My dear Miss Vine," said Leslie quietly, "the world has so changed now that we can smile at all those old-fashioned ideas. Your brother is in Malacca. Well, I cannot speak exactly, but I believe I am justified in saying that you could send a message to him from this place in Cornwall, and get an answer by to-morrow morning at the farthest, perhaps to-night. Your father at one time could not have obtained one from Exeter in the same space.

"There," he continued quietly, "you are agitated now, and I will say good-bye. Is not that Madelaine Van Heldre coming up the path? Yes, unmistakably. Now let us bury the past and look forward to the future-- a happier one for you, I hope and pray. Good-bye."

He held out his hand, and she looked at him wonderingly.

"Good-bye?"

"Well, for a time. You are weak and ill. Perhaps you will go away for a change--perhaps I shall. Next time we meet, time will have softened all this trouble, and you will have forgiven one whose wish was to serve you, all his weakness, all his doubts. Good bless you, Louise Vine! Good-bye!"

He held out his hand again, but she did not take it. She only stood gazing wildly at him in a way that he dared not interpret, speechless, pale, and with her lips quivering.

He gave her one long, yearning look, and, turning quickly, he was at the door.

"Mr Leslie--stop!"

"You wished to say something," he cried as he turned towards her and caught her outstretched hand to raise it passionately to his lips. "You do not, you cannot say it? I will say it for you, then. Good-bye!"

"Stop!" she cried as she clung to his hand. "My brother's message?"

"Some day--in the future. I dare not give it now. When you have forgiven my jealous doubts."

"Forgiven you?" she whispered as she sank upon her knees and held the hand she clasped to her cheek--"forgive me."

"Louise! my darling!" he cried hoarsely as he caught her up to his breast, upon which she lay as one lies who feels at peace.

Seconds? minutes? Neither knew; but after a time, as she stood with her hands upon his shoulders gazing calmly in his eyes, she said softly--

"Tell me now: what did Harry say?" Leslie was silent for a while. Then, clasping her more tightly to his breast, he said in a low, deep voice--

"Tell Louie I have found in you the truest brother that ever lived; ask her some day to make it so indeed."

There was a long silence, during which the door was pressed slowly open; but they did not heed, and he who entered heard his child's words come almost in a whisper.

"Some day," she said; "some day when time has softened all these griefs. Your own words, Duncan."

"Yes," he said, "my own."

"Hah!"

They did not start from their embrace as that long-drawn sigh fell upon their ears, but both asked the same question with their eyes.

"Yes," said George Vine gravely as he took Leslie's hand and bent down to kiss his child, "it has been a long dark night, but joy cometh in the morning."

Volume 3, Chapter XXIII.

UNCLE LUKE HAS A WORD.

John Van Heldre sat in his office chair at his table once more after a long and weary absence, and Crampton stood opposite scowling at him.

The old clerk had on one of his most sour looks when Van Heldre raised his eyes from the ledger he was scanning, and he made no remark; but looking up again he saw the scowl apparently intensified.

"What's the matter, Crampton? Afraid I shall discover that you have been guilty of embezzlement?" said Van Heldre, smiling.

"Not a bit," said the old clerk, "nor you aren't either."

"Then what is the meaning of the black look?"

"Oh, nothing--nothing!"

"Come, out with it, man. What's the matter?"

"Well, if you must know, sir, I want to know why you can't keep quiet and get quite well, instead of coming muddling here."

"Crampton!"

"Well, I must speak, sir. I don't want you to be laid up again."

"No fear."

"But there is fear, sir. You know I can keep things going all right."

"Yes, Crampton, and show a better balance than I did."

"Well then, sir, why don't you let me go on? I can manage, and I will manage if you'll take a holiday."

"Holiday, man? why it has been nothing but one long painful holiday lately, and this does me good. Now bring in the other book."

Crampton grunted and went into the outer office to return with the cash-book, which he placed before his employer, and drew back into his old position, watching Van Heldre as he eagerly scanned the pages and marked their contents till, apparently satisfied, he looked up to see that Crampton was smiling down at him.

"What now?"

"Eh?"

"I say what now? Why are you laughing?"

"Only smiling, sir."

"Well, what have I done that is ridiculous?"

"Ridiculous? Why I was smiling because it seemed like the good old times to have you back busy with the books."

"Crampton, we often say that my old friend is an eccentric character, but really I think Luke Vine must give place to you."

"Dessay," said Crampton sourly. "You go on with these accounts. Look half-way down."

Van Heldre did look half-way down, and paused.

"Five hundred pounds on the credit side, per the cheque I wrote for Mr Luke Vine--why, what's this?"

"Ah! that's what you may well say, sir. Refused to take the money, sir. I'm sure I'm not so eccentric as that."

"But you never mentioned it, Crampton?"

"Yes, I did, sir, with my pen. There it is in black and white. Better and plainer than sounding words; and besides, you weren't here."

