Chapter VIII: Part 8

Louise Vine stood trembling in her own room, listening till she heard the door close, and Duncan Leslie's step on the gravel. Her agitation was terrible, and in place of being clear-headed and ready to act in this emergency, she felt as if her brain was in a turmoil of contending emotions. Indignation on her brother's behalf, anger against Leslie for his announcement, and another form of anger which she could not define, struggled with a desire to go to her brother's help, and at last she placed her hands to her head and pressed them there.

"What shall I do?" she panted.

"Louise, Louise, my child!"

It was Aunt Marguerite's voice, and there was a sharp tapping on the panel of the door after the handle had been turned.

"Louise, my child, unlock this door."

She made no reply, but stood with her hands clasped together, listening to the sharp voice and the quick tapping repeated on the panel. Both ceased after a few minutes, and Aunt Marguerite's door was heard to close loudly.

"I could not talk to her now," muttered the girl. "She makes me so angry. She was so insulting to Mr Leslie. But he deserved it," she said aloud, with her cheeks burning once more, and her eyes flashing, as she drew herself up. "My brother--a common thief--the man who injured Mr Van Heldre! It is not true."

She started violently and began to tremble, for there was a sharp pattering on her window-panes, as if some one had thrown a few small shot. Would Duncan Leslie dare to summon her like that? The pattering was repeated, and she went cautiously to the window, to make out in the gloom a figure that certainly was not that of Leslie.

She opened the casement with nervous anxiety now.

"Asleep?" cried a hasty voice. "There, stand aside--I'm coming up."

There was a rustling noise--a sharp crack or two, a hand was thrown over the window-sill, and, panting with exertion, Harry clambered in.

"Harry!" cried Louise in alarm, for his acts, his furtive way of coming to the house, and his manifest agitation did not suggest innocence.

"Hush! Don't talk aloud. Where's the governor?"

"Father is at Mr Van Heldre's." Harry drew in a quick spasmodic breath. "And Aunt Marguerite?"

"In her room. But, Harry!"

"Be quiet. Don't talk. Let me get my breath."

Louise stood before him with her hands clasped, and a flow of agonising thoughts seeming to sweep her reason away. All was confusion, but above the flood there was one thing to which she clung--Harry was innocent. In spite of everything in the way of appearance, he was innocent; nothing should turn her from that.

"Well," he said suddenly, "haven't you anything to say?"

There was a savage vindictive tone in his voice which startled her more than his previous threatening way.

"Yes; where have you been? Why do you come back like this?"

"Where have I been? Up on the cliffs, wandering about among the rocks, and hiding till it grew dark and I could come home. And why did I come home like this? You know. Of course you have heard."

"Mr Leslie came, and--"

"Mr Leslie!" cried Harry with a mocking laugh. "Save us from our friends."

Louise's sympathy swung round on the instant to the side of the attacked; and, hardly knowing what she said--

"Mr Leslie came to bear some terrible news, and to offer to help you."

"To help me!" cried Harry, with the eagerness of him who catches at straws. "And you--what did you say?"

"I said the information was false--a miserable invention. And I repeat it. Harry, it is not true?"

He made no reply for a few moments, while, sobbing and terrified, Louise clung to him.

"Harry," she said excitedly, "why do you not speak?"

"Don't talk to me," he said hoarsely, "I'm thinking."

"But, Harry, I laugh at Aunt Marguerite's follies about descent and our degradation; but it is your duty to make a stand for our father's sake. Who has dared to accuse you of all this?"

"Don't talk to me," he said in an angry whisper, as he ran to the window and listened, crossing the room directly after to try the door.

Louise gazed at him in a horrified way, and her heart sank down, down, as her brother's acts suggested the possibility of his guilt. Then, like a flash of light, a thought irradiated her darkening soul, and she caught her brother's arm.

"I know!" she cried.

"You--you know?"

"Yes, I see it all now; and why this charge has been made. It was Mr Pradelle."

"Pradelle!"

"And that is why he left so suddenly. Harry, my poor brother!"

"Let Pradelle be," he said huskily. "I'm not going to hide behind another man."

"Oh! But, Harry!"

"Look here," he said uneasily; "I want your help, and you do nothing but talk."

"I will be silent; but tell me it is not true."

"Do you want me to make matters worse by telling some paltry lie?" he said. "Yes; it is true."

"Harry!"

"No: not all true. I did not steal that money."

"Ah!" ejaculated Louise; and she reeled to her bed, and would have fallen but for the post she grasped.

"I've no time to explain, but you must know. Yes; I did knock old Van Heldre down."

"Harry!" she groaned.

"And Crampton saw me come away; he has sent for the London police; and, unless I can get off, I shall be taken and tried."

Louise literally tottered towards him.

"No, no," he said angrily. "You are going to talk and preach. You don't want to see me disgracing you all by being cast in gaol?"

Disgracing them! Louise's first thought was of Duncan Leslie, and a pang of agony shot through her. How could she ever look him in the face again? A chill that seemed to paralyse shot through her. The hope that she had nursed was cast out, and her brother's word seemed to open out a future so desolate and blank that she turned upon him angrily.

"Harry!" she cried, "this is not--cannot be true." He paid no heed to her words, but stood biting his nails, evidently thinking, and at last he turned upon her like one at bay, as she said, after a painful pause, "You do not answer. Am I to believe all this? No, I cannot--will not believe it, Harry. It can't--it can't be true."

