"A Novel" (continued 8)

“Private enough,” said Leslie, bitterly; “and once more I say you may think I have no right to interfere. I give up all claims that I might have thought I had upon you, but as your father’s friend I will not stand calmly by and see wrong done his child. Speak out, sir; who are you? Let’s hear your name, if you are ashamed to show your face.”

“Tell him to go away,” said Harry again.

Leslie writhed, for Aunt Marguerite’s hints about the French gentleman of good descent came up now as if to sting him. This man he felt, in his blind rage, was the noble suitor who in his nobility stooped to come in the darkness to try and persuade a weak girl to leave her home; and as he thought this it was all he could do, hot-blooded, madly jealous and excited, to keep from flinging himself upon the supposed rival, the unworthy lover of the woman he had worshipped with all the strength of a man’s first passion.

“I can’t talk to him in his wretched tongue,” cried Leslie, fiercely; “but I understand his meaning. Perhaps he may comprehend mine. No. I shall not go. I shall not leave this room till Mr Vine returns. He can answer to your father, or I will, if I have done wrong.”

“Mr Leslie!” cried Louise, “You don’t know what you are doing—what you say. Pray—pray go.”

“When my old friend George Vine tells me I have done wrong, and I have seen you safe in his care.”

“No, no. Go now, now!” cried Louise.

Leslie drew a deep breath and his heart beat heavily in the agony and despair he felt. She loved this man, this contemptible wretch who had gained such ascendency over her that she was pleading in his behalf, and trying to screen him from her father’s anger.

“Mr Leslie. Do you hear me?” she cried, taking courage now in her despair and dread lest her father should return.

“Yes,” he said coldly. “I hear you, Miss Vine; and it would be better for you to retire and leave this man with me.”

“No, no,” she cried excitedly. “Mr Leslie! You are intruding here. This is a liberty. I desire you to go.”

“When Mr Vine comes back,” said Leslie sternly. “If I have done wrong then no apology shall be too humble for me to speak. But till he comes I stay. I have heard too much. I may have been mad in indulging in those vain hopes, but if that is all dead there still remains too much honour and respect for the woman I knew in happier times for me to stand by and let her wrong herself by accompanying this man.”

“Mr Leslie, you are mistaken.”

“I am not.”

“Indeed—indeed!”

“Prove it then,” he cried, in stern judicial tones. “I am open to conviction. You love this man?” Louise was silent. “He was begging you to accompany him in flight.” Louise uttered a low wail. “Hah!” ejaculated Leslie, “I am right.”

“No, no; it is all a misapprehension,” cried Louise, excitedly. “Mr Leslie, this—”

“Hold your tongue,” whispered Harry hoarsely, and she moaned as she writhed in spirit.

“There are reasons why my father should not know of this visit.”

“So I suppose,” said Leslie sternly; “and you ask me to be a partner by giving way to a second blow to that true-hearted, trusting man. Louise Vine, is it you who are speaking, or has this man put these cruelly base words in your mouth?”

“What can I say? What can I do?” wailed Louise, wringing her hands, as with every sense on the strain she listened for her father’s step.

Harry, who now that the first shock had passed was rapidly growing more calm and calculating, bent down over his sister, and whispered to her again in French to go quickly, and get her hat and mantle.

“He will not dare to stop us,” he said.

Louise drew a long breath full of pain, for it seemed to be the only way to save her brother. She must go; and, taking a step or two she made for the door.

“No,” said Leslie calmly, “it is better that you should stay, Miss Vine.”

Harry was at her side in a moment.

“Never mind your hat,” he whispered in French, “we must go at once.”

“Stand back, sir!” cried Leslie, springing to the door. “Your every act shows you to be a base scoundrel. You may not understand my words, but you can understand my action. I am here by this door to keep it till Mr Vine returns. For the lady’s sake, let there be no violence.”

“Mr Leslie, let us pass!” cried Louise imperiously, but he paid no heed to her, continuing to address his supposed rival in calm, judicial tones, which did not express the wild rage seething in his heart.

“I say once more, sir, let there be no violence—for your own sake—for hers.”

Harry continued to advance, with Louise’s hand in his, till Leslie had pressed close to the door.

“Once more I warn you,” said Leslie, “for I swear by Heaven you shall not pass while I can lift a hand.”

At that moment, in the obscurity, Louise felt her hand dropped, and she reeled to the side of the room, as now, with a fierce, harsh sound, Harry sprang at Leslie’s throat, pushed him back against the door in his sudden onslaught, and then wrenched him away.

“Quick, Louise!” he cried in French. “The door!”

Louise recovered herself and darted to the door, the handle rattling in her grasp. But she did not open it. She stood as if paralysed, her eyes staring and lips parted, gazing wildly at the two dimly-seen shadows which moved here and there across the casement frames in a curiously weird manner, to the accompaniment of harsh, panting sounds, the dull tramping of feet, heavy breathing, and the quick, sharp ejaculations of angry men.

Then a fresh chill of horror shot through her, as there was a momentary cessation of the sounds, and Leslie panted.

“Bah! then you give in, sir!”

The apparent resignation of his adversary had thrown him off his guard, and the next moment Harry had sprung at him, and with his whole weight borne him backwards, so that he fell with his head upon the bare patch of the hearthstone.

There was the sound of a terrible blow, a faint rustling, and then, as Louise stood there like one in a nightmare, she was roused to action by her brother’s words.

“Quick!” he whispered, in a hoarse, panting way. “Your hat and mantle. Not a moment to lose!”

The nightmare-like sensation was at an end, but it was still all like being in a dream to Louise as, forced against her own will by the effort of one more potent, she ran up to her own room, and catching up a bonnet and a loose cloak, she ran down again.

“You have killed him,” she whispered.

“Pish! stunned. Quick, or I shall be caught.”

He seized her wrist, and hurried her out of the front door just as Liza went in at the back, after a long whispered quarrel with her mother, who was steadily plodding down towards the town, as brother and sister stepped out.

“What’s that? some one in front?” whispered Harry, stopping short. “Here, this way.”

“Harry,” moaned his sister, as he drew her sidewise, and began to climb up the rough side of the path so as to reach the rugged land above.

“It is the only chance,” he said hastily. “Quick!”

She followed him, half climbing, half dragged, till she was up on the granite-strewn waste, across which he hurried her, reckless of the jagged masses of rock that were always cropping up in their way, and of the fact that in three places farther along, once fenced in by stones, which had since crumbled down, were, one after the other, the openings to three disused mines, each a terrible yawning chasm, with certain death by drowning for the unfortunate who was plunged into their depths.

Chapter Forty Nine.

After the Great Sorrows.

“No, no, no, Mr Vine—I mean no, no, no, George Vine,” sobbed Mrs Van Heldre; “I did, I know, feel bitter and full of hatred against one who could be so base as to raise his hand against my loving, forbearing husband; but that was when I was in misery and despair. Do you think that now God has blessed us by sparing his life and restoring him to us, I could be so thankless, hard and wicked as to bear malice?”

“You are very, very good,” said Vine sadly.

“I wish I was,” said Mrs Van Heldre, with a comic look of perplexity on her pretty, elderly countenance, “but I’m not, George, I’m a very curious woman.”

“You are one of the best and most amiable creatures that ever existed,” said Vine, taking her hand and kissing it.

“I try to be good-tempered and to do my best,” said the little woman with a sigh, “but I’m very weak and stupid; and I know that is the one redeeming point in my character, I can feel what a weak woman I am.”

“Thank God you are what you are,” said Vine reverently. “If I had had such a wife spared to me all these years, that terrible catastrophe would not have occurred.”

“And you, George Vine, thank God, too, for sparing to you the best and most loving daughter that ever lived. Now, now, now, don’t look like that. I wanted to tell you how fond and patient John always has been with me, and Maddy too, when I have said and done weak and silly things. For I do, you know, sometimes. Ah, it’s no use for you to shake your head, and pretend you never noticed it. You must.”

“I hope you will never change,” said Vine with a sad smile.

“Ah, that’s better,” cried Mrs Van Heldre. “I’m glad to see you smile again, for Louy’s sake, for our sake: and now, once for all, never come into our house again, my dear old friend and brother, looking constrained. John has had long, long talks with me and Maddy.”

“Yes,” cried Vine excitedly. “What did he say?”

Mrs Van Heldre took his hand and held it.

“He said,” she whispered slowly, “That it grieved and pained him to see you come to his bedside, looking as if you felt that we blamed you for what has passed. He said you had far more cause to blame him.”

“No, no,” said Vine hastily. “I do not blame him. It was fate—it was fate.”

“It wasn’t anything of the kind,” said Mrs Van Heldre sharply; “it was that stupid, obstinate, bigoted, wrong-headed old fellow Crampton.”

“Who felt that he owed a duty to his master, and did that duty.”

“Oh!” sighed the little woman with a look of perplexity in her puckered-up forehead, “I told you that I was a very stupid woman. I wanted to make you more cheerful and contented, and see what I have done!”

“How can I be cheerful and contented, my good little woman?” said Vine sadly. “There, there! I shall be glad when a couple of years have gone.”

“Why?” said Mrs Van Heldre, sharply.

“Because I shall either be better able to bear my burden or be quite at rest.”

“George Vine!” exclaimed Mrs Van Heldre reproachfully. “Is that you speaking? Louise—remember Louise.”

“Ah, yes,” he said sadly, but sat gazing dreamily before him. “Louise. If it had not been for her—”

He did not finish his sentence.

“Come, my dear. John will be expecting you for a long chat. Try and be more hopeful, and don’t go up to him looking like that. Doctor Knatchbull said we were to make him as cheerful as we could, and to keep him from thinking about the past. He did say, too, that we were not to let you see him much. There—”

Poor little Mrs Van Heldre looked more perplexed than ever, and now burst into tears.

“He said that? The doctor said that?”

