The Haute Noblesse: A Novel

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

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

“Even the worst?”

“Even the worst.”

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

“Well?”

“No, sir; no luck yet,” said that officer.

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

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

“What’s that to me, sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, no, sir. I – ”

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

Parkins shook his head and frowned.

“For a nest egg, man.”

“No, sir.”

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

“No, sir; no.”

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

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

Uncle Luke drew a long breath.

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

“Do you understand me, sir? You’ll give me five hundred pounds to stop this search?”

Uncle Luke drew another long breath.

“You’re a dreadful scoundrel, Parkins, and too much for me; but yes, you shall have the money.”

“No, sir, I’m not a dreadful scoundrel, or I should make you pay me a thousand pounds.”

“I wouldn’t pay it – not a penny more than five hundred.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Sixty Two

Uncle Luke Turns Prophet

“Why doesn’t Leslie come?” said Uncle Luke impatiently, as he rose from a nearly untasted breakfast the next morning to go to the window of his private room in the hotel, and try to look up and down the street. “It’s too bad of him. Here, what in the world have I done to be condemned to such a life as this?”

“Life?” he exclaimed after a contemptuous stare at the grimy houses across the street. “Life? I don’t call this life! What an existence! Prison would be preferable.”

He winced as the word prison occurred to him, and began to think of Harry.

“I can’t understand it. Well, he’s clever enough at hiding, but it seems very cowardly to leave his sister in the lurch. Thought she was with me, I hope. Confound it, why don’t Leslie come?”

“Bah! want of pluck!” he cried, after another glance from the window. “Tide must be about right this week, and the bass playing in that eddy off the point. Could have fished there again now. Never seemed to fancy it when I thought poor Harry was drowned off it. Confound poor Harry! He has always been a nuisance. Now, I wonder whether it would be possible to get communication with him unknown to these police?”

He took a walk up and down the room for a few minutes.

“Now that’s where Leslie would be so useful; and he keeps away. Because of Louy, I suppose. Well, what is it? Why have you brought the breakfast back?”

“The young lady said she was coming down, sir,” said the chambermaid, who had entered with a tray.

“Stuff and nonsense!” cried the old man angrily. “Go up and tell her she is not to get up till the doctor has seen her, and not then unless he gives her leave.”

The maid gave her shoulders a slight shrug, and turned to go, when the door opened, and, looking very pale and hollow-eyed, Louise entered.

Uncle Luke gave his foot an impatient stamp.

“That’s right,” he cried; “do all you can to make yourself ill, and keep me a prisoner in this black hole. No, no, my darling, I didn’t mean that. So you didn’t like having your breakfast alone? That’ll do; set it down.”

The maid left the room, and Louise stood, with her head resting on the old man’s breast.

“Now, tell me, uncle, dear,” she said in a low voice, and without looking up, “has poor Harry been taken?”

“No.”

“Hah!”

A long sigh of relief.

“And Mr Leslie? What does he say?”

“I don’t know. He has not been here since he left with me yesterday.”

“And he calls himself our friend!” cried Louise, looking up with flushing face. “Uncle, why does he not try to save Harry instead of joining the cowardly pack who are hunting him down?”

“Come, I like that!” cried Uncle Luke. “I’d rather see you in a passion than down as you were last night.”

“I – I cannot help it, uncle; I can think of only one thing – Harry.”

“And Mr Leslie, and accuse him of hunting Harry down.”

“Well, did he not do so? Did he not come with that dreadful man?”

“To try and save you from the French scoundrel with whom he thought you had eloped.”

“Oh, hush, uncle, dear. Now tell me, what do you propose doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Uncle!”

“That’s the best policy. There, my darling, I have done all I could this morning to help the poor boy, but – I must be plain – the police are in hot pursuit, and if I move a step I am certain to be watched. Look there!”

He pointed down into the street.

“That man on the other side is watching this house, I’m sure and if I go away I shall be followed.”

“But while we are doing nothing, who knows what may happen, dear?”

“Don’t let’s imagine things. Harry is clever enough perhaps to get away, and now he knows that we have found out the truth, you will see that he is not long before he writes. I want Leslie now. Depend upon it the poor fellow felt that he would be de trop, and has gone straight back home.”