"Yes," he said, as if waking from a dream. "One of the lads would take me over in his lugger. St Malo; that would do. Louie, what money have you?"

"Then it is true?" she said.

"True? Yes; it's true enough."

"Then you--oh, Harry, for pity's sake--Harry!"

She burst into a wild fit of sobbing.

"That's right," he cried savagely. "I came to you for help and you go into hysterics. There, unlock that door, and get me something to eat, and while I'm enjoying myself, you can send Liza for the police."

"Harry!"

"Then why don't you act like a sensible girl? Listen; nobody must know that I have been here; not even the governor. I'm going to steal down to the harbour by and by; and I shall get Joe Lennen or Dick Paul to take me over to France. If I stay here I shall be arrested, and disgrace you all. There never was such an unlucky fellow as I am. Here, once more, what money have you?"

"Very little, Harry," she said; "about three sovereigns."

"Has aunt any? No; she must not know that I'm here. Louie, you must let me have your watch."

"Yes, Harry," she said, as she stood before him, cold and striving hard to master her emotion as a mute feeling of despair attacked her.

"And you'll help me, won't you?"

"Yes, Harry," she said, in the same cold mechanical way.

"Let me have your chain and rings, and any other trinket that will fetch money. Must have something to live upon till this trouble has blown over. You see I am penniless; I am not a thief. I shall soon get right again, and you shall have all these things a dozen times over." She suppressed a sigh. "Be quick then--there's a good girl! I've no time to waste."

Louise moved across the room to the drawers, and took from the top a small rosewood box, which she placed upon the table. Then taking her watch from her waist, she was in the act of unfastening the chain, when there was the sound of a closing door below, and her father's voice, sounding loud and excited, as it called her by name.

Volume 2, Chapter IX.

IN DEFENCE OF HIS YOUNG.

"Louise! Where is Louise?" The step on the stairs sounded like that of a younger man; and as the door was tried, Harry had reached the window, from whence he was about to climb, when he fancied he saw some one below, and he hastily closed the casement, and drew back trembling. "Louise! open this door."

"No, no," whispered Harry. "He must not know I am here."

"Not know?"

"Am I to break this door?" was thundered from the other side.

Harry glanced once more at the window. It was fancy. Nne was below now that he could see; and he was in the act of unfastening it when there was a crash, the door flew open, and his father strode into the room. It did not seem to be the same man, and Harry shrank from the fierce, erect, angry figure which approached.

"As I might have guessed. You coward! So you would strip your sister of what money and jewels she has and then escape!" Harry stood before him silent and with his head averted. "You did not counsel this flight, Louise?"

"No, father," she said, in a low voice full of pain; and she looked from one to the other, as if mentally stunned, and unable to realise the force of all that was taking place.

"I thought not. You abject, miserable wretch!"

Harry started, and gazed half in fear, half in wonder, at the stern, commanding figure before him.

"It--it was to save you all from disgrace."

Vine burst into a discordant laugh.

"From disgrace--to save us from disgrace? And is this part of your childish aunt's teaching?"

"Father! Pray!" whispered Louise, rousing herself and clinging to his arm.

"Silence, my child!" he cried. "I am not angry with you. I blame myself. Weak and indulgent. Tolerating that foolish woman's whims, that her old age might pass peacefully away, I have allowed all her follies to go; but I did not believe these seeds could strike so deep a root. To save us from disgrace! So this is being the aristocratic gentleman of French descent! The man who would prefer death to dishonour--the man who scorns to sully his hands by embarking in some honest trade! And I, wrapped in my pursuits, riding my weak hobby, have let things go till they have ended thus!"

"But, father, think! Be merciful."

"Think? I dare not, girl. Merciful? No. He is no longer my son. We must bear the disgrace as best we can; hide our shame elsewhere. You and I, father and sister of a miserable convict, who in the pursuit of money and title could stoop to rob."

"No, no, father; not rob."

"Scoundrel! don't speak, or I may forget myself, and strike you down as you struck down your benefactor, the man who stretched out his hand to save you from the ruin that dogged your heels."

"It was a miserable accident, father. I did not steal."

"Bah! Lies come easily to such as you; but I have no words to waste, there is no time for that."

"No, father; quick, before it is too late," whispered Louise. "Let him go; let him escape to France--to repent, father. He is your son."

"No. I disown him. And you counsel this--you, girl?"

"Yes, father, you will spare him," sobbed Louise; "he is my brother."

"He has broken those ties; neither son nor brother to us, my child. He has blasted your future by branding you as a convict's sister, and embittered the few years left to me, so that I would gladly end them now."

"Father!"

"Hush, my child! I am rightly punished for my weakness. I hoped that he would change. I was not blind, only patient, for I said that these follies would soon pass, and now I am awakened to this. My son in the hands of the police!" he laughed in a wild, discordant tone. "Monsieur Le Comte des Vignes, I must have been mad."

"Go!" said Harry, fiercely. "Trample me down. There, let me pass. Better in the hands of the police than here."

"No, no!" cried Louise excitedly. "Father, he must escape. It is one great horror, do not make it worse by letting him go there."