“Yes; but did you ever hear such a silly woman in your life? To go and blurt out such a thing as that to you!”

“He was quite right—quite right,” said Vine hastily; “and I’ll be very careful not to say or do anything to depress him. Poor John! Do you think he is awake now?”

“No,” said Mrs Van Heldre, wiping her eyes. “Maddy is with him, and she will come down directly he wakes.”

At that moment there was a ring, and on the door being opened the servant announced Luke Vine.

“Hallo,” he said, coming in after his usual unceremonious fashion. “How is he?”

“Very, very much better, Luke Vine,” said Mrs Van Heldre. “George is going up to see him as soon as he wakes.”

“George? My brother George? Oh, you’re there, are you? How are you, George? How’s the girl?”

“Sit down, Luke Vine.”

“No, thank you, ma’am. Sit too much as it is. Don’t get enough exercise.”

“You shall go up and see John, as soon as he wakes.”

“No, thankye. What’s the use? I couldn’t do him any good. One’s getting old now. No time to spare. Pity to waste what’s left.”

“Well, I’m sure,” said Mrs Van Heldre bridling. “Of all men to talk like that, you ought to be the last. I’ll go up and see whether he is awake.”

“Poor little woman,” said Uncle Luke, as she left the room. “Always puts me in mind, George, of a pink and white bantam hen.”

“As good a little woman as ever breathed, Luke.”

“Yes, of course; but it’s comic to see her ruffle up her feathers and go off in a huff. How’s Lou?”

“Not very well, Luke. Poor girl, she frets. I shall have to take her away.”

“Rubbish! She’ll be all right directly. Women have no brains.”

George Vine looked up at him with an air of mild reproof.

“All tears and doldrums one day; high jinks and coquetry the next. Marry, and forget all about you in a week.”

“Luke, my dear brother, you do not mean this.”

“Don’t soap, George. I hate to be called my dear brother. Now, do I look like a dear brother?”

“I shall never forget your goodness to us over our terrible trouble.”

“Will you be quiet? Hang it all, George! don’t be such an idiot. Let the past be. The poor foolish boy is dead; let him rest. Don’t be for ever digging up the old sorrow, to brood over it and try to hatch fresh. The eggs may not be addled, and you might be successful. Plenty of trouble without making more.”

“I do not wish to make more, Luke; but you hurt me when you speak so lightly of Louise.”

“A jade! I hate her.”

“No, you do not.”

“Yes, I do. Here’s Duncan Leslie, as good a fellow as ever stepped, who has stuck to her through thick and thin, in spite of my lady’s powder, and fan, and her insults.”

“Marguerite has been very sharp and spiteful to Mr Leslie,” said George Vine sadly.

“She’s mad. Well, he wants to marry the girl, and she has pitched him over.”

“Has Louise refused him?”

“He doesn’t say so; but I saw him, and that’s enough. Of course I know that at present—et cetera, et cetera; but the girl wants a husband; all girls do. There was one for her, and she is playing stand off with him. Just like woman. He! he! he! he!” He uttered a sneering laugh. “Going to marry Madge’s French count, I suppose—Monsieur le Comte de Mythville. There, I can’t help it, George, old lad; it makes me wild. Shake hands, old chap. Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings; but between ourselves, though I’ve never shown it to a soul, I was rather hit upon the idea of Leslie marrying Louise.”

“I had thought it possible,” said George Vine, with a sigh.

“Her fault. Hang it all, George, be a man, and bestir yourself.”

“I am trying, brother Luke.”

“That’s right, lad; and for goodness’ sake put down your foot and keep Margaret in her place. Louy is soft now with trouble, and that wicked old woman will try to work her and mould her into what shape she pleases. You’ve had enough of Margaret.”

“I have tried to do my duty by our sister.”

“You’ve done more, my lad. Now take care that she leaves Louy alone. You don’t want another old maid of her pattern in the family.”

“John is awake now, George Vine,” said Mrs Van Heldre, re-entering the room.

“Will you go up?”

“Yes, I’ll go up,” said George Vine quietly.

“Well, aren’t I to be asked to see him?” grumbled Uncle Luke.

“Oh, what a strange man you are!” said Mrs Van Heldre; “you know I wanted you to go up.”

“No, I don’t; I know you asked me to go up. Different thing altogether.”

“I did want you to go. I felt that it would cheer up poor John.”

“Well, don’t be cross about it, woman. Ask me again.”

Mrs Van Heldre turned with a smile to George Vine, as much as to say, “Did you ever hear such an unreasonable being?”

“Rum one, aren’t I, John’s wife, eh?” said Uncle Luke grimly. “Good little woman, after all.”

“After all!” ejaculated Mrs Van Heldre, as she followed them into the room, and then stepped back. “Too many of us at once can’t be good, so I must stay down,” she added with a sigh.

Crossing to the table where her bird’s cage was standing, she completely removed the cover, now displaying a pink and grey ball of feathers upon the perch, her action having been so gentle that the bird’s rest was not disturbed.

“Poor little prisoner!” she said gently. “There, you may wake up to-morrow morning and pipe and sing in the bright sunshine, for we can bear it now—thank God! we can bear it now.”

Chapter Fifty.

The Discovery.

Madelaine rose as the brothers entered the room, and before coming to the bed, where Van Heldre lay rapidly mending now, George Vine took the girl’s hands, looked down in her pale face, which sorrow seemed to have refined, and bent down and kissed her.

“How are you, Maddy?” said Luke Vine, gruffly; and he was going on to the bed, but Madelaine laid her hand upon his shoulder, leant towards him, and kissed him.

“Hah! yes, forgot,” he said, brushing her forehead roughly with his grey beard; and then, yielding to a sudden impulse, kissing the girl tenderly, “How I do hate girls!” he muttered to himself, as he went straight to the window and stood there for a few moments.

“Poor lad!” he said to himself. “Yes, hopeless, or a girl like that would have redeemed him.”

He turned back from the window.

“Room too hot and stuffy,” he said. “Well, how are you, John?”

“Getting well fast,” replied Van Heldre, shaking hands. “Splendid fish that was you sent me to-day; delicious.”

“Humph! all very fine! Shilling or fifteen pence out of pocket,” grumbled Uncle Luke.

“Get out!” said Van Heldre, after a keen look at George Vine. “Poll Perrow wouldn’t have given you more than ninepence for a fish like that. It’s wholesale, Luke, wholesale.”

“Ah! you may grin and wink at George,” grumbled Uncle Luke, “but times are getting hard.”

“They are, old fellow, and we shall be having you in the workhouse, if we can’t manage to get you to the Victoria Park place.”

“Here, come away, George,” snarled Uncle Luke. “He’s better. Beginning to sneer. Temper’s getting very bad now, I suppose, my dear?” he added to Madelaine.

“Terrible. Leads me a dreadful life, Uncle Luke,” she said, putting her arm round Van Heldre’s neck to lay her cheek against his brow for a moment or two before turning to leave the room.

“Cant and carny,” said Uncle Luke. “Don’t you believe her, John Van; she’ll be coming to you for money to-morrow—bless her,” he added sotto voce; then aloud, “What now?”

For Madelaine had gone behind his chair, and placed her hands upon his shoulders.

“It’s all waste of breath, Uncle Luke,” she said gently. “We found you out a long time ago, Louise and I.”

“What do you mean?”

“All this pretended cynicism. It’s a mere disguise.”

“An ass in the lion’s skin, eh?”

“No, Uncle Luke,” she whispered, with her lips close to his ear, so that the others should not catch the words, “that is the wrong way, sir. Reverse the fable.”

“What do you mean, hussy?”

“The dear old lion in the ass’ skin,” she whispered; “and whenever you try to bray it is always a good honest roar.”

“Well, of all—”

He did not finish, for Madelaine had hurried from the room, but a grim smile came over his cynical countenance, and he rubbed his hands softly as if he was pleased. Then, drawing his chair nearer to the bed, he joined in the conversation at rare intervals, the subjects chosen being all as foreign as possible from the past troubles, till Mrs Van Heldre came softly into the room.

“I am Doctor Knatchbull’s deputy,” she said; “and my orders are not to let John excite himself.”

“All nonsense, my dear,” said Van Heldre.

“She is quite right, John,” said George Vine, rising.

“Quite right,” said Uncle Luke, following his brother’s example. “Keep him quiet. Make haste and get well. Good night. Come, George.”

He was at the door by the time he had finished his speech, and without pausing to shake hands began to descend.

Madelaine came out of the drawing-room as the old man reached the hall.

“What do you think of him?” she said eagerly.

“Going backwards—dying fast,” he said shortly.

“Oh!”

“Don’t be a little goose,” he cried, catching her in his arms as she reeled. “We all are; especially people over fifty. Bonny little nurse. You’ve done wonders. Good night, my dear; God bless you!”

She returned his loving fatherly kiss, given hastily, as if he were ashamed of his weakness, and then he strode out into the dark night.

“Poor Uncle Luke!” she said softly. “I was right. He must have had some shock to change his life like this. Good night, dear Mr Vine. My dearest love to Louy.”

“Good night, my darling,” he whispered huskily, and the next minute he was walking slowly away beside his brother in the direction of the turning up to the granite house.

“Good night, Luke,” said George Vine. “It is of no use to say come up.”

“Yes, it is,” said Uncle Luke snappishly. “I want to see Louy, and have a decent cup of tea.”

“I am very glad,” said his brother warmly. “Hah! that’s right. Come more often, Luke. We are getting old men now, and it’s pleasant to talk of the days when we were boys.”

“And be driven from the place by Madge with her pounce-box and her civet-cat airs. You kick her out, and I’ll come often.”

“Poor Marguerite!”

“There you go; encouraging the silly French notions. Why can’t you call her Margaret, like a British Christian?”

“Let her finish her span in peace, brother,” said George Vine, whose visit to his old friend seemed to have brightened him, and made voice and step elastic. “We are crochety and strange too, I with my mollusc hobby, and you with your fishing.”