Louise uttered a sigh full of relief.

“You scared him away, my dear, and perhaps it’s for the best. He’s a very stupid fellow, and as obstinate – well, as a Scot.”

“But knowing Harry as he does, uncle, and being so much younger than you are, would it not be better if he were working with you? We must try and save poor Harry from that dreadful fate.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Uncle Luke slowly. “There, have some tea.”

Then rising from his seat, he rang, and going to the writing-table sat down; and while Louise made a miserable pretence of sipping her tea, the old man wrote down something and gave it to the waiter who entered.

“Directly,” he said; and the man left the room.

“Yes, on second thoughts you are quite right, my dear.”

Louise looked up at him inquiringly.

“So I have telegraphed down to Hakemouth for Leslie to come up directly.”

Louise’s eyes dilated, and she caught his arm.

“No, no,” she whispered, “don’t do that. No; you and I will do what is to be done. Don’t send to him, uncle, pray.”

“Too late, my dear; the deed is done.”

Just then the waiter re-entered.

“Telegram, sir.”

Louise turned if possible more pale.

“Tut – tut!” whispered Uncle Luke. “It can’t be an answer back. Hah! from Madelaine.”

“Your news seems too great to be true. Mr George Vine started for town by the first train this morning. My father regrets his helplessness.”

“Hah! Come. That’s very business-like of George,” said the old man. “Louy, my dear, I’m going to turn prophet. All this trouble is certain to turn in the right direction after all. Why, my child?”

She had sunk back in her chair with the cold, dank dew of suffering gathering upon her forehead, and a piteous look of agony in her eyes.

“How can I meet him now!”

The terrible hours of agony that had been hers during the past month had so shattered the poor girl’s nerves, that even this meeting seemed more than she could bear, and it called forth all the old man’s efforts to convince her that she had nothing to fear, but rather everything to desire.

It was a weary and a painful time though before Louise was set at rest.

She was seated in the darkening room, holding tightly by the old man’s hand, as a frightened child might in dread of punishment. As the hours had passed she had been starting at every sound, trembling as the hollow rumbling of cab-wheels came along the street, and when by chance a carriage stopped at the hotel her aspect was pitiable.

“I cannot help it,” she whispered. “All through these terrible troubles I seem to have been strong, while now I am so weak and unstrung – uncle, I shall never be myself again.”

“Yes, and stronger than ever. Come, little woman, how often have you heard or read of people suffering from nervous reaction and – thank God!” he muttered, as he saw the door softly open behind his niece’s chair, and his brother stand in the doorway.

“I did not catch what you said, dear,” said Louise feebly, as she lay back with her eyes closed.

Uncle Luke gave his brother a meaning look, and laid his niece’s hand back upon her knees.

“No; it’s very hard to make one’s self heard in this noisy place. I was only saying, my dear, that your nerves have been terribly upset, and that you are suffering from the shock. You feel now afraid to meet your father lest he should reproach you, and you can only think of him as being bitter and angry against you for going away, as you did; but when he thoroughly grasps the situation, and how you acted as you did to save your brother from arrest, and all as it were in the wild excitement of that time, and under pressure – ”

“Don’t leave me, uncle.”

“No, no, my dear. Only going to walk up and down,” said the old man as he left his chair. “When he grasps all this, and your dread of Harry’s arrest, and that it was all nonsense – there, lie back still, it is more restful so. That’s better,” he said, kissing her, and drawing away. “When, I say, he fully knows that it was all nonsense due to confounded Aunt Margaret and her noble Frenchmen, and that instead of an elopement with some scoundrel, you were only performing a sisterly duty, he’ll take you in his arms – ”

Uncle Luke was on the far side of the room now, and in obedience to his signs, and trembling violently, George Vine had gone slowly towards the vacated seat.

“You think he will, uncle, and forgive me?” she faltered, as she lay back still with her eyes closed.

“Think, my darling? I’m sure of it. Yes, he’ll take you in his arms.”

A quiet sigh.