"But this is absurd, Crampton."

"That's what I told him, sir."

"Well, what did he say?"

"That I was an old fool, sir."

"Tut--tut--tut!" ejaculated Van Heldre; "but he must be paid. I can't let him lose the money."

"What I told him, sir. I said we couldn't let him lose the money."

"What did he say to that?"

"Called me an old fool again much stronger, sir. Most ungentlemanly-- used words, sir, that he must have picked up on the beach."

"I hardly like to trouble him directly he is back; but would you mind sending up to Mr Luke Vine, with my compliments, and asking him to come here."

"Send at once, sir?"

"At once."

"Perhaps before I leave the office, sir, I might as well call your attention to a communication received this morning."

Van Heldre looked inquiringly at his old clerk.

"It's rather curious, sir," he said, handing a letter which he had been keeping back as a sort of _bonne bouche_ for the last piece of business transacted that morning.

"Never presented yet?" said Van Heldre, nodding his head slowly.

"They must have known I stopped the notes directly," said Crampton with a self-satisfied smile.

"I had hoped that the whole of that terrible business had been buried for good."

"So it has, sir," grunted Crampton; "but some one or another keeps digging it up again."

Van Heldre made no reply, so Crampton left the office, sent off a messenger, and returned to find his employer seated with his face buried in his hands, thinking deeply, and heedless of his presence.

"Poor George!" he said aloud. "Poor misguided boy! I wish Crampton had been--"

"I'm back here," said Crampton.

"Ah! Crampton," said Van Heldre starting, "sent off the message?"

"Yes, sir, I've sent off the message," said the old man sternly. "Pray finish what you were saying, sir. Never mind my feelings."

"What I was saying, Crampton? I did not say anything."

"Oh yes, you did, sir; you wished Crampton had been--what, sir?--buried too, like the trouble?"

"My good fellow--my dear old Crampton! surely I did not say that aloud."

"How could I have heard it, sir, if you hadn't? I only did my duty."

"Yes, yes, of course, of course, Crampton. Really I am very, very sorry."

"And only just before I left the room you were complaining about people digging up the old trouble."

"Come, Crampton, I can deny that. I apologise for thinking aloud, but it was you who spoke of digging up the old trouble."

"Ah! well, it doesn't matter, sir. It was my birthday just as you were at your worst. Seventy-five, Mr Van Heldre, sir, and you can't be troubled with such a blundering old clerk much longer."

"My dear Crampton--"

"May I come in?" followed by three thumps with a heavy stick.

Crampton hurried to the outer office to confront Uncle Luke.

"Met your messenger just outside, and saved him from going up. How much did you give him? He ought to pay that back."

"Oh, never mind that, Luke. How are you?"

"How am I?"

"Yes. Getting settled down again?"

"How am I? Well, a little better this morning. Do I smell of yellow soap?"

"No."

"Wonder at it. I spent nearly all yesterday trying to get off the London dirt and smoke. Treat to get back to where there's room to breathe."

"Ah, you never did like London."

"And London never liked me, so we're even there. Well," he continued after a pause filled up by a low muttering grunt, "what do you want? You didn't send for me to come and tell you that I had caught a cold on my journey down or got a rheumatic twinge."

"No, no, Luke, of course not."

"Nice one, 'pon my word!" muttered Crampton.

"Well, what is it?"

Crampton moved towards the door, his way lying by Uncle Luke; but just as he neared the opening, the visitor made a stab at the wall with his heavy stick, and, as it were, raised a bar before the old clerk, who started violently.

"Bless my heart, Mr Luke Vine!" he cried; "what are you about? Don't do that."

"Stop here, then. Who told you to go?"

"No one, sir, but--"

"How do I know what he wants. I may be glad of a witness."

"Oh, yes! You need not go, Crampton," said Van Heldre. "Sit down, Luke."

"No, thankye. Sit too much for my health now. Come: out with it. What do you want? There is something."

"Yes, there is something," said Van Heldre quietly. "Look here, my dear Luke Vine."

"Thought as much," sneered the old man. "You want to borrow money, _my dear_ Van Heldre."

"No; I want to pay money, Luke Vine. It seems that you have returned that five hundred pounds to Crampton."

"What five hundred pounds?"

"The money you--there, we will not dwell upon that old trouble, my dear Luke. Come: you know what I mean."

"Oh, I see," said the old man with much surprise. "That five hundred pounds. Well, what about it?"

"How could you be so foolish as to return my cheque?"

"Because you didn't owe me the money."

"Nonsense, my dear fellow! We are old friends, but that was entirely a business transaction."

"Yes, of course it was."

"Five hundred pounds were stolen."

"Yes, and I was all right."

"Exactly. Why should you suppose it was your money?"

"Suppose? Because it was mine--my new Bank of England notes."

"How do you know that?"

"Never mind how I know it, and never mind talking about the money I didn't lose."

"But you did, Luke Vine, and heavily. Of course I am going to refund you the money."