“If you want to quarrel, I’m not coming up.”

“Yes, you are, Luke. There, come often, and let poor Margaret say what she likes. We shall have done our duty by her, so that will be enough for us.”

“Hang duty! I’m getting sick of duty. No matter what one does, or how one tries to live in peace and be left alone, there is always duty flying in one’s face.”

“Confession of failure, Luke,” said his brother, taking his arm. “You have given up ordinary social life, invested your property, sent your plate to your banker’s, and settled down to the life of the humblest cottager to, as you say, escape the troubles of everyday life.”

“Yes, and I’ve escaped ’em—roguish trades-people, household anxieties, worries out of number.”

“In other words,” said Vine, smiling, “done everything you could to avoid doing your duty, and for result you have found that trouble comes to your cottage in some form or another as frequently as it does to my big house.”

Uncle Luke stopped short, and gave his stick a thump on the path.

“I have done, Luke,” said Vine quietly. “Come along; Louise will think we are very long.”

“Louise will be very glad to have an hour or two to herself without you pottering about her. Hah! what idiots we men are, fancying that the women are looking out for us from our point of view when they are looking out from theirs for fear of being surprised, and—”

“Here we are, Luke. Come in, my dear boy.”

Uncle Luke grunted.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, “it’s getting late. Perhaps I had better not come in now.”

“The tea will be waiting,” said his brother, holding his arm lightly as he rang.

“Horribly dark for my walk back afterwards,” grumbled Uncle Luke. “Really dangerous place all along there by the cliff. No business to be out at night. Ought to be at home.”

“Tea ready, Liza?” said George Vine, as the door was opened, and the pleasant glow from the hall shone upon them in a way that, in spite of his assumed cynicism, looked tempting and attractive to Uncle Luke.

“Miss Louise hasn’t rung for the urn yet, sir.”

“Hah! that will do. Give me your hat, Luke.”

“Bah! nonsense! Think I can’t hang up my own hat now.”

George Vine smiled, and he shook his head at his brother with a good-humoured smile as he let him follow his own bent.

“That’s right. Come along. Louy dear, I’ve brought Uncle Luke up to tea. All dark? Liza, bring the lamp.”

Liza had passed through the baize-covered door which separated the domestic offices from the rest of the house, and did not hear the order.

“Louy? Louy dear!”

“Oh! I don’t mind the dark,” said Uncle Luke. “Here, why don’t the girl let in some air these hot nights?” he continued, as he crossed the room towards the big embayment, with its stained glass heraldic device.

Crack! Crackle!

“Hullo here! broken glass under one’s feet,” said Luke Vine, with a chuckle. “This comes of having plenty of servants to keep your place clean.”

“Glass?”

“Yes, glass. Can’t you hear it?” snarled Uncle Luke, who, as he found his brother resume his old demeanour, relapsed into his own. “There! glass—glass—glass crunching into your Turkey carpet.”

As he spoke he gave his foot a stamp, with the result that at each movement there was a sharp cracking sound.

“It’s very strange. Louise!”

“Oh!”

A low, piteous moan.

“What’s that?” cried Uncle Luke sharply.

George Vine stood in the darkness paralysed with dread.

Some fresh trouble had befallen his house—some new horror assailed him; and his hand wandered vaguely about in search of support as a terrible feeling of sickness came over him, and he muttered hoarsely, “Louise! my child! my child!”

Luke Vine was alarmed, but he did not lose his presence of mind.

“Margaret—a fit,” he said to himself, as, turning quickly, his foot kicked against another portion of the lamp-globe, which tinkled loudly as it fell to pieces.

He brushed by his brother, hurrying out into the hall, to return directly bearing the lamp which stood on a bracket, and holding it high above his head as he stepped carefully across the carpet.

“There! there!” whispered George Vine, pointing towards the fireplace, where he could see a figure lying athwart the hearthrug.

Then, as Luke held the light higher, George Vine seemed to recover his own presence of mind, and going down on one knee as he bent over, he turned the face of the prostrate man to the light.

“Duncan Leslie!” cried Uncle Luke excitedly, as he quickly set down the lamp and knelt on the other side. “Where’s Louy? The poor boy’s in a fit.”

“No, no,” whispered his brother hoarsely. “Look! look!”

Luke drew in a quick, hissing breath.

“Call Louy,” he said sharply. “Tell her to bring something to bind up his head—scissors, sponge, and water.”

“Has he been struck down?” faltered George Vine, with the thought of his old friend rushing to his mind.

“No, no. Don’t talk. Here, your handkerchief, man,” said Luke, who was far the more matter-of-fact. “A fall. Head cut. Slip on the cliff, I suppose, and he has come here for help.”

Taking the handkerchief passed to him by his brother, he rapidly bound it round the place where a deep cut was slowly swelling, while George Vine dragged sharply at the bell and then ran to the door and called, “Louise! Louise.”

Liza came hurrying into the hall, round-eyed and startled.

“Where is your mistress?” cried Vine.

“Miss Louise, sir? Isn’t she there?”

“No. Go up to her room and fetch her. Perhaps she is with Miss Vine.”

“I’ll go and see, sir,” said the girl wonderingly; and she ran up-stairs.

“Help me to get him on the sofa, George,” said Uncle Luke; and together they placed the injured man with his head resting on a cushion.

“Now, then, I think we had better have Knatchbull. He must have had a nasty fall. Send your girl; or no, I’ll go myself.”

“No,” said Leslie feebly; “don’t go.”

“Ah! that’s better. You heard what I said?”

“Yes; what you said.”

It was a feeble whisper, and as the brothers bent over the injured man, they could see that he was gazing wildly at them with a face full of horror and despair.

“I’ll trot down and fetch Knatchbull,” whispered Uncle Luke.

“No.”

The negative came from Leslie, who was lying back with his eyes closed, and it was so decisive that the brothers paused.

At that moment Liza entered the room.

“She isn’t up-stairs, sir. Ow!”

The girl had caught sight of Leslie’s ghastly face, and she uttered an excited howl and thrust her fingers into her ears.

Leslie looked up at George Vine vacantly for a moment, and then light seemed to come to his clouded brain, and his lips moved.

“Say it again,” said Vine, bending over him.

“Send—her—away,” whispered the injured man.

“Yes, of course. Liza, go and wait—no; get a basin of water, sponge, and towel, and bring them when I ring.”

The girl looked at him wildly, but she had not heard his words; and Uncle Luke put an end to the difficulty by taking her arm and leading her into the hall.

“Go and get sponge and basin. Mr Leslie has fallen and hurt himself. Now, don’t be stupid. You needn’t cry.”

The girl snatched her arm away and ran through the baize door.

“Just like a woman!” muttered Uncle Luke as he went back; “no use when she’s wanted. Well, how is he?”

Leslie heard the whisper, and turned his eyes upon him with a look of recognition.

“Better,” he whispered. “Faint—water.”

George Vine opened the cellarette, and gave him a little brandy, whose reviving power proved wonderful. But after heaving a deep sigh, he lay back with his forehead puckered.

“Hadn’t I better fetch Knatchbull, my lad?” said Uncle Luke gruffly, but with a kindly ring in his voice. “Cut on the back of your head. He’d soon patch it up.”

“No. Better soon,” said Leslie in a low voice. “Let me think.”

“Be on the look-out,” whispered Uncle Luke to his brother. “Better not let Louise come in.”

Leslie’s eyes opened quickly, and he gazed from one to the other.

“Better not let her see you till you are better,” said Uncle Luke, taking the injured man into their confidence.

A piteous sigh escaped from Leslie, and he closed his eyes tightly.

“Poor boy!” said Uncle Luke, “he must have had an ugly fall. Missed his way in the dark, I suppose. George, you’ll have to keep him here to-night.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said George Vine uneasily, for his ears were on the strain to catch his child’s step, and her absence troubled him.

All at once Leslie made an effort to sit up, but a giddy sensation overcame him, and he sank back, staring at them wildly.

“Don’t be alarmed,” said George Vine kindly. “You are faint. That’s better.”

Leslie lay still for a few moments, and then made a fresh effort to sit up. This time it was with more success.

“Give him a little more brandy,” whispered Uncle Luke.

“No; he is feverish, and it may do harm. Yes,” he said to Leslie, as the injured man grasped his arm, “you want to tell us how you fell down.”

“No,” said Leslie quickly, but in a faint voice, “I did not fall. It was in the struggle.”

“Struggle?” cried Uncle Luke. “Were you attacked?”

Leslie nodded quickly.

“Where? Along the road?”

“No,” said Leslie hoarsely; “here.”

“Here!” exclaimed the brothers in a breath; and then they exchanged glances, each silently saying to the other, “The poor fellow is wandering.”

“There,” said Leslie, “I can think clearly now. It all seemed like a dream. You must know, Mr Vine. I must tell you,” he added piteously. “Mr Vine, what do you propose doing?”

“Hush!” said George Vine, laying his hand upon the young man’s shoulder, “you are ill and excited now. Don’t talk at present. Wait a little while.”

“Wait?” cried Leslie, growing more excited. “You do not know what you are saying. How long have I been lying here? What time is it?”

“About nine,” said Vine kindly. “Come, come, lie back for a few moments. We’ll get some cold water, and bathe your temples.”

“Man, you will drive me mad,” cried Leslie. “Do you not—no, you have not understood yet. Louise—Miss Vine!”

George Vine staggered as if he had been struck, and his brother caught his arm as he stood there gasping, with his hand to his throat.

“What do you mean?” cried Uncle Luke sternly.

“I am sick and faint,” said Leslie, pressing his hands to his brow, as if unable to think clearly. “I remember now. I came in to ask about Mr Van Heldre, and a stranger was with Miss Vine. I tried to stop him—till you returned. We struggled, and he threw me. I recollect no more.”

