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Chapter Twenty Eight
In Defence of his Young

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

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

“Not know?”

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

Harry glanced once more at the window. It was fancy. No one was below now that he could see; and he was in the act of unfastening it when there was a crash, the door flew open, and his father strode into the room. It did not seem to be the same man, and Harry shrank from the fierce, erect, angry figure which approached.

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

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

“I thought not. You abject, miserable wretch!”

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

“It – it was to save you all from disgrace.”

Vine burst into a discordant laugh.

“From disgrace – to save us from disgrace? And is this part of your childish aunt’s teaching?”

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

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

“But, father, think! Be merciful.”

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

“No, no, father; not rob.”

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

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

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

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

“No. I disown him. And you counsel this – you, girl?”

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

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

“Father!”

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

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

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

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

“Yes, father – dearest father, help him to go and repent the evil he has done.”

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

“Father!”

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

“Yes, father. What could I say?”

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

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

“Father!”

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

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

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

“Yes,” he said, drawing himself up. “You are right, I’ll go.”

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

“Miss Louise,” she cried, “the police!”

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

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

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

“Quick, Harry! France!”

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

“Too late, father,” he said calmly.

“No, my boy! this way, hush!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Twenty Nine
On His Behalf

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

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

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

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

“I say it is a judgment!” cried Aunt Margaret. “Poor boy! if you had taken my advice – ”

The door closed. They were out in the clear, starry night, hurrying down the path toward the town, but Aunt Margaret’s words were ringing in Vine’s ears. A judgment.

Why? What had he done?

“Have I been to blame? Is she right? Have I been to blame?” he muttered, as they hurried down, the words being the secret communings of his heart, but they were loud enough for Louise to hear, and as she clung to his arm she whispered emphatically —

“No, father, no!”

“No? Louise, what are you saying?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Try, my child, try.”

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

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

“Yes, I remember,” she cried at last – “Paul.”

“Dick Paul – the man who sailed with us to the rocks near Scilly?”

“Yes, yes!”

“Hah! then if he has escaped so far he will be there.”

“Do you know which is his cottage?”

“Yes, I know. Quick, girl, quick!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dick Paul’s,” he said, in answer to a question, “first door furder on. Fine night, master.”

“Yes, yes; thank you, thank you,” cried Vine hastily.

“But he aren’t at home.”

“What?”

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

Vine uttered a low groan.

“Good night!” said the man, and he moved off.

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

“Call me, Master Vine!”

“Yes. You know me?”

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

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

“Third share master, just going out now. My mates are waiting yonder.”

“In the harbour?”

“Ay. That’s their lantern.”

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

“Going to have a try, master.”

“And you will perhaps earn a pound a-piece.”

“If we are lucky. P’r’aps naught.”

“Perrow,” whispered the old man, with his lips close to the man’s face, “will you do me a service – a great service?”

“Sarvice, sir? – Ay, sure I will.”

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

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

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

“Fifty pounds, Master Vine?”

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

“Will you shake hands on that, master?”

“Will you do it?”

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

“But your partners?” said Louise excitedly.

“Never you mind about them, miss. I’m cap’n of our boat. Where’s our passenger? Lor’, miss, don’t do that.”

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

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

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

“Hah!” ejaculated Vine.

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

“No, no, she was innocent,” cried Louise.

“Thanks for that, miss, and – say, has young Master Harry been up to some game?”

There was no reply.

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

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

“Trust you?”

The man uttered a low chuckle.

“How long will he be, master?”

“I don’t know. Wait till he comes.”

“Master Harry?” whispered the man.

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

As if the same thoughts had impressed him, Vine suddenly exclaimed:

“No, no, they would not have taken him. The man was a stranger, and Harry would be too quick.”

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

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

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

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

“George!”

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

“Luke? You here?”

“Yes; have you seen him?”

“No; but is – is he – ”

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

“Sir!”

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

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

“Ah!”

It was an involuntary ejaculation from Louise.

“We’ll have him taken across the Channel if we can find him. Where can he be hidden?”

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

“Heaven bless you, Mr Leslie. Forgive – ”

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

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

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

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

George Vine drew a long breath and remained silent.

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

“Yes; that’s true.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Uncle Luke!” cried Louise piteously.

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

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