“And say – ”

George Vine sank trembling into the empty chair.

“Forgive me, my child, for ever doubting you.”

“Oh, no, uncle.”

“And I say, yes; and thank God for giving me my darling back once more.”

“Forgive me! Thank God for giving me my darling back once more! Louise!”

“Father!”

A wild, sobbing cry, as the two were locked in each other’s arms.

At that moment the door was closed softly, and Uncle Luke stood blowing his nose outside upon the mat.

“Nearly seventy, and sobbing like a child,” he muttered softly. “Dear me, what an old fool I am.”

Chapter Sixty Three

Leslie Makes an Announcement

It was a week before the London doctor said that Louise Vine might undertake the journey down home; but when it was talked of, she looked up at her father in a troubled way.

“It would be better, my darling,” he whispered. “You shrink from going back to the old place. Why should you, where there will be nothing but love and commiseration?”

“It is not that,” she said sadly. “Harry!”

“Yes! But we can do no more by staying here.”

“Not a bit,” said Uncle Luke. “Let’s get down to the old sea shore again, Louy. If we stop here much longer I shall die. Harry’s safe enough somewhere. Let’s go home.”

Louise made no more opposition, and it was decided that they should start at once, but the journey had to be deferred on account of business connected with Pradelle’s examination.

This was not talked of at the hotel, and Louise remained in ignorance of a great deal of what took place before they were free to depart.

That journey down was full of painful memories for Louise, and it was all she could do to restrain her tears as the train stopped at the station, which was associated in her mind with her brother, and again and again she seemed to see opposite to her, shrinking back in the corner by the window nearest the platform, the wild, haggard eyes and the frightened furtive look at every passenger that entered the carriage.

The journey seemed interminable, and even when Plymouth had been reached, there was still the long slow ride over the great wooden bridges with the gurgling streams far down in the little rock ravines.

“Hah!” said Uncle Luke cheerily, “one begins to breathe now. Look.”

He pointed to the shadow of the railway train plainly seen against the woods, for the full round moon was rising slowly.

“This is better than a gas-lamp shadow, eh, and you don’t get such a moon as that in town. I’ve lost count, George. How are the tides this week?”

Vine shook his head.

“No, you never did know anything about the tides, George. Always did get cut off. Be drowned some day, shut in under a cliff; and you can’t climb.”

They rode on in silence for some time, watching the moonlight effect on the patches of wood in the dark hollows, the rocky hill slopes, and upon one or another of the gaunt deserted engine-houses looking like the towers of ruined churches high up on the hills, here black, and there glittering in the moonlight, as they stood out against she sky.

These traces of the peculiar industry of the district had a peculiar fascination for Louise, who found herself constantly comparing these buildings with one beyond their house overlooking the beautiful bay. There it seemed to stand out bold and picturesque, with the long shaft running snake-like up the steep hillside, to end in the perpendicular monument-like chimney that formed the landmark by which the sailors set vessels’ heads for the harbour.

But that place did not seem deserted as these. At any time when she looked she could picture the slowly moving beam of the huge engine, and the feathery plume of grey smoke which floated away on the western breeze. There was a bright look about the place, and always associated with it she seemed to see Duncan Leslie, now looking appealingly in her eyes, now bitter and stern as he looked on her that night when Harry beat him down and they fled, leaving him insensible upon the floor.

What might have been!

That was the theme upon which her busy brain toiled in spite of her efforts to divert the current of thought into another channel. And when in despair she conversed with father or uncle for a few minutes, and silence once more reigned, there still was Duncan Leslie’s home, and its owner gazing at her reproachfully.

“Impossible!” she always said to herself; and as often as she said this she felt that there would be a terrible battle with self, for imperceptibly there had grown to be a subtle advocate for Duncan Leslie in her heart.

“But it is impossible,” she always said, and emphasised it. “We are disgraced. With such a shadow over our house that could never be; and he doubted, he spoke so cruelly, his eyes flashed such jealous hatred. If he had loved me, he would have trusted, no matter what befel.”

But as she said all this to herself, the advocate was busy, and she felt the weakness of her case, but grew more determinedly obstinate all the same.