"Worse, girl? there is no worse!" cried Vine, sternly. "I thank my God that we are living in a land where stern good laws are pre-eminent, and where justice rules with unswerving hand. You know not what you say."

"Yes, father--dearest father, help him to go and repent the evil he has done."

"Go and repent? Yes, that is the only hope; but it shall be as the honest repentant man, ready to acknowledge and bear the punishment of his crime."

"Father!"

"Yes; look at him--look at the base, cowering wretch, ready to go and hide his face in any shelter to escape the fate he has earned! Look at his guilty conscience, branding him even now! And you say, let him go!"

"Yes, father. What could I say?"

"Nothing!" cried Harry, turning round, as the trampled worm turns beneath the boot that crushes it into the earth. "It is true; I struck poor old Van Heldre down; but whatever I may have thought before, I did not go to steal that money. I did not steal it. And now what do you want me to do?"

"Go: act as a man who claims such descent as ours should do, in the country which opened to him its arms, and whose laws he has transgressed. The police are here from London. Go and give yourself up; suffer your punishment as one who would atone, and years hence in the future, when you are freed, come to me and ask my pardon--kneeling humbly by my grave."

"Father!"

"No more. The way is open now. Go at once, before you are dragged through the streets handcuffed like some common felon. To save us from disgrace you say--that is the only way."

He stood erect, with his eyes flashing, knit brows, and nostrils quivering, pointing to the door, while with his left arm he supported Louise, whose face gazed wildly into his, no mean representative of that _Haute Noblesse_ which had sought refuge here when persecution drove them from their land.

"Father! Harry!" cried Louise, but only the latter spoke.

"Yes," he said, drawing himself up. "You are right, I'll go."

He strode quickly toward the door; but before he reached it, Liza threw it back.

"Miss Louise," she cried, "the police!"

With hasty stride the old man rushed to the door and thrust it to.

"Oh!" he gasped, and then after a pause there was one low, hoarse appeal to heaven for aid, "My God!"

The adjuration spoke volumes, and for a few moments the old man stood there as if in a cataleptic state. Then a change came over him, his pale face flushed, the veins in his forehead stood out and throbbed, and he dashed to his son.

"Quick, Harry! France!"

As he spoke Harry broke from him and dashed to the window, threw it open, and was about to spring out, but he drew back. There was no fancy this time; two policemen could be dimly seen below.

"Too late, father," he said calmly.

"No, my boy! this way, hush!"

He snatched open the door, and a quick-looking, well-knit man stood framed in the entry.

"Ah!" he said sharply, as he fixed Harry with his eye, "Mr Henry Vine, I arrest you on a warrant. Robbery and attempt to murder."

"No," roared the father frantically, and he flung himself upon the officer. "Run, Harry, run!"

Louise stood clinging to the ironwork of her bedstead, sick with horror, as a terrible struggle ensued. It only lasted a few moments; and as she saw her father and the detective officer wrestling together, her brother clenched his fists, set his teeth, and dashed at them.

"_No_, no; run!" roared the father in a voice she did not know; and in obedience, Harry dashed through the doorway and was gone.

"You're mad, old man!" cried the detective, tearing himself free, drawing back, and then rushing towards the door.

But with a wonderful display of activity and vigour, the old naturalist sprang at him once more, and with clenched fist struck him so fierce a blow full on the cheek that the man swerved sideways, and would have fallen but for the wall.

"When I come back!" he roared savagely, as he recovered himself; and, springing through the door, he bounded down the stairs after Harry Vine, father and sister staggering to the landing just as the door across the hall swung to with a heavy bang, and the sounds of feet rapidly beating the shingle rose loudly on the silence of the night.

Volume 2, Chapter X.

ON HIS BEHALF.

"What have I done? what have I done?" groaned Vine. "I might have forgiven him and let him escape, and then--Louise, Louise, my child, come with me. We must find him and help."

Louise hurried back into her room to get hat and scarf, and returned to the landing to find her father and Aunt Margaret face to face.

"It is a judgment upon you, George--a judgment!" cried the old lady excitedly. "Yes; you dragged the poor boy down to that wretched life, and in his madness and misery he made one bold stroke for freedom."

"Louise, my child, quick!" cried Vine. "I cannot answer her now. Quick! get me away, or I shall say words to her that I shall repent as long as I live."

"I say it is a judgment!" cried Aunt Margaret. "Poor boy! if you had taken my advice--"

The door closed. They were out in the clear, starry night, hurrying down the path toward the town, but Aunt Margaret's words were ringing in Vine's ears. A judgment. Why? What had he done? "Have I been to blame? Is she right? Have I been to blame?" he muttered, as they hurried down, the words being the secret communing of his heart, but they were loud enough for Louise to hear, and as she clung to his arm she whispered emphatically--"No, father, no!"

"No? Louise, what are you saying?"

"That you have not been to blame. My dear, patient, indulgent father."

"Indulgent?" he said hoarsely. "Yes; indulgent. I have been indulgent, and yet Heaven knows how I have striven to make ours a happy home for all."

"And you have, father," sobbed Louise, "till Harry proved so wilful and went astray."

"Yes; went astray. But he must go, my child; he must not be taken. I have a little money with me, and will send him more. I want to do that which is just and right, but I could not bear to see him taken off to gaol."

Louise uttered a low moan as they hurried on down the path.