“You’re mad!” said Uncle Luke savagely. “Where is Louise?”

His brother caught hold of the back of a chair to support himself, and his lips moved, but no sound came.

“Yes, I can recollect it all clearly now,” panted Leslie. “You must know!”

And he told them all.

They heard him in silence, devouring his words, and from time to time exchanging a hurried glance of inquiry.

“Bah!” ejaculated Uncle Luke, as the young man finished. Then, changing his manner, “Yes, of course. There, lie back, my lad, and tell us again after you’ve had a rest.”

“No, no,” cried Leslie passionately, “it is wasting time. She was forced to go. She was imploring him to let her stay when I came in, and they must be miles away by now. For heaven’s sake do something before it is too late.”

“A Frenchman?” said Uncle Luke eagerly.

“Yes; he spoke to her in French, as well as in English.”

“And did my niece speak to him in French?”

“No; she was appealing to him in English, but he spoke at times in French.”

“Do you hear this, George? Has Louise a French friend?”

“No,” cried her father angrily, “it is a delusion.”

“I would to heaven it were,” groaned Leslie, “I would to heaven it were!”

George Vine crossed to the bell-pull, and rang sharply, repeating the summons before Liza had time to enter the room.

“When did you see your mistress last?” he said sharply.

“When I took in the lamp, sir.”

Liza knew no more, and was dismissed, after staring wonderingly from one to the other.

“Stop!” cried Uncle Luke. “Go up and ask Miss Vine if my niece has been with her.”

Liza returned with an answer in the negative; and as soon as they were alone, Leslie said piteously:

“You disbelieve me.”

“No, no, my lad,” said Uncle Luke; “we only think you are suffering from your fall, and distrust what you have, or think you have, seen.”

“Think!” said Leslie angrily.

“You say some man was with my niece—a Frenchman.”

“Yes; I am bound to tell you for her sake.”

“It is not true,” cried George Vine fiercely.

They looked at him with surprise, for he seemed transformed from the quiet, mild-looking man to one full of fierce determination as he stood there with flashing eyes.

“My daughter knew no Frenchman.”

Leslie winced as if stung, for the mental suggestion was there that Louise had hoodwinked her father, and kept up some clandestine engagement with this man.

“Do you hear me?” cried Vine angrily. “I say it is not true. Mr Leslie, you have been deceived, or you have deceived yourself. I beg your pardon. You are not yourself. It seems useless to discuss this further. Luke, all this seems mysterious because we have no key to the puzzle. Pish! puzzle! it is no puzzle. Louise will be here shortly. Mr Leslie, be advised; lie still for an hour, and then my brother and I will see you home. Or, better still, let me offer you the hospitality of my house for the night.”

The cloud that had obscured Leslie’s brain had now passed away, leaving his mental perceptions clear, while his temper was exacerbated by the injury he had received, and by the agony he suffered on account of Louise. In place of lying back, he rose from the couch and faced George Vine, with his lips quivering and an angry look in his eyes.

“Look,” he said hoarsely, “I am weak and helpless. If I take a few steps I shall reel and fall, or I would do what I tried to do before, act on her behalf. You mock at my words. You, her father, and stand there wasting time; valuable time, which, if used now, might save that poor girl from a life of misery. Do you hear me? I tell you she has gone—fled with that man. He forced her to go with threats. Do you not hear me?”

“Leslie, my lad,” said Uncle Luke, “be calm, be calm.”

“You are as mad and blind as he!” cried Leslie. “Heaven help me, and I am as weak as a child.”

He strode towards the door, and proved the truth of his words, for he tottered, and would have fallen but for Uncle Luke.

“There, you see,” he cried fiercely, “I can do nothing, and you, uncle and father, stand blind to the misery and disgrace which threaten you.”

“Silence!” cried George Vine; “I can hear no more.”

He turned upon Leslie fiercely.

“Your words, sir, are an insult to me, an insult to my child. I tell you I can hear no more. What you say is false. My daughter could not leave my house like this. Go, sir, before I say words which I may afterwards repent, and—and—”

“George, man, what is it?” cried Uncle Luke, as his brother’s words trailed off, and he stopped suddenly in the agitated walk he had kept up to and fro while he was addressing Leslie.

There was no answer to the agitated question, for George Vine was gazing down at something beside the table, lying half covered by the dragged-aside cloth.

Whatever it was it seemed to act as a spell upon the old naturalist, whose eyes were fixed, and his whole aspect that of one suddenly fixed by some cataleptic attack.

“What is it? Are you ill?” cried Uncle Luke excitedly as he stepped forward. “Hah, a letter!”

He was in the act of stooping to pick it up, but his act seemed to rouse his brother from his lethargy, and he caught him by the arm.

“No, no,” he whispered; and slowly put his brother back, he stooped and stretched out his hand to pick up the half-hidden letter.

They could see that his hand trembled violently, and the others stood watching every act, for the feeling was strong upon both that the letter which Vine raised and held at arm’s length contained the explanation needed.

George Vine held the letter toward the shaded lamp, and then passed his left hand over his eyes, and uttered a hoarse sigh, which seemed as if torn from his heart.

“I—I can’t read,” he whispered—“eyes dim to-night, Luke. Read.”

Uncle Luke’s hand trembled now as he took the missive, and slowly tore open the envelope; but as he drew out the letter it was snatched from his hands by his brother, who held it beneath the lamp-shade and bent down to read.

He raised himself lip quickly and passed his hand across his eyes, as if to sweep away some film which hindered his reading, and the silence in that room was terrible as he bent down again.

A strong pang of suffering shot through Duncan Leslie as he saw the old man’s lips quivering, while he read in a slow, laborious way the few lines contained in the note, and then, after once more making an effort to clear his vision, he seemed to read it again.

“George—brother—why don’t you speak?” said Uncle Luke at last. George Vine looked up in a curiously dazed way. “Speak?” he said huskily; “speak?”

“Yes; is that from Louise?” He bowed his head in assent.

“Well, what does she say, man? What does it mean?” George Vine looked in his brother’s eyes once more—the same curiously dazed look as if he hardly comprehended what was taking place. Then he slowly placed the note in Luke’s hands.

There was no slow, dazed manner here, for the old cynic was full of excitement, and he seemed to read the note at a glance.

“Gone!” he said. “Then she has gone?”

“Yes,” said his brother slowly; “she has gone.”

“But this man, George—this man, Leslie. Don’t stare, man, speak.”

“What do you wish me to say, sir?” said Leslie, hoarsely.

“Who was he? What was he like?”

“I could not see his face, he kept it averted. I can tell you no more, sir. I tried to force him to stay till Mr Vine’s return, as I before told you, and you saw the result.”

“A Frenchman?”

“He spoke in French.”

“George, had you any suspicion of this?”

“No.”

“You never heard a word?”

“I never heard a word.”

“But it must have been going on for long enough. And you knew nothing whatever?”

“And I knew nothing whatever,” said George Vine, his words coming slowly and in a voice which sounded perfectly calm.

“Then you know from what black cloud this bolt has come?”

“I—I know nothing,” said Vine, in the same slow, strange way.

“Then I can tell you,” cried Luke, furiously. “If ever man nursed viper at his fireside, you have done this, for it to sting you to the heart. Hah!” he cried, as the door opened and Aunt Marguerite sailed in, drawing herself up in her most dignified way, as she saw who was present, and then ignoring both strangers, she turned to her brother.

“What is the meaning of these inquiries?” she said sternly. “Where is Louise?”

“Ask your own heart, woman,” cried Uncle Luke, furiously. “Gone—gone with some wretched French impostor of your introduction here.”

Aunt Marguerite gazed at him angrily.

“I say where is Louise?” she cried excitedly.

“Mr Leslie,” said George Vine, after drawing a long breath, his sister’s shrill voice having seemed to rouse him; “you will forgive a weak, trusting old man for what he said just now?”

“Forgive you, Mr Vine!”

“I was sure of it. Thank you. I am very weak.”

“But Louise?” cried Aunt Marguerite.

“Read her letter. Gone!” cried Uncle Luke fiercely, as he thrust the note in the old woman’s face.

“Gone!” said George Vine, staring straight before him with the curious look in his eyes intensified, as was the stony aspect of his face. “Gone! Thank God—thank God!”

“George, what are you saying?” cried Uncle Luke excitedly.

“I say thank God that my dear wife was not spared to me to see the blow that has fallen upon my home to-night.”

Brother, sister, Duncan Leslie stood gazing at the silvered head, dimly-seen above the shaded lamp. The face was unnaturally calm and strange; and weak as he was, Duncan Leslie sprang forward. He had seen what was coming, and strove vainly to save the stricken man, for George Vine seemed to have been robbed of all power, and fell with a weary moan senseless at his brother’s feet.

Chapter Fifty One.

Broken with the Fight.

“Better stop where you are, man,” said Uncle Luke.

“No,” said Leslie, as he stood gazing straight before him, as one who tries to see right on into the future along the vista of one’s own life.

“But it is nearly one o’clock. Sit down there and get a nap.”

“No. I must go home,” said Leslie slowly, and in a measured way, as if he were trying to frame his sentences correctly in carrying on the conversation while thinking of something else.

“Well, you are your own master.”

“Yes,” said Leslie. “How is he?”

“Calmer now. He was half mad when he came to, and Knatchbull was afraid of brain fever, but he gave him something to quiet the excitement. Better have given you something too.”

“What are you going to do?” said Leslie, turning upon the old man suddenly, and with a wild look in his eyes.

“Do nothing rashly,” said Uncle Luke.

“But time is flying, man.”

“Yes. Always is,” said Uncle Luke, coolly, as he watched his companion with half-closed eyes.

“But—”

“That will do. I cannot discuss the matter to-night, my head’s in a whirl. Do nothing rashly is a capital maxim.”

“But we are wasting time.”