And the train glided on over the tall scaffold-like bridges, the treetops glistened in the silvery moonlight, and there was a restful feeling of calm in her spirit that she had not known for days.

“No place like home,” said Uncle Luke, breaking along silence as they glided away from the last station.

“No place like home,” echoed his brother, as he sought for and took his child’s hand. “You will stop with us to-night, Luke?”

“Hear him, Louy?” said the old man. “Now, is it likely?”

“But your place will be cheerless and bare to-night.”

“Cheerless? Bare! You don’t know what you are talking about. If you only knew the longing I have to be once more in my own bed, listening to wind and sea. No, thank you.”

“But, uncle, for to-night, do stay.”

“Now, that’s unkind, Louy, after all the time you’ve made me be away. Well, I will, as a reward to you for rousing yourself up a bit. One condition though; will you come down to-morrow and talk to me while I fish?”

She remained silent.

“Then I don’t stop to-night.”

“I will come to-morrow, uncle.”

“Then, I’ll stop.”

The train glided on as they watched in silence now for the lights of the little town. First, the ruddy glow of the great lamp on the cast pier of the harbour appeared; then glittering faintly like stars, there were the various lights of the town rising from the water’s edge right up to the high terrace level, with the old granite house – the erst peaceful, calm old home.

The lights glittered brightly, but they looked dim to Louise, seen as they were through a veil of tears, and now, as they rapidly neared, a strange feeling of agitation filled the brain of the returned wanderer.

It was home, but it could never be the same home again. All would be changed. A feeling of separation must arise between her and Madelaine. The two families must live apart, and a dark rift in her life grow wider as the time glided on, till she was farther and farther away from the bright days of youth, with little to look forward to but sorrow and the memory of the shadow hanging over their home.

“Here we are,” cried Uncle Luke, as the train glided slowly alongside the platform and then stopped. “Got all your traps? George, give me my stick. Now, then, you first.”

The station lamps were burning brightly as Louise gave her father her hand and stepped out. Then she felt blind and troubled with a strange feeling of dread, and for a few moments everything seemed to swim round as a strange singing filled her ears.

Then there was a faint ejaculation, two warm soft arms clasped her, and a well-known voice said, in a loving whisper:

“Louise – sister – at last?”

For one moment the dark veil over her eyes seemed to lift, and like a flash she realised that Madelaine was not in black, and that resting upon a stick there was a pale face which lit up with smiles as its owner clasped her to his breast in turn.

“My dearest child! welcome back. The place is not the same without you.”

“Louy, my darling!” in another pleasant voice, as kisses were rained upon her cheek, and there was another suggestion of rain which left its marks warm.

“He would come, George Vine;” and the giver of these last kisses and warm tears did battle for the possession of the returned truant. “Maddy, my dear,” she cried reproachfully, and in a loud parenthesis, “let me have one hand. He ought not to have left the house, but he is so determined. He would come.”

“Well, Dutch doll, don’t I deserve a kiss?” cried old Luke grimly.

“Dear Uncle Luke!”

“Hah, that’s better. George, I think I shall go home with the Van Heldres. I’m starving.”

“But you can’t,” cried the lady of that house in dismay; “we are all coming up to you. Ah, Mr Leslie, how do you do?”

“Quite well,” said that personage quietly; and Madelaine felt Louise’s hand close upon hers spasmodically.

“Leslie! you here?” said George Vine eagerly.

“Yes; I came down from town in the same train.”

“Too proud to be seen with us, eh?” said Uncle Luke sarcastically, as there was a warm salute from the Van Heldres to one as great a stranger as the Vines.

“I thought it would be more delicate to let you come down alone,” said Leslie gravely.

George Vine had by this time got hold of the young man’s hand.

“My boy – Harry?” he whispered, “have you any news?”

“Yes,” was whispered back. “Let me set your mind at rest. He is safe.”

“Cut where? For Heaven’s sake, man, speak!” panted the trembling father as he clung to him.

“Across the sea.”

Chapter Sixty Four

Harry’s Message

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

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

Leslie was silent.

“Why do you not speak? You are keeping something back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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