"You can't, man."

"Can't?"

"No; because I've got it safely put away in my pocket-book."

Van Heldre made an impatient gesticulation.

"I tell you I have. The same notes, same numbers, just as you laid them all together."

"Nonsense, man! Come, Luke Vine, my dear old friend, let me settle this matter with you in a business-like way; I shall not be happy till I do."

"Then you'll have to wait a long time for happiness, John," said Uncle Luke, smiling, "for you are not going to pay me."

"But, my dear Luke."

"But, my dear John! you men who turn over your thousands are as careless as boys over small amounts, as you call them."

"Oh, come, Mr Luke Vine, sir," said Crampton sturdily; "there's no carelessness in this office."

"Bah! Clerk!" cried Uncle Luke. "Careful, very. Then how was it the money was stolen?"

"Well, sir, nobody can guard against violence," said Crampton sourly.

"Yes, they can, you pompous old antiquity. I could. I'm not a business man. I don't have ledgers and iron safes and a big office, but I took care of the money better than you did."

"My dear Luke Vine, what do you mean?" cried Van Heldre, after giving Crampton a look which seemed to say, "Don't take any notice."

"Mean? Why, what I said. You people were so careless that I didn't trust you. I had no confidence."

"Well, sir, you had confidence enough to place five hundred pounds in our house," said Crampton gruffly.

"Yes, and you lost it."

"Yes, sir, and our house offered you a cheque for the amount, and you sent it back."

"Of course I did. I didn't want my money twice over, did I?"

"Is this meant for a riddle, Luke?" said Van Heldre, annoyed, and yet amused.

"Riddle? No. I only want to prick that old bubble Crampton, who is so proud of the way in which he can take care of money, and who has always been these last ten years flourishing that iron safe in my face."

"Really, Mr Luke Vine!"

"Hold your tongue, sir! Wasn't my five hundred pounds--new, crisp Bank of England notes--in your charge?"

"Yes, sir, in our charge."

"Then why didn't you watch over them, and take care of 'em? Where are they now?"

"Well, sir, it is hard to say. They have never been presented at any bank."

"Of course they haven't, when I've got 'em safe in my pocket-book."

"In your pocket-book, sir?"

"Yes. Don't you believe me? There; look. Bit rubbed at the edges with being squeezed in the old leather; but there are the notes; aren't they? Look at the numbers."

As the old man spoke he took a shabby old pocket-book from his breast, opened it, and drew out a bundle of notes, held together by an elastic band, and laid them on the office table with a bang.

"Bless my heart!" cried Crampton excitedly, as he hastily put on his spectacles and examined the notes, and compared them with an entry in a book. "Yes, sir," he said to Van Heldre; "these are the very notes."

"But how came you by them, Luke Vine?" cried Van Heldre, who looked as much astounded as his clerk.

"How came I by them?" snarled Uncle Luke. "Do you think five hundred pounds are to be picked up in the gutter. I meant that money, and more too, for that unfortunate boy; and the more careless he was the more necessary it became for me to look after his interests."

"You meant that money for poor Harry?"

"To be sure I did, and by the irony of fate the poor misguided lad sent his companion to steal it."

"Good heavens!" ejaculated Van Heldre, while Crampton nodded his head so sharply that his spectacles dropped off, and were only saved from breaking by a quick interposition of the hands.

"And did the foolish fellow restore the money to you?" said Van Heldre.

"Bah! no! He never had it."

"Then how--"

"How? Don't I tell you I watched--hung about the place, not feeling satisfied about my property, and I came upon my gentleman just as he was escaping with the plunder."

"And--" exclaimed Crampton excitedly.

"I knocked him down--with that ruler, and got my money out of his breast. Narrow escape, but I got it."

"Why did you not mention this before, Luke Vine?"

"Because I had got my money safe--because I wanted to give clever people a lesson--because I did not want to see my nephew in gaol--because I did not choose--because--Here, you Crampton, give me back those notes. Thank ye, I'll take care of them in future myself."

He replaced the notes in the case, and buttoned it carefully in his breast.

"Luke, you astonish me," cried Van Heldre.

"Eccentric, my dear sir, eccentric. Now, then, you see why I returned you the cheque. Morning."

Crampton took out his silk pocket-handkerchief, and began to polish his glasses as he gazed hard at his employer after following Uncle Luke to the door, which was closed sharply.

"Poor Harry Vine!" said Van Heldre sadly. "Combining with another to rob himself. Surely the ways of sin are devious, Crampton?"

"Yes," said the old man thoughtfully. "I wish I had waited till you got well."

"Too late to think of that, Crampton," said Van Heldre sadly. "When do you go to Pradelle's trial?"

"There, sir, you've been an invalid, and you're not well yet. Suppose we keep that trouble buried, and let other people dig it up, and I'll go when I'm obliged. I suppose you don't want to screen him?"

"I screen him?"