“Look here, young man,” said Uncle Luke, taking Leslie by the lappet of the coat. “I’m not blind. I daresay I can see as far through you as most people can. I am an old man, and at my time of life I can be calm and dispassionate, and look on at things judicially.”

“Judicially?” said Leslie bitterly; “any child could judge here.”

“Oh, no,” said the old man; “big child as you are, you can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“That you are only a big stupid boy, Duncan Leslie.”

“Don’t insult me in my misery, man.”

“Not I, my lad. I like you too well. I am only playing the surgeon, hurting you to do you good. Look here, Leslie, you are in pain, and you are madly jealous.”

“Jealous!” cried the young man scornfully, “of whom?”

“My niece—that man—both of them.”

“Not I. Angry with myself, that’s all, for being an idiot.”

“And because you are angry with yourself, you want to follow and rend that man who knocked you down; and because you call yourself an idiot for being deeply attached to Louise, you are chafing to go after her, and at any cost bring her back to throw yourself at her feet, and say, ‘Don’t have him, have me.’”

“Ah!” cried Leslie furiously. “There, you are an old man and licensed.”

“Yes, I am the licensed master of our family, Leslie, and I always speak my mind.”

“Yes, you sit there talking, when your duty is to follow and bring your niece back from disgrace,” cried the young man furiously.

“Thank you for teaching me my duty, my lad. You have had so much more experience than I. All the same, Duncan Leslie, my hot-headed Scot, I am going to sleep on it, and that’s what I advise you to do. There; be reasonable, man. You know you are not in a condition for dispassionate judgment.”

“I tell you any one could judge this case,” said Leslie hotly.

“And I tell you, my dear boy, that it would have puzzled Solomon.”

“Will you go in search of her directly?”

“Will I go out in the dark, and run my head against the first granite wall? No, my boy, I will not.”

“Then I must.”

“What, run your head against a wall?”

“Bah!”

“Look here, Leslie, I’ve watched you, my lad, for long enough past. I saw you take a fancy to my darling niece Louy; and I felt as if I should like to come behind and pitch you off the cliff. Then I grew more reasonable, for I found by careful watching that you were not such a bad fellow after all, and what was worse, it seemed to me that, in spite of her aunt’s teaching, Louy was growing up into a clever sensible girl, with only one weakness, and that a disposition to think a little of you.”

Leslie made an angry gesture.

“Come, my lad, I’ll speak plainly and put aside all cynical nonsense. Answer me this: How long have you known my niece?”

“What does that matter?”

“Much. I’ll tell you. About a year, and at a distance. And yet you presume, in your hot-headed, mad, and passionate way, to sit in judgment upon her and to treat my advice with contempt.”

“You cannot see it all as I do.”

“Thank goodness!” muttered Uncle Luke.

“You did not witness what I did to-night.”

“No. I wish I had been there.”

“I wish you had,” said Leslie, bitterly.

“Now you are growing wild again. Be calm, and listen. Now I say you have known our child a few months at a distance, and you presume to judge her. I have known her ever since she was the little pink baby which I held in these hands, and saw smile up in my face. I have known her as the patient, loving, unwearying daughter, the forbearing niece to her eccentric aunt—and uncle, my lad. You ought to have said that. I have known her these twenty years as the gentle sister who fought hard to make a sensible man of my unfortunate nephew. Moreover, I have known her in every phase, and while I have openly snarled and sneered at her, I have in my heart groaned and said to myself, what a different life might mine have been had I known and won the love of such a woman as that.”

“Oh, yes, I grant all that,” said Leslie, hurriedly; “but there was the vein of natural sin within.”

“Natural nonsense, sir!” cried Uncle Luke, angrily. “How dare you! A holier, truer woman never breathed.”

“Till that scoundrel got hold of her and cursed her life,” groaned Leslie. “Yes, trample on me. I suppose I deserve it.”

“Yes,” cried the old man, “if only for daring to judge her, when I tell you, that with all my knowledge of her and her life, I dare not. No, my lad, I’m going to sleep on it, and in the morning see if I can’t find out the end of the thread, of the clue which will lead us to the truth.”

“There is no need,” groaned Leslie. “We know the truth.”

“And don’t even know who this man is. No, indeed, we do not know the truth. All right, my lad, I can read your looks. I’m a trusting, blind, old fool, am I? Very well, jealous pate but I warn you, I’m right and you’re wrong.”

“Would to heaven I were! I’d give ten years of my life that it could be proved.”

“Give ten years of nonsense. How generous people are at making gifts of the impossible! But look here, Duncan Leslie, I’ll have you on your knees for this when we have found out the mystery; and what looks so black and blind is as simple as A B C. Trash! bolt with some French adventurer? Our Louy! Rubbish, sir! Everything will be proved by-and-by. She couldn’t do it. Loves her poor old father too well. There, once more take my advice, lie down there and have a nap, and set your brain to work in the sunshine not in the dark.”

“No.”

“Going?”

“Yes, I am going. Good night, sir.”

“Good night, you great stupid, obstinate, thick-headed Scotchman,” growled Uncle Luke, as he let him out, and stood listening to his retiring steps. “I hope you’ll slip over the cliff and half kill yourself. There’s something about Duncan Leslie that I like after all,” he muttered, as he went back to the dining-room, and after a few minutes’ thought, went softly up to his brother’s chamber, to find him sleeping heavily from the effect of the sedative given by the doctor.

Uncle Luke stole out quietly, shook his fist at his sister’s door, and then went below to sit for a while studying Louise’s letter, before lying down to think, and dropping off to sleep with the comforting self-assurance that all would come right in the end.

Meanwhile Duncan Leslie had gone down the steep descent, and made his way to the foot of the cliff path, up which, with brain and heart throbbing painfully, he slowly tramped. The night was dull and cold, and as he ascended toward Luke Vine’s rough cottage, he thought of how often he had met Louise on her way up there to her uncle’s; and how he had often remained at a distance watching from his own place up at the mine the graceful form in its simple attire, and the sweet, earnest face, whose eyes used once to meet his so kindly, and with so trusting a look.

“Sleep on it!” he said, as he recalled the old man’s words. “No sleep will ever make me think differently. I must have been mad—I must have been mad.”

He had reached the old man’s cottage, and almost unconsciously stopped and seated himself on the rough block of granite which was Uncle Luke’s favourite spot when the sun shone.

Before him lay the sea spreading out deep and black, and as impenetrable as to its mysteries as the blank future he sought to fathom, and as he looked ahead, the sea, the sky, the future all seemed to grow more black.

His had been a busy life; school, where he had been ambitious to excel; college, where he had worked still more hard for honours, with the intention of studying afterwards for the bar; but fate had directed his steps in another direction, and through an uncle’s wish and suggestions, backed by the fact that he held the mine, Duncan Leslie found himself, when he should have been eating his dinners at the Temple, partaking of them in the far West of England, with a better appetite, and perhaps with better prospects from a monetary point of view.

His had been so busy a life that the love-idleness complaint of a young man was long in getting a hold, but when it did seize him, the malady was the more intense.

He sat there upon the old, worn piece of granite, making no effort to go farther, but letting his memory drift back to those halcyon days when he had first begun to know that he possessed a heart disposed to turn from its ordinary force-pump work to the playing of a sentimental part such as had stranded him where he was, desolate and despairing, a wreck with his future for ever spoiled.

He argued on like that, sometimes with tender recollections of happy days when he had gone back home from some encounter, with accelerated pulses and a sensation of hope and joy altogether new.

He dwelt upon one particular day when he had come down from the mine to find Louise seated where he then was; and as he recalled the whole scene, he uttered a groan of misery, and swept it away by the interposition of that of the previous evening; and here his wrath once more grew hot against the man who had come between them, for without vanity he could feel that Louise had turned toward him at one time, and that after a while the memory of the trouble which had come upon them would have grown more faint, and then she would once more have listened to his suit.

But for that man—He ground his teeth as he recalled Aunt Marguerite’s hints and smiles; the allusions to the member of the French haute noblesse; their own connection with the blue blood of Gaul, and his own plebeian descent in Aunt Marguerite’s eyes. And now that the French noble had arrived, how noble he was in presence and in act! Stealing clandestinely into the house during the father’s absence, forcing the woman he professed to love into obedience by threats, till she knelt at his feet as one who pleads for mercy.

“And this is the haute noblesse!” cried Leslie, with a mocking laugh. “Thank heaven, I am only a commoner after all.”

He sat trying to compress his head with his hands, for it ached as if it would split apart. The cool night breeze came off the sea, moist and bearing refreshment on its wings; but Duncan Leslie found no comfort in the deep draught he drank. His head burned, his heart felt on fire, and he gazed straight before him into the blackness trying to make out his path. What should he do? Act like a man and cast her off as unworthy of a second thought, or rouse himself to the manly and forgiving part of seeking her out, dragging her from this scoundrel, and placing her back in her stricken father’s arms?

It was a hard fight, fought through the darkness of that terrible night, as he sat there on the rock, with the wind sighing from off the sea, and the dull, low boom of the waves as they broke at the foot of the cliff far below.

It was a fight between love and despair, between love and hate, between the spirit of a true, honest man who loved once in his life, and the cruel spirits of suspicion, jealousy, and malignity, which tortured him with their suggestions of Louise’s love for one who had tempted her to leave her father’s home.

As the day approached the air grew colder, but Duncan Leslie’s brow still burned, and his heart seemed on fire. The darkness grew more dense, and the fight still raged.

What should he do? The worse side of his fallible human nature was growing the stronger; and as he felt himself yielding, the greater grew his misery and despair.

“My darling!” he groaned aloud, “I loved you—I loved you with all my heart.”

He started, alarmed at his own words, and gazed wildly round as if expecting that some one might have heard. But he was quite alone, and all was so dark right away ahead. Was there no such thing as hope for one stricken as he? The answer to his wild, mental appeal seemed to come from the far east, for he suddenly became conscious of a pale, pearly light which came from far down where sea and sky were mingled to the sight. That pale, soft light grew and grew, seeming to slowly suffuse the eastern sky, till all at once he caught sight of a fiery flake far on high, of another, and another, till the whole arc of heaven was ablaze with splendour from which the sea borrowed glistening dyes.