"Where will he go? Where will he hide?" whispered Vine, excitedly. "He could not escape by the road, the railway station is certain to be watched, and there is the telegraph."

"Stop!" said Louise, holding one hand to her head, as in the terrible confusion of conflicting thought she tried to recall something her brother had said.

"Yes, I recollect now," she said. "He told me he meant to escape across to France, and that he would ask one of the fishermen to sail with him to St Malo."

"Hah! yes. Then he will escape. Whom did he say?"

"I cannot recollect the name, and yet it is familiar."

"Try, my child, try."

"I am trying hard, father," said Louise sadly, "but I cannot recollect."

"Oh!" groaned her father, as they hurried on down the path, "for pity's sake, try, my child, try."

"Yes, I remember," she cried at last--"Paul."

"Dick Paul--the man who sailed with us to the rocks near Scilly?"

"Yes, yes!"

"Ha! then if he has escaped so far he will be there."

"Do you know which is his cottage?"

"Yes, I know. Quick, girl, quick!"

They almost ran down the rest of the way, each looking excitedly about in the expectation of there being a hue and cry, and of seeing the fugitive rush by, hunted by a senseless crowd, eager to see him caught.

But all was perfectly still, the great stars shone down on the sleepy place, the lights burned in windows here and there, and as they reached a turn where the harbour lay before them the light at the mouth shone out like a lurid, fiery eye, staining the calm water with a patch of light, which seemed weird and strange amidst the spangled gleams reflected from the stars. Hardly a sound, till a swing door was opened a short distance in front, and there floated out in harmony one of the West-country ditties the fishermen loved to sing. The door swung to, and the part-song became a murmur.

Vine gripped his daughter's hand with spasmodic violence, but she did not wince. There was a pain, an agony in her breast which neutralised all other, as she hurried on by her father's side, thinking now of her erring brother, now of Duncan Leslie. That dream, that growing love which she had tremblingly avowed to herself she felt for the frank, manly young mine-owner, was over, was crushed out, with all its bright-hued hopes of happiness; but he had said he loved her, and offered his aid. Why was he not there now to help, when her brother was in such peril? Why was he not there?

The answer came like a dull blow. She had reviled him, insulted him, and driven him away. Then her heart replied: He loves me, he will forgive my hasty words, and will save my brother if I humble myself and ask.

She started back to the reality from what seemed a dream, as her father hurried on along by a row of ill-built, rugged cottages on the cliff.

"It is in one of these," he said huskily, "but I cannot recall which."

As he hesitated one of the doors was opened, and a great, burly merman appeared, pipe in mouth.

"Dick Paul's," he said, in answer to a question, "first door furder on. Fine night, master."

"Yes, yes; thank you, thank you," cried Vine hastily.

"But he arn't at home."

"What?"

"Him and four more went out at sundown to shoot their nets."

Vine uttered a low groan.

"Good-night!" said the man, and he moved off.

"Stop!" cried Vine, and the man's heavy boots ceased to clatter on the rugged pebbles with which the way was paved.

"Call me, Master Vine?"

"Yes. You know me?"

"Know you? Ay, and the young lady too. Liza Perrow's Uncle Bob. Didn't I take you 'long the coast one day?"

"Yes, yes, of course," said Vine hastily. "Look here, my man; you have a boat."

"Third share, master; just going out now. My mates are waiting yonder."

"In the harbour?"

"Ay. That's their lantern."

"Look here, Perrow," said Vine excitedly, as he held the man tightly by the arm, "you are going fishing?"

"Going to have a try, master."

"And you will perhaps earn a pound apiece."

"If we are lucky. P'r'aps naught."

"Perrow," whispered the old man, with his lips close to the man's face, "will you do me a service--a great service?"

"Sarvice, sir?--Ay, sure I will."

"Then look here. Your boat would sail across to France?"

"To France?" said the great bluff fellow, with a chuckle. "Why, didn't some of our mates sail to Spain in a lugger a foot shorter than ours, and not so noo a boot! France, ay, or Spain either."

"Then look here; take a passenger over for me to-night; and I'll give you fifty pounds."

"Fifty pounds, Master Vine?"

"Yes. Be ready; take him safely over, and bring me back word from him that he's safe, and I'll pay you a hundred."

"Will you shake hands on that, master?"

"You will do it?"

"Do it for you, Master Vine? Why, sir, bless you, we'd ha' done it fur five. But if you tempt poor men wi' a big lump o' money like that--Do it? I should think we will."

"But your partners?" said Louise excitedly. "Never you mind about them, miss. I'm cap'n o' our boot. Where's our passenger? Lor', miss, don't do that."

The man started, for Louise had caught his rough hand and kissed it.

"I'll soon bring him to you," said the old man, with his voice trembling; "but look here, my man--you must ask no questions, you will not be put off, you will not refuse at the last moment?"

"Look here, Master Vine, sir," said the man stolidly, "I arn't a fool. Hundred pound's a lot o' money, and of course it's to smuggle some one away on the quiet. Well, so be it."

"Hah!" ejaculated Vine. "It's to 'blige you as I've knowd for a kind-hearted gent these ever so many years, though there was that bit o' trouble 'bout my brother's lass, as I don't believe took that there money."

"No, no, she was innocent," cried Louise.

"Thanks for that, miss, and--say, has young Master Harry been up to some game."

