Kitabı oku: «The Haute Noblesse: A Novel», sayfa 29
Chapter Sixty Two
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 Louy, 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 to 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. “Louy, 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 the 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.”
Chapter Sixty Three
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, Louy. 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 she 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 befel.”
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 treetops 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 along 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, Louy?” 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, Louy, 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 cast 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.”
“Louy, 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.”
“Cut where? For Heaven’s sake, man, speak!” panted the trembling father as he clung to him.
“Across the sea.”
Chapter Sixty Four
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 ensure 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. You 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. God 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 toward 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 Louy 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.”