And as he gazed the tears rose to his eyes, and seemed to quench the burning fire in his brain, as a fragment which he had read floated through his memory:—

“Joy cometh in the morning—joy cometh in the morning.”

Could joy ever again come to such a one as he? He asked the question half-bitterly, as he confessed that the dense blackness had passed away, and that hope might still rise upon his life, as he now saw that glittering orb of light rise slowly above the sea, and transform the glorious world with its golden touch.

“No, no,” he groaned, as he rose to go on at last to his desolate home. “I am broken with the fight. I can do no more, and there is no cure for such a blow as mine. Where could I look for help?”

“Yes; there,” he said resignedly. “I’ll bear it like a man,” and as he turned he rested his hand upon the rough granite wall to gaze down the path, and drew back with a curious catching of the breath, as he saw the light garments of a woman pass a great patch of the black shaley rock.

Madelaine Van Heldre was hurrying up the cliff path towards where he had passed those long hours of despair.

Chapter Fifty Two.

A Strange Summons.

Madelaine Van Heldre closed the book and sat by the little table gazing towards her father’s bed.

Since he had been sufficiently recovered she had taken her father’s task, and read the chapter and prayers night and morning in his bedroom—a little later on this night, for George Vine had stayed longer than usual.

Madelaine sat looking across the chamber at where her father lay back on his pillow with his eyes closed, and her mother seated by the bed’s head holding his hand, the hand she had kept in hers during the time she knelt and ever since she had risen from her knees.

Incongruous thoughts come at the best of times, and, with the tears standing in her eyes, Madelaine thought of her many encounters with Aunt Marguerite, and of the spiteful words. She did not see why a Dutchman should not be as good as a Frenchman, but all the same there was a little of the love of descent in her heart, and as she gazed at the fine manly countenance on the pillow, with its closely-cut grey hair displaying the broad forehead, and at the clipped and pointed beard and moustache, turned quite white, she thought to herself that if Aunt Marguerite could see her father now she would not dare to argue about his descent.

The veil of tears grew thicker in her eyes, and one great drop fell with a faint pat upon the cover of the prayer-book as she thought of the past, and that the love in her heart would not be divided now. It would be all for those before her, and help to make their path happier to the end.

“‘And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us,’” said Van Heldre thoughtfully. “Grand words, wife—grand words. Hah! I feel wonderfully better to-night. George Vine acted like a tonic. I’ve lain here hours thinking that our old companionship would end, but I feel at rest now. His manner seemed to say that the old brotherly feeling would grow stronger, and that the past was to be forgotten.”

He stopped short, and a faint flush came into his pale checks, for on opening his eyes they had encountered the wistful look in Madelaine’s. He had not thought of her sufferings, but now with a rush came the memories of her confession to him of her love for Harry, on that day when she had asked him to take the young man into his office.

“My darling!” he said softly as he held out his arms; and the next moment she was folded sobbing to his heart.

No word was spoken till the nightly parting; no word could have been spoken that would have been more touching and soothing than that embrace.

Then “Good night!” and Madelaine sought the solitude of her own chamber, to sit by the open window listening to the faintly heard beat of the waves upon the bar at the mouth of the harbour. Her spirit was low, and the hidden sorrow that she had fought hard to keep down all through the past trouble had its way for the time, till, at last wearied out, she closed her window and went to bed. Still for long enough it was not to sleep, but to think of the old boy-and-girl days, when Harry was merely thoughtless, and the better part of his nature, his frank kindness and generosity, had impressed her so that she had grown to love him with increasing years, and in spite of his follies that love still lay hidden in her heart.

“And always will be there,” she said softly, as she felt that the terrible end had been the expiation, and with the thought that in the future Harry Vine, forgiven, purified—the Harry of the past—would always be now the frank, manly youth she idealised, she dropped off to sleep—a deep, restful slumber, from which she started with the impression full upon her that she had only just closed her eyes. There must have been some noise to awaken her, and she sat up listening, to see that it was day.

“Yes? Did any one knock?” she said aloud, for the terror was upon her now, one which had often haunted her during the unnerving past days—that her father had been taken worse.

All silent.

Then a sharp pattering noise at her window, as if some one had thrown up some shot or pebbles. She hurried out of bed, and ran to the window to peep through the slit beside the blind, to see below in the street Liza, the Vines’ maid, staring up.

“Louise—ill? or Mr Vine?” thought Madelaine, as she quickly unfastened and opened the window.

“Yes, Liza. Quick! what is it?”

“Oh, miss, I’ve been awake all night, and, not knowing what to do, and so I come on.”

“Is Mr Vine ill?”

“No, ’m; Miss Louise.”

“Ill? I’ll come on at once.”

“No, miss; gone,” whispered Liza hoarsely; and in a blundering way she whispered all she knew.

“I’ll come on and see Mr Vine,” said Madelaine hastily, and Liza ran back while her blundering narrative, hastily delivered, had naturally a confusing effect upon one just awakened from sleep.

Louise gone, Mr Leslie found bleeding, Mr Vine sitting alone in his room busy over the molluscs in his aquaria! It seemed impossible. Aunt Marguerite hysterical. Everything so strange.

No mention had been made of Uncle Luke by the girl, nor yet of Leslie’s departure.

“Am I still dreaming?” Madelaine asked herself as she hastily dressed, “or has some fresh terrible disaster come upon us?”

“Upon us,” she said, for the two families seemed so drawn together that one could not suffer without thrilling the other’s nerves.

“Louise gone! It is impossible!”

She said that again and again, trying all the while to be cool and think out what were best to be done. She felt that it would be better not to alarm her father by waking him at that early hour, and that she could not arouse her mother without his knowing.

She was not long in deciding.

Uncle Luke had shown during the troubles of the past how he could throw aside his eccentricity and become a useful, helpful counsellor, and it seemed the natural thing to send a message up to him, and beg him to come down. Better still, to save time, she would run up there first.

Liza had not been gone a quarter of an hour before Madelaine was well on her way, after stealing silently out of the house.

The effort to be calm was unavailing, for a wild fit of excitement was growing upon her, and instead of walking up the steep cliff path, she nearly ran.

Would Uncle Luke be at home? He was eccentric and strange in his habits, and perhaps by that time out and away fishing off some rocky point.

She scanned the rough pier by the harbour, and shuddered as the scene of that horrible night came back. But there was no sign of the old man there, neither could she see him farther away, and feeling hopeful that perhaps she would be in time to catch him, she hurried on, panting. As she turned a corner of the devious way, and came in sight of the cottage, with Leslie’s house and mine chimney far up at the back, she stopped short, breathless and wondering, and with a strange reaction at work, suggesting that after all, this was some mythical invention on the part of the servant, for there, stood Duncan Leslie outside Uncle Luke’s cottage awaiting her coming.

Chapter Fifty Three.

Her Defender.

“Miss Van Heldre!”

“Mr Leslie! That woman came to our house this morning to say—Oh, then, it is not true?”

“Yes,” he said slowly; “it is all true.”

“True that—that you were hurt—that—that—Oh, pray speak! Louise—Louise!”

“Gone!” said Leslie hoarsely, and, sick at heart and suffering, he leaned back against the wall.

“Gone? Louise gone? Gone where?”

Leslie shook his head mournfully, and gazed out to sea.

“Why do you not speak?” cried Madelaine. “Can you not see how your silence troubles me? Mr Leslie, what is the matter? You were found hurt—and Louise—gone! What does it mean?”

He shook his head again.

“Where is Mr Luke Vine?” cried Madelaine, turning from him quickly.

“At the house.”

“Then I have come here for nothing,” she cried agitatedly. “Mr Leslie, pray, pray speak.”

He looked at her wistfully for a few moments.

“What am I to say?” he said at last.

“Tell me—everything.”

He still remained retentive; but there was a grim smile full of pity and contempt for himself upon his lips as he said coldly—

“Monsieur de Ligny has been.”

“Monsieur de Ligny?”

“The French gentleman, the member of the haute noblesse who was to marry Miss Vine.”

Madelaine looked at him wonderingly.

“Mr Leslie,” she said, laying her hand upon his arm, and believing that she saw delirium in his eyes, consequent upon his injury, her late experience having made her prone to anticipate such a sequel. “Mr Leslie, do you know what you are saying?”

“Yes, perfectly,” he said slowly. “Monsieur de Ligny the French gentleman of whom Miss Marguerite so often talked to me, came last night, while Mr Vine was at your father’s, and he was persuading Louise to go with him, when I interfered and said she should not go till her father returned.”

“Yes?—well?” said Madelaine, watching him keenly.

“Well, there was a struggle, and I got the worst of it. That’s all.”

“That is not all!” cried Madelaine angrily. “Louise, what did she say?”

“Begged him—not to press her to go,” he said slowly and unwillingly, as if the words were being dragged out of him.

“Yes?”

“That is all,” he said, still in the same slow, half-dreamy way. “I heard no more. When I came to, the Vines were helping me, and—”

“Louise?”

“Louise was gone.”

“Mr Leslie,” said Madelaine gently, as in a gentle, sympathetic way she laid her hand upon his arm. “You seem to have been a good deal hurt. I will not press you to speak. I’m afraid you hardly know what you say. This cannot be true.”

“Would to Heaven it were not!” he cried passionately. “You think I am wandering. No, no, no; I wish I could convince myself that it was. She is gone—gone?”

“Gone? Louise gone? It cannot be.”

“Yes,” he said bitterly; “it is true. I suppose when a man once gets a strong hold upon a woman’s heart she is ready to be his slave, and obey him to the end. I don’t know. I never won a woman’s love.”

“His slave—obey—but who—who is this man?”