There was no reply.

"Never mind. Don't you speak without you like, Master Vine, sir. Yonder's our boot, and I'll go down to her, and she shall lie off just outside, and I'll wait in our little punt down by the harbour steps. Will that do?"

"Yes; and you will trust me to pay you a hundred pounds?"

"Trust _you_?"

The man uttered a low chuckle.

"How long will he be, master?"

"I--I don't know. Wait till he comes."

"Master Harry?" whispered the man.

"Yes."

"All right, sir. You trust me. I'll trust you. Night, miss. I'll wait there if it's a week."

"Hah!" ejaculated Vine, as the man's heavy step went on before them. "There is a way of escape for him. I am a father, and what I ought to do by my friend pales before that. Now to find him, my child, to find him. He _must_ escape."

Louise clung to his arm, and they stood there on the cliff-path listening, and each mentally asking the question, what to do?

"If I could only get the faintest clue of his movements," muttered Vine. "Louise, my child, can you not suggest something?"

She did not answer, for a terrible dread was upon her now. Her brother might have been taken; and if so, there was no need to hesitate as to the way to go.

As if the same thoughts had impressed him, Vine suddenly exclaimed, "No, no, they would not have taken him. The man was a stranger, and Harry would be too quick."

For the next hour they hurried here and there, passing Van Heldre's house, where a dim light in the window showed where the injured man lay. There was a vague kind of feeling that sooner or later they would meet Harry, but the minutes glided slowly by, and all was still.

Out beyond the harbour light the faint gleam of a lantern could be seen, showing that Bob Perrow had kept faith with them, and that the lugger was swinging in the rapid current, fast to one of the many buoys used by the fishermen in fine weather. But there was no sign or sound apparent; and, with their hearts sinking beneath the impression that Harry had been taken, and yet not daring to go and ask, father and daughter still wandered to and fro along the various streets of the little town.

"Can he have taken boat and gone?" whispered Vine at last.

"No," said Louise, "there would not have been time, and we should have seen the lights had a boat gone out."

"George!"

Two figures suddenly appeared out of the darkness, and stopped before them.

"Luke? You here?"

"Yes; have you seen him?"

"No; but is--is he--"

"No, Mr Vine," said Leslie quickly. "I have been up to the station twice."

"Sir!"

"For Heaven's sake don't speak to me like that, Mr Vine," cried Leslie. "I know everything, and I am working for him as I would for my own brother."

"Yes, it's all right, George," said Uncle Luke, with his voice softening a little. "Leslie's a good fellow. Look here; we must get the young dog away. Leslie has chartered a fast boat, and she lies in the head of the harbour ready."

"Ah!"

It was an involuntary ejaculation from Louise.

"We'll have have him taken across the Channel if we can find him. Where can he be hidden?"

"We have been twice on to your house, Mr Vine," said Leslie, who kept right away from Louise, and out of delicacy seemed to ignore her presence, but spoke so that she could hear every word. "I have three of my miners on the look-out--men I can trust, and law or no law, we must save him from arrest."

"Heaven bless you, Mr Leslie. Forgive--"

"Hush, sir. There is no time for words. The men from London with our own police are searching in every direction. He got right away, and he is hiding somewhere, for he certainly would not take to the hills or the road, and it would be madness to try the rail."

"Yes," said Uncle Luke. "He's safe to make for the sea, and so get over yonder. There's a boat lying off though, and I'm afraid that's keeping him back. The police have that outside to stop him."

"No; that is a boat I have chartered, Luke, waiting to save my poor boy."

"Then before many hours are gone he'll be down by the harbour, that's my impression," said Uncle Luke. "Confound you, George, why did you ever have a boy?"

George Vine drew a long breath and remained silent.

"If you will allow me, gentlemen," said Leslie, "I think we ought not to stay here like this. The poor fellow will not know what precautions his friends have taken, and some one ought to be on the look-out to give him warning: whenever he comes down to the harbour."

"Yes; that's true."

"Then if I may advise, I should suggest, sir, that you patrol this side to and fro, where you must see him if he comes down to make for the west point; I'll cross over and watch the east pier, and if Mr Luke Vine here will stop about the head of the harbour, we shall have three chances of seeing him instead of one."

Louise pressed her hand to her throbbing heart, as she listened to these words, and in spite of her agony of spirits, noted how Leslie avoided speaking to her, devoting himself solely to the task of helping her brother; and as she felt this, and saw that in future they could be nothing more than the most distant friends, a suffocating feeling of misery seemed to come over her, and she longed to hurry away, and sob to relieve her overcharged breast.

"Leslie's right," said Uncle Luke, in a decisive way. "Let's separate at once. And look here, whoever sees him is to act, give him some money, and get him off at once. He must go. The trouble's bad enough now, it would be worse if he were taken, and it's the last thing Van Heldre would do, hand him to the police. Leslie!"

He held up his hand, but the steps he heard were only those of some fishermen going home from the river.

"Now, then, let's act; and for goodness' sake, let's get the young idiot away, for I warn you all, if that boy's taken there'll be far worse trouble than you know of now."

"Uncle Luke!" cried Louise piteously.

"Can't help it, my dear. There will, for I shall end a respectable life by killing old Crampton and being hung. Come along, Leslie."