“Monsieur de Ligny, I suppose. The French nobleman.”

Madelaine made a gesticulation with her hands, as if throwing the idea aside.

“No, no, no,” she said impatiently. “It is impossible, de Ligny—de Ligny? You mean that Louise Vine, my dear friend, my sister, was under the influence of some French gentleman unknown to me?”

“Unknown to her father too,” said Leslie bitterly, “for he reviled me when I told him.”

“I cannot do that,” said Madelaine firmly; “but I tell you it is not true.”

“As you will,” he said coldly; “but I saw her at his knees last night.”

“De Ligny—a French gentleman?”

“Yes.”

“I tell you it is impossible.”

“But she has gone,” said Leslie coldly.

“Gone? I cannot believe it. Mr Vine? He knows where?”

Leslie shook his head mournfully. “Some secret love,” he said.

“Yes; Louise did nurture a secret love,” said Madelaine scornfully, “and for a man unworthy of her.”

“Poor girl!”

“Yes; poor girl! Shame upon you, Duncan Leslie! She may be gone for some good reason, but it is not as you say and think. Louise, my sister, my poor suffering friend, carry on a clandestine intrigue with some French gentleman? It is not true.”

“You forget her aunt—the influence she has had upon the poor girl.”

“I forget everything but the fact that Louise loved you, Duncan Leslie, with all her heart.”

“No, no,” he cried with an angry start.

“I tell you it is true,” cried Madelaine. “De Ligny?—a French nobleman? Absurd! A fable invented by that poor old half-crazy woman to irritate you and scare you away.”

“I might have thought so once, but after what I saw last night—”

“A jealous man surrounds all he sees with a glamour of his own,” cried Madelaine. “Oh where is your reason? How could you be so ready to believe it of the truest, sweetest girl that ever lived!”

“But—”

“Don’t speak to me,” cried Madelaine, angrily. “You know what that old woman is with her wild ideas about birth and position. Louise, deceive her father—cheat me—elope! Duncan Leslie, I did not think you could be so weak.”

“I will not fight against your reproaches,” he said, coldly.

“No. Come with me. Let us go down and see Uncle Luke.”

“But you really think—” he faltered.

“I really think?” she cried with her eyes flashing. “Am I to lose all faith and confidence in you? I tell you what you say is impossible.”

Her words, her manner, sent flashes of hope through the darkness that haunted Leslie’s spirit, and without a word he turned and walked hurriedly down with her toward the town till they reached the seat in the sheltered niche, where he had had that memorable conversation with Aunt Marguerite.

There he paused, and pointed to the seat.

“She sat there with me,” he said bitterly, “and poured her poison into my ears till under a smiling face I felt half mad. I have tried so hard to free myself from their effect, but it has been hard—so hard. And last night—”

“You saw something which shook your confidence in Louise for the moment, but that is all gone now.”

“I think—I—”

“I vouch for my friend’s truth,” said Madelaine proudly. “I tell you that you have been deceived.”

Leslie was ghastly pale, and the injury he had received and the mental agony of the past night made him look ten years older, as he drew in a catching breath, and then said hastily—

“Come on, and let us find out the truth.”

Chapter Fifty Four.

Aunt Marguerite Finds a Friend.

Uncle Luke met them at the garden gate, and took Madelaine’s hands in his, drawing her towards him, and kissing her brow.

“Tell me, Mr Luke,” she said quickly, “it is not true?”

“What he says is not true, Maddy,” said the old man quietly.

“But Louise?”

“Gone, my dear. Left here last night. No,” he continued, “we know nothing except what her letter says. She has good reason for what she has done, no doubt, but it is very terrible for my brother.”

Madelaine darted a triumphant look at Leslie.

“Look here, my child,” said Uncle Luke, “I am uneasy about George. Go in and see him, and if he says anything about Louy, you will side with me and take her part?”

“Do you think I could believe it of Louise?” said Madelaine, proudly.

Uncle Luke held her hand in his, patting it softly the while.

“No,” he said, “I don’t think you could. Go to him now. Tell him it will all be cleared up some day, perhaps sooner than we think.”

“Where is he?” she said quietly.

“In his study.”

She nodded her head with a confident look in her eyes, crossed the hall, and tapped at the study door.

“Come in.”

The words bidding her to enter were uttered in so calm and matter-of-fact a way, that Madelaine felt startled, and Uncle Luke’s words, “I am uneasy about George,” came with a meaning they had not before possessed.

She entered and stopped short, for there before the open window, close to which was a glass vessel full of water, stood George Vine, busy with a microscope, by whose help he was carefully examining the structure of some minute organism, while one busy hand made notes upon a sheet of paper at his side.

His face was from her, and he was so intent upon his task that he did not turn his head.

“Breakfast?” he said quietly. “I shall not have any. Yes,” he added hastily; “bring a cup of tea, Liza—no sugar, and a little dry toast.”

A pang shot through Madelaine’s heart, and for a few moments she strove vainly to speak.

“It is I, Mr Vine,” she faltered at last in a voice she did not recognise as her own.

“Madelaine, my child!” he cried, starting and dropping his pencil as he turned. “How rude of me! so intent upon this beautiful preparation of mine here. Very, very glad to see you,” he continued, as he took her hands in his. “How is your father this morning?”

“I—I have not seen him this morning,” faltered Madelaine, as she gazed upon the pale, lined face before her, to note the change thereon, in spite of the unnatural calmness which the old man had assumed, “I—I came on at once, as soon as I had heard.”

He drew in a long breath as if her words were cutting him. Then raising her hands to his lips he kissed them tenderly.

“Like you,” he said gently, “like you, my child. There, I have nothing to say, nothing to hear.”

“But dear Mr Vine,” cried Madelaine, as she clung to him, and her tears fell fast, “I am sure—”

He smiled down at her lovingly, as he kissed her hand again.

“Spare me, my child,” he said. “Never mention her name again.”

“But, Mr Vine—”

“Hush, my dear! It is like you,” he whispered. “Good, gentle and forgiving. Let the whole of the past be dead.”

“But, Mr Vine, Louise—”

“Hush!” he said sternly. “There, come and sit down and talk to me. No, my dear, I had a nasty fainting attack last night, but I am not mad. You need not fear that. Let the past be dead, my child. Will you bring me some tea?”

Madelaine’s face worked pitifully, as she clung to him for a few moments, and then as he resumed his place at the table, she felt that the hour was not opportune, and turned to leave the room.

At that moment there was a gentle tap at the door.

“See who that is, my child,” said Vine, quietly; “and do not let me be interrupted. If it is my mother, ask him not to speak to me to-day.”

Madelaine crossed quickly to the old man’s side, bent over him, and kissed his forehead, before going to the door, to find Uncle Luke waiting.

“Maddy,” he whispered, “tell my brother that Margaret wants to see her. Ask him if she may come in.”

Madelaine took the message, and felt startled at the angry look in the old man’s face.

“No,” he cried peremptorily. “I could not bear to see her Maddy, my darling, you are almost like a daughter to me. You know all. Tell her from me to keep to her room, I could not trust myself to see her now.”

Madelaine clung to him, with the tears gathering in her eyes. From her earliest childhood she had looked up to him as to some near relative, who had treated her as he had treated his own child—her companion, Louise; and now as she saw the agony depicted in his face, she suffered with him, and in her womanly sympathy her tears still fell fast.

“But, dear Mr Vine,” she whispered, “forgive me for pressing you at such a time, but there is some mistake.”

“Yes,” he said sternly; and she shivered as she saw how he was changed, and heard how harsh his voice had grown. “Yes, Madelaine, my child, there has been a terrible mistake made by a weak, infatuated man, who acted on impulse, and never let his mind stray from the hobby he pursued—mine.”

“Mr Vine!”

“Hush, my child, I know. You are going to say words that I could not bear to hear now. I know what I have done, I see it too plainly now. In my desire to play a kindly brother’s part, I let that of a father lapse, and my punishment has come—doubly come.”

“If you would only let me speak,” she whispered.

“Not now—not now. I want strength first to bear my punishment, to bear it patiently as a man.”

It seemed to be no time to argue and plead her friend’s cause, but she still clung to him.

“Bear with me,” he whispered. “I am not going to reproach you for what you have said. There, my dear, leave me now.”

Madelaine sighed, and with her brow wrinkled by the lines of care, she stood watching the old man as he bent over his microscope once more, and then softly left the room.

“Well?” said Uncle Luke eagerly, as she joined him in the hall. “What does he say?”

“That he will not see her. That he could not trust himself to meet her now.”

“Ah!”

Madelaine started, and turned sharply round as a piteous wail fell upon her ears.

Aunt Marguerite was standing within the dining-room door, wringing her hands, and looking wild and strange.

“I can’t bear it,” she cried. “I can’t bear it. He thinks it is my fault. Go in and tell him, Luke. He must not, he shall not blame me.”

“Let him alone for a bit,” said Luke, coldly.

“But he thinks it is all my fault. I want to tell him—I want him to know that it is no fault of mine.”

“Can’t convince him of impossibilities,” said Uncle Luke coldly.

“And you think it, too!” cried Aunt Marguerite passionately. “I will see him.”

“Go up to your room and wait a bit. That’s the best advice I can give you.”

“But George will—”

“Say things to you that will be rather startling to your vain old brain, Madge, if you force yourself upon him, and I’ll take care that you do not.”

“And this is my brother!” cried Aunt Marguerite indignantly.

“Uncle Luke is right,” said Madelaine quietly, speaking of him as in the old girlish days. “If I might advise you, Miss Vine.”

“Miss Margue—No, no,” cried the old lady, hastily. “Miss Vine; yes, Miss Vine. You will help me, my child. I want my brother to know that it is not my fault.”

The old contemptuous manner was gone, and she caught Madelaine’s arm and pressed it spasmodically with her bony fingers.