The little party separated without a word, and Louise and her father stood listening till the steps of their late companions died away.

Volume 2, Chapter XI.

"IN THE QUEEN'S NAME."

As they stood together at the lower end of the rocky point listening and waiting, it seemed to Louise Vine as if she were about to be an actor in some terrible scene.

Vine muttered a few words now and then, but they were inaudible to his child, who clung to his arm as he walked untiringly to and fro, watching the harbour and the way back into the town, while when he paused it was to fix his eyes upon the dimly-seen lantern of the lugger lying out beyond the point. The portion of their walk nearest the town was well kept and roughly paved with great slabs of granite, in which were here and there great rings for mooring purposes, while at some distance apart were projecting masses roughly hewn into posts. But as the distance from the town increased and the harbour widened, the jutting point was almost as if it had been formed by nature, and the footing was difficult, even dangerous at times.

But in his excitement Vine did not heed this, going on and on regardless of the difficulties, and Louise unmurmuringly walked or at times climbed along till they were right out at the extreme point where, some feet below them, the water rushed and gurgled in and out of the crevices with terrible gasping noises, such as might be made by hungry sea monsters thronging round to seize them if either of them should make a slip.

Here Vine paused again and again to watch the lantern in the lugger, and listen for the rattle of oars in the rowlocks, the oars of the boat conveying his son to the men who would at once hoist the sails and bear him away to a place of safety. But the dim light of the horn lantern rose and fell, there was no rattle of oars, not even the murmur of a voice: nothing but the sucking, gasping noises at their feet, as the tide swirled by like the race of waters from some huge mill.

Louise clung more tightly to her father's arm, as he stood again and again where she had often from a rock behind watched her uncle deftly throwing out his line to capture some silvery-sided bass or a mackerel, glowing with all the glories of the sea at sunrise.

"If he should slip," she said to herself, as she tightened her grasp of her father's thin arm, "if he should slip!" and she shuddered as she gazed down into the deep, black rushing water, where the star reflections were all broken up and sparkled deep down as if the current were charged with gold-dust, swirling and eddying by. Then she started as her father spoke aloud to himself.

"No, no, no!" he murmured. Then sharply, "Come, let us get back."

Louise crept along by him in silence, her heart giving one violent leap, as Vine slipped once on the spray-swept rocks, but recovered himself and went on without a word. Again and again she suffered that terrible catching of the breath, as her father slipped, caught his foot in some inequality, or would, but for her guidance, have stumbled over some projecting rock post and been thrown into the harbour. For, as he walked on, his eyes were constantly searching the dark surface as he listened intently for some token of the escaping man.

But all was still as they neared the town, still with the silence of death. No one could have told that there were watchers by the ferry, where a rough boat was used for crossing from side to side of the harbour; that two boats were waiting, and that Duncan Leslie was patrolling the short arm of granite masonry that ran down to the tower-like building where the harbour lantern burned.

"Hist!" whispered Louise, for there was a step some little distance away, but it ceased, and as she looked in its direction, the cliffs seemed to tower up behind the town till a black, jagged ridge cut the starry sky.

"Let's go back," said her father, huskily. "I fancied I heard a boat stealing along the harbour; we cannot see the lugger light from here."

"George!" came from out of the darkness ahead.

"Yes, Luke!" was whispered back sharply, and the old man came up.

"Seen anything of him?"

"No. Have, you?"

"Not a sign. I sent one of the fishermen up to the police to see what he could find out, and--"

"Uncle!" panted out Louise, as she left her father to cling to the old man.

"Poor little lassie! poor little lassie!" he said tenderly, as he took her and patted her head. "No news, and that's good news. They haven't got him, but they're all out on the watch; the man from London and our dunderheads. All on the watch, and I fancy they're on the look-out close here somewhere, and that's what keeps him back."

Louise uttered a low moan.

"Ah, it's bad for you, my dear," said Uncle Luke, whose manner seemed quite changed. "You come with me, and let me take you home. We don't want another trouble on our hands."

"No, no," she said firmly, "I cannot leave him."

"But you will be ill, child."

"I cannot leave him, uncle," she said again; and going back to her father, she locked her fingers about his arm.

"Hi! hoi! look out!" came from a distance; and it was answered directly by a voice not a hundred yards away.

A thrill of excitement shot through the little group as they heard now the tramp of feet.

"I knew it," whispered Uncle Luke. "He's making for the harbour now."

"Ah!" gasped Vine, as he almost dragged Louise over the rugged stones.

"Stop where you are," said Uncle Luke, excitedly; and he placed something to his lips and gave a low shrill whistle.

It was answered instantly from the other side of the harbour.

"Leslie's on the look-out. Yes, and the men with the boat," he whispered, excitedly, as another low whistle was heard.

Then there was a few moments' silence, as if people were listening, followed by steps once more, and a quick voice exclaimed from out of the darkness,

"Seen him?"

Neither of the group answered, and a man stepped up to them and flashed the light of a lantern quickly over them before closing it again.

"That's you, is it?" he said. "I'll have a word with you by and by; but look here, I call upon you two men in the Queen's name to help me to take him. If you help him to get away, it's felony, so you may take the consequences. You haven't got to do with your local police now."

The man turned away and walked swiftly back toward the town, the darkness seeming to swallow him up. He paused for a few moments at the edge of the harbour, to throw the light of his lantern across the water.