“You could not go to Mr Vine at a worse time,” said Madelaine. “He is suffering acutely.”

“But if you come with me,” whispered Aunt Marguerite. “Oh, my child, I have been very, very hard to you, but you will not turn and trample on me now I am down.”

“I will help you all I can,” said Madelaine gravely; “and I am helping you now in advising you to wait.”

“I—I thought it was for the best,” sobbed the old lady piteously. “Hush! don’t speak to me aloud. Mr Leslie may hear.”

She glanced sharply round to where Leslie was standing with his back to them, gazing moodily from the window.

“Yes; Mr Leslie may hear,” said Madelaine sadly; and then in spite of the long years of dislike engendered by Aunt Marguerite’s treatment, she felt her heart stirred by pity for the lonely, suffering old creature upon whose head was being visited the sufferings of the stricken household.

“Let me go with you to your room,” she said gently.

“No, no!” cried Aunt Marguerite, with a frightened look. “You hate me too, and you will join the others in condemning me. Let me go to my brother now.”

“It would be madness,” said Madelaine gently; and she tried to take the old woman’s hand, but at that last word, Aunt Marguerite started from her, and stretched out her hands to keep her off.

“Don’t say that,” she said in a low voice, and with a quick glance at her brother and at Leslie, to see if they had heard. Then catching Madelaine’s hand, she whispered, “It is such a horrible word. Luke said it to me before you came. He said I must be mad, and George might hear it and think so too.”

“Let me go with you to your room.”

“But—but,” faltered the old woman, with her lips quivering, and a wildly appealing look in her eyes, “you—you don’t think that?”

“No,” said Madelaine, quietly; “I do not think that.”

Aunt Marguerite uttered a sigh full of relief.

“I only think,” continued Madelaine in her matter-of-fact, straightforward way, “that you have been very vain, prejudiced, and foolish, but I am wrong to reproach you now.”

“No, no,” whispered Aunt Marguerite clinging to her, and looking at her in an abject, piteous way; “you are quite right, my dear. Come with me, talk to me, my child. I deserve what you say, and—and I feel so lonely now.”

She glanced again at her brother and Leslie, and her grasp of Madelaine’s arm grew painful.

“Yes,” she whispered, with an excited look; “you are right, I must not go to him now. Don’t let them think that of me. I know—I’ve been very—very foolish, but don’t—don’t let them think that.”

She drew Madelaine toward the door, and in pursuance of her helpful rôle, the latter went with her patiently, any resentment which she might have felt toward her old enemy falling away at the pitiful signs of abject misery and dread before her; the reigning idea in the old lady’s mind now being that her brothers would nurture some plan to get rid of her, whose result would be one at which she shuddered, as in her heart of hearts she knew that if such extreme measures were taken, her conduct for years would give plenty of excuse.

Chapter Fifty Five.

Half Converted.

“Well, Leslie,” said Uncle Luke, as he stood gazing at the closed door through which the two women had passed, “What do you think of that?”

“Think of that?” said Leslie absently.

“Those two. Deadly enemies grown friends. My sister will be adopting you directly, you miserable low-born Scotch pleb, without a drop of noble French blood in your veins.”

“Poor old woman!” said Leslie absently.

“Ah, poor old woman! Margaret and I ought to be shut up together in some private asylum. Well, you have slept on all that?”

“No,” said Leslie sadly. “I have not slept.”

“You’re—well, I won’t say what you are—well?”

“Well?” said Leslie, sadly.

“You have come to your senses, I hope.”

“Had I lost them?”

“Pro tem, young man. And it is a usurpation of our rights. One lunatic family is enough in a town. We’re all off our heads, so you had better keep sane.”

Leslie remained silently thinking over Madelaine’s words.

“Look here,” said Uncle Luke. “I have slept upon it, and I am cool.”

“What have you learned, sir?”

“Nothing but what I knew last night—at present.”

“And what do you propose doing?”

“I propose trying to act as nearly like a quite sensible man as one of my family can.”

“And Mr Vine?”

“As much like a lunatic as he can. You had better take his side and leave me alone. He is of your opinion.”

“And you remain steadfast in yours?”

“Of course, sir. I’ve known my niece from a child, as I told you last night; and she could not behave like a weak, foolish, brainless girl, infatuated over some handsome scoundrel.”

“But Miss Marguerite—have you questioned her?”

“Might as well question a weather-cock. Knows nothing, or pretends she knows nothing. There, I’m going to start at once and see if I cannot trace her out. While I’m gone I should feel obliged if you would keep an eye on my cottage; one way and another there are quite a couple of pounds’ worth of things up yonder which I should not like to have stolen. You may as well come down here too, and see how my brother is going on. Now then, I’ll just step down to Van Heldre’s and say a word before I start.”

“By what train shall you go?”

“Train? Oh, yes, I had almost forgotten trains. Hateful way of travelling, but saves time. Must arrange to be driven over to catch one at mid-day. Come and see me off.”

“Yes,” said Leslie, “I’ll come and see you off. What shall you take with you?”

“Tooth-brush and comb,” grunted Uncle Luke. “Dessay I shall find a bit of soap somewhere. Now then, have you anything to say before I go?”

“There is no occasion; we can make our plans as we go up.”

“We?”

“Yes; I am going with you.”

Uncle Luke smiled.

“I knew you would,” he said, quietly chuckling.

“You knew I should? Why did you think that?”

“Because you’re only a big boy after all, Duncan, and show how fond you are of Louy at every turn.”

“I am not ashamed to own that I loved her,” said the young man, bitterly.

“Loved?” said Uncle Luke, quietly. “Wonder what love’s like, to make a man such a goose. Don’t be a sham, Leslie. You always meant to go. You said to yourself, when you thought ill of the poor girl, you would go after her and try and break the man’s neck.”

“Not exactly, sir.”

“Well, something of the kind. And now Maddy Van Heldre has been giving you a good setting down, and showing you what a weak baby you are—”

“Has Miss Van Heldre—”

“No, Miss Van Heldre has not said a word; but your face is as plain as a newspaper, and I know what Maddy would say if anybody attacked my niece. There, what’s the use of talking? You will say with your lips that Louise is nothing to you now, and that you believe she has eloped with some French scoundrel.”

Leslie bit his lip and made an impatient gesture.

“While that noble countenance of yours, of which you are so proud, has painted upon it love and trust and hope, and all the big-boy nonsense in which young men indulge when they think they are only a half, which needs another half to make them complete.”

“I am not going to quarrel with you,” said Leslie, flushing angrily, all the same.

“No, my boy, you are not. You are coming with me, my unfortunate young hemisphere, to try and find that other half to which you shall some day be joined to make you a complete little world of trouble of your own, to roll slowly up the hill of life, hang on the top for a few hours, and then roll rapidly down. There, we have wasted time enough in talking, and I’ll hold off. Thank ye, though, Leslie, you’re a good fellow after all.”

He held out his hand, which Leslie slowly took, and Uncle Luke was shaking it warmly as Madelaine re-entered the room.

“Well,” said the old man grimly, “have you put the baby to bed?”

“Uncle Luke!” said Madelaine imploringly, “pray be serious and help us.”

“Serious, my girl! I was never so serious before. I only called Margaret a baby. So she is in intellect, and a very troublesome and mischievous one. Glad to see though that my little matter-of-fact Dutch doll has got the better of her. Why, Maddy, henceforth, you’ll be able to lead her with a silken string.”

“Uncle Luke dear—Louise,” said Madelaine imploringly.

“Ah, to be sure, yes, Louise,” said the old man with his eyes twinkling mischievously. “Circumstances alter cases. Now look here, you two. I’m only an old man, and of course thoroughly in your confidence. Sort of respectable go-between. Why shouldn’t I try and make you two happy?”

Leslie bit his lip, and Madelaine gave the old man an imploring look; but in a mocking way he went on:

“Now suppose I say to you two, what can be better than for you to join hands—partners for life, you know, and—”

“Mr Luke Vine!” cried Leslie sternly, “setting aside the insult to me, is this gentlemanly to annoy Miss Van Heldre with your mocking, ill-chosen jokes?”

“Hark at the hot-blooded Scotchman, Maddy; and look here how pleasantly and patiently my little Dutch doll takes it, bless her!”

He put his arm round Madelaine and held her to his side.

“Why, what are you ruffling up for in that fashion? Only a few minutes ago you were swearing that you hated Louy, and that you gave her up to the French nobleman—French nobleman, Maddy!—and I offer you a pleasant anodyne for your sore heart—and a very pleasant anodyne too, eh, Maddy? Ah, don’t—don’t cry—hang it all, girl, don’t. I do hate to see a woman with wet eyes. Now what have you got to sob about?”

“Is this helping us?”

“No. But I’m going to, little one. I was obliged to stick something into Leslie, here. He is such a humbug. Swore he didn’t care a bit for Louy now, and that he believed everything that was bad of her, and yet look at his face.”

“It is impossible to quarrel with you, sir,” said Leslie, with the look of a human mastiff.

“Of course it is,” cried Uncle Luke. “Well, Maddy, I’ve converted him. He sees now that it’s a puzzle we don’t understand, and he is coming up to town with me to solve the problem.”

“I knew he would,” cried Madelaine warmly. “Mr Leslie, I am very, very glad.”

“Of course, you are; and as soon as I bring Louy back, and all is cleared, Leslie shall come and congratulate us. D’ye hear, Leslie? I am going to marry Madelaine. Marry her and stop up in the churchyard afterwards,” he said with a grim smile full of piteous sadness.

“Uncle Luke!”

“Well, it’s right enough, my dear. At my time of life hardly worth while to make two journeys up to the churchyard. So you could leave me there and go back, and take possession of my estate.”

“Louise.”

“Ah, yes. I mustn’t forget Louise,” said the old man. “Let’s see—about Margaret. Leave her all right?”

“Yes; she is more calm now.”

“Did you question her, and get to know anything?”