"The London man," said Uncle Luke, unconcernedly. "Well, God save the Queen, but I'm sure she don't want us to help to capture our poor boy."

Volume 2, Chapter XII.

"OH! ABSALOM, MY SON, MY SON."

Harry Vine had but one thought as he dashed out of his father's house, and that was to escape--far away to some other country where neither he nor his crime was known--to some place where, with the slate of his past life wiped clean, he might begin anew, and endeavour to show to his father, to his sister, perhaps to Madelaine Van Heldre, that he was not all bad. How he would try, he told himself. Only let him get aboard one of the fishing-luggers, and after confiding in some one or other of his old friends, the bluff fishermen who had often given him a sail or a day's fishing, beg of him to take him across to Jersey or St. Malo; anywhere, so as to avoid the terrible exposure of the law--anywhere to be free.

"I'd sooner die than be taken," he said to himself as he sped on downward at a rapid rate.

The way to the harbour seemed clear, and, though the officer was pursuing him, Harry had the advantage of the darkness, and the local knowledge of the intricate ways of the little town, so that he felt no fear of being able to reach the harbour and some boat. He was reckoning without his host. His host, or would-be host, was the detective sergeant, who had gone about his business in a businesslike manner, so that when Harry Vine was congratulating himself upon the ease with which he was able to escape, one of the local policemen started from his post right in the fugitive's way, nearly succeeding in catching him by the arm, an attention Harry avoided by doubling down one of the little alleys of the place. Over and over again he tried to steal down to the harbour, but so sure as he left his hiding-place in one of the dark lanes or among the fishermen's stores he heard steps before him, and with the feeling that the whole town had now risen up against him, and that the first person he encountered would seize and hold him until the arrival of the police, he crept back, bathed with cold perspiration, to wait what seemed to be an interminable time before he ventured again.

His last hiding-place was a wooden shed not far from the waterside--a place of old ropes and sails, and with a loft stored full of carefully-dried nets, put away till the shoals of fish for which they were needed visited the shore. Here, in profound ignorance of what had been done on his behalf, he threw himself down on a heap of tarred canvas to try and devise some certain means of escape. He had a vague intention of getting the fishermen to help him; but after thinking of several he could not decide which of the sturdy fellows would stand by such a culprit as he. And as he lay there the bitter regrets for the past began to attack him.

"Louise--sister," he muttered to himself, "I must have been mad. And I lie here groaning like the coward I am," he said fiercely, as, thrusting back all thoughts of the past with the intention of beginning afresh, he stole out once more into the dark night, meaning to get to the harbour, and, failing a better means, to take some small sailing-boat, and to trust to his own skill to get safely across. The place was far more quiet now; and, avoiding the larger lanes, he threaded his way through passage after passage among the net-stores and boat-houses till he reached the main street, along which he was walking noiselessly when a heavy regular pace ahead checked him, and, turning shortly round, he made for the first narrow back lane, reached it, and turned trembling as he recognised that it was the familiar path leading by the back of Van Heldre's, the way he knew so well.

Hurrying on, he had nearly reached the bottom when he became aware of the fact that there was a policeman waiting. He turned sharply back, after nearly walking into the arms of one of his enemies, and was nearly at the top once more when he found that the man whom he had tried to avoid was there too waiting.

"I'm caught," he said bitterly, as he paused midway. "Shall I dash for liberty? No," he said bitterly; "better give up."

He raised his hand to guide himself silently along, when he shivered, for it touched a gate which yielded, and as the steps advanced from front and rear, he stepped down. Fate in her irony had decided that, to avoid arrest, he should take refuge in the premises of the man he had injured. The steps came nearer, and trembling with horror the fugitive glanced upward to see that two windows were illumined, and there was light enough to show that the door leading into the corridor was open. He shrank from it, and was then driven to enter and stand inside, listening, for the steps stopped outside, the door yielded, and a voice said:

"Couldn't have been him. He wouldn't have gone there."

The gate swung gently to and the fugitive began to breathe more freely, for, after a low whispered conversation, it was evident that the watchers were about to separate, when there was a loud cough which Harry knew only too well; and to his horror he saw faintly in at the end of the passage, his figure more plain by a light in the hall, the short stooping figure of Crampton coming towards him. To have stepped out into the yard would have been into the light, where the old man must have seen him; and, obeying his first instinct, Harry crouched down, and as Crampton advanced, backed slowly along the corridor till farther progress was stayed by the outer door of the office. Harry sank down in the corner, a dark shapeless heap to any one who had approached, and with heart throbbing, he waited.

"He is coming into the office," he thought.

But as the old man reached the opening into the yard he paused. There was a faint rustling, then a flash, and a match flared out, illumining the old clerk's stern countenance, and it seemed as the tiny splint burned that discovery must take place now. But Crampton was intent upon the business which had brought him there. He had stolen out from his self-appointed task of watching over the house to have his nightly pipe, and for fully an hour Harry Vine crouched in the corner by the office door, seeing over and over again the horrors of the past, and trembling as he waited for the fresh discovery, while old Crampton softly paced the little yard, smoking pipe after pipe.

That hour seemed as if it would never end, and at last in despair Harry was about to rise, when he heard Madelaine's voice, gently calling to the old man.

"Hah!" he said softly; "a bad habit, Miss Madelaine, but it seems to soothe me now."

Would he fasten the door and gate, and complete the horror of Harry's position by making him a prisoner? The young man crouched there trembling, for Crampton re-crossed the yard, and there was the sound of two bolts being shot. Then he regained the glass door, and was about to close that.

"No," said Madelaine softly; "the night is so hot. Leave that open, Mr Crampton."

"Yes, my clear; yes, my clear," sighed the old man. "I shall be in the little room, and nne is likely to come here now."

Gone at last; and trembling so in his wild excitement that he could hardly stir, Harry Vine literally crept along the corridor, rose up and ran across the yard with the horrible sensation that the old clerk's hand was about to descend upon his shoulder. The two bolts were shot back with a loud snap, the gate was flung open; and, reckless now, he dashed out and down the narrow lane.

"He could bear no more," he said. "The harbour and a boat." He ran now rapidly, determined to end the terrible suspense, and for the first few moments he felt that his task would be easy; then he heard a warning shout, and in his dread took refuge in the first alley leading down to the harbour.

Steps passed, and he emerged at the lower end, gained the main street by returning through another of the alleys by which, after the fashion of Yarmouth, the little town was scored.

"Five minutes will take me there now," he panted; and, forcing himself to walk, he was hurrying on when a shout told him that his enemies were well upon the alert. With the horrible sense of being hunted, he clashed on, blindly now, reckless as to which way he went, so long as he reached the waterside. As he ran, he was about to strike down to the left where the landing-steps lay; and had he reached them there was a boat and men waiting, but the London detective had discovered that and was on the alert.

Harry almost ran into his arms, but with a cry of rage he doubled back and ran for the shore, where he might set pursuit at defiance by hiding in the rocks below the cliff. But another man sprang up in his way, and in his despair he ran off to his left again, right along the great pier, towards the point.

"We've got him now," shouted a voice behind as Harry rushed out, just conscious of a shriek as he brushed by a group of figures, hardly seen in the darkness. He heard, too, some confused words in which "boat" and "escape" seemed to be mingled. But in his excitement he could only think of those behind, as there came the patter of his pursuers' feet on the rough stones.

There was a shrill whistle from the other side of the harbour, followed by a hail, and the splash of oars in the darkness, while a low "ahoy!" came from off the point.

"Yes," muttered the officer between his teeth, "you're a nice party down here, but I've got my man."

What followed was the work of moments. Harry ran on till the rugged nature of the point compelled him to walk, then step cautiously from rock to rock. The harbour was on one side, the tide rushing in on the other; before him the end of the point, with its deep water and eddying currents, which no swimmer could stem, and behind him the London officer with the local police close up.

There was a boat, too, in the harbour, and the fugitive had heard the whistle and cries. He saw the light of the lugger out ahead, and to him, in his mad horror of capture, they meant enemies--enemies on every hand.

And so he reached the extreme point, where, peering wildly about, like some hunted creature seeking a way of escape, he turned at bay.

"There, sir, the game's up," cried the officer. "You've made a good fight of it, so now give in."

"Keep back!" roared Harry hoarsely. And he stooped and felt about for a loose piece of rock where every scrap had been washed away.

"Will you give in?" cried the officer.

"Keep back!" cried Harry again, in a tone so fierce that for a moment the officer paused.

There was another whistle from across the harbour, a shout and a hail out of the darkness, but nothing save the dim lantern light could be seen.

"Now then, you two," said the officer decidedly, "back me up."

There was a faint click as he drew something from his pocket and without hesitation stepped boldly over the few feet which separated him from Harry Vine.

Panting, half wild, hearing the whistles, the cries, and still divining nothing but that there were enemies on every hand, the young man uttered a hoarse cry as the detective caught at his breast. With one well-aimed blow he struck out, sent the man staggering back, and then, as those who had watched and waited came panting up, he turned quickly, stepped to the very edge, raised his hands, and plunged into the rushing tide.

"Harry! my son!" rang out on the darkness of the night.

But there was no answer. The black water seemed to flash with a myriad points of light, and then ran, hissing and rushing in a contending current, out to sea.

Volume 2, Chapter XIII.

"THE LORD GAVE, AND--"

"Boat ahoy! Whoever you are--this way--boat!"

"Ahoy!" came back from three quarters--from two different points in the harbour, and from out to sea.

Then came another whistle from far back on the other side of the harbour, and in a shrill voice from between his hands Uncle Luke yelled: "Leslie, another boat, man, for the love of heaven!"

"Here! you there, sir! the nearest boat--quick, pull!" roared the detective in stentorian tones. "Have you no light?"

"Ay, ay," came back; and a lantern that had been hidden under a tarpaulin coat shone out, dimly showing the boat's whereabouts.

"That's right; pull, my lads, off here. Man overboard off the rocks. This way."

An order was given in the boat, and her course was altered.

"No, no," cried the officer; "this way, my lads, this way."

"We know what we're about," came back.

"Yes, yes; they know," said Uncle Luke, hoarsely. "Let them be; the current sets the way they've taken. He's right out there by now."

The old man's arm was dimly seen pointing seawards, but the detective was not convinced.

"It's a trick to throw me on the wrong scent," he said excitedly. "Here, you"--to one of the local police--"why don't you speak?"