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Moment by moment the various objects grew more distinct; black masses of rock fringed with green or brown sea-wrack, about which the tide eddied and played, now hiding, now revealing for some crested wave to pounce upon as a sea monster might upon its prey. The dark slaty rocks displayed their wreaths of ivy, and the masses of granite stood up piled in courses of huge cubes, as if by titanic hands, grey with parched moss, dull and dead-looking; and then all at once, as the sun slowly rose above the sea, glorious in God’s light, sparkling as if set with myriads of gems, the grey became gold, and all around there was a scene of beauty such as no painter could do more than suggest. Everything was glorified by the rising sun; sea, sky, the distant houses, and shipping, all gleamed as if of burnished gold – all was of supreme beauty in the birth of that new day. No, not all: here and there, slowly using their oars as they scanned sea and rock, sat a crew of haggard men, while back on the golden point clustered a crowd watching their efforts, and hanging back with natural kindly delicacy from the group of three at the extreme edge of the granite point – two pale-faced, grey, wild-eyed men, and the girl who sat crouching on a fragment of rock, her hair loose, her hands clasped round her knees, and a look of agonised sorrow in the piteous drawn face, ever directed towards the east.

“They’re all coming back,” said some one close at hand.

The man was right; slowly one by one the boats crept over the glorious sea towards the harbour, Duncan Leslie’s last.

“Nothing?” said Uncle Luke in a low whisper as the coastguard boat was backed toward the point, and the detective sprang ashore.

“Nothing, sir. Poor foolish, misguided lad! Might have been my boy, sir. I’ve only done my duty; but this is a dark night’s work I shall never forget. I feel as if I were answerable for his death.”

Ten minutes later Duncan Leslie landed in the same way, and laid his hand upon Uncle Luke’s arm.

“I was obliged to come back,” he said; “my men are fagged out.”

“No signs of him!”

Leslie shook his head and spoke in a whisper.

“I’ll be off again as soon as I can get a fresh crew, and search till I do find him. For Heaven’s sake, sir, take them home!”

It was a kindly whisper, but Louise heard every word, and shuddered as she turned and hid her face in her father’s breast. For she knew what it meant; it was to spare her the agonising sight, when the sea, according to its wont, threw something up yonder among the rugged stones, where, to use the fishermen’s words, the current bit hardest on the shore. She fought hard to keep back the wild cry that struggled in her breast; but it was in vain, and many a rough fellow turned aside as he heard the poor girl’s piteous wail out there in the sunshine of that glorious morn.

“Harry! brother! what shall I do?” George Vine’s lips parted as he bent down over his child. “The Lord gave, and – ”

His voice failed, but his lips completed poor old stricken Job’s words, and there was a pause. Then he seemed to draw himself up, and held out his hand for a moment to Duncan Leslie.

“Luke!” he said then calmly and gravely. “Your arm too. Let us go home.”

The little crowd parted left and right, and every hat was doffed in the midst of a great silence, as the two old men walked slowly up the rough pier, supporting the stricken girl.

Duncan Leslie followed, and as they passed on through the narrow lane of humble, sympathising people of the port, these turned in and slowly followed, two and two, bareheaded, as if it were a funeral procession.

Just then, high above the top of the grand cliff, a lark soared up, sprinkling the air as from a censer of sound, with his silvery notes joyous, loud, and thrilling; and one patriarchal fisherman, who had seen many a scene of sorrow in his time, whispered to the mate walking at his side —

“Ay, lad, and so it is; midst of life we are in death.”

“Ah,” sighed his companion; “but on such a morn as this!”

Volume Two – Chapter Fourteen.
At the Granite House

The Vines had hardly reached their home when quietly and in a furtive way boat after boat put off down the harbour, from the little punt belonging to some lugger, right up to the heavy fishing-craft, rowed by six or eight men. There was no communication one with the other; no general order had been issued, but, with one consent, all were bent upon the same mission, and hour after hour, every mass of weedy rock, chasm, hollow, and zorn was scanned, where it was known that the current was likely to throw up that which it had engulfed; but, though every inch of shore was searched, the task proved to be without avail, and the brothers, seated together in the quaint, old-fashioned dining-room, waiting to be summoned for the reception of their dead, sat waiting, and without receiving the call.

Louise had refused to leave them, and had clung to her father, asking to be allowed to stay; but no sooner was the consent obtained than it proved to be useless, for the poor girl was completely prostrated by the excitement and horror of the past night, and had to be helped up to her couch.

And there the brothers sat in silence, George Vine calm, stern, and with every nerve on the strain; Uncle Luke watching him furtively without attempting to speak.

When any words had passed between the brothers, the old cynic’s voice sounded less harsh, and its tones were sympathetic, as he strove to be consolatory to the suffering man. They had been seated some time together in silence, when Uncle Luke rose, and laid his hand upon his brother’s shoulder.

“I don’t know what to say to you, George,” he whispered softly. “For all these years past I’ve been, what you know, a childless, selfish man; but I feel for you, my lad – I feel for you, and I’d bear half your agony, if I could.”

George Vine turned upon him with a piteous smile, and took the hand resting on his shoulder.

“You need not speak, Luke,” he said sadly. “Do you think we have lived all these years without my understanding my brother, and knowing what he is at heart?”

Luke shook his head, gripped the hand which held his firmly, but could not speak.

“I am going to bear it like a man, please God; but it is hard, Luke, hard; and but for poor Louise’s sake I could wish that my journey was done.”

“No, no; no, no, George,” said the brother huskily. “There is, lad, much to do here yet – for you, my boy – for Louise – that poor, half-crazy woman up-stairs, and Uncle Luke, who is not much better, so they say. No, my boy, you must fight – you must bear, and bear it bravely, as you will, as soon as this first shock is over, and there’s always hope – always hope. The poor boy may have escaped.”

“Ay, to where? Luke, brother, for Heaven’s sake let me be in peace. I cannot bear to speak now. I feel as if the strain is too great for my poor brain.”

Luke pressed his hand, and walked slowly to the window, from whence he could gaze down at the boats going; and coming into the harbour; and he shuddered as he thought what any one of them might bring.

“Better it should, and at once,” he said to himself. “He’ll know no rest until that is past.”

He turned and looked in wonder at the door, which opened then, and Aunt Marguerite, dressed in one of her stiffest brocades, pale, but with her eyes stern and fierce, entered the room, to sweep slowly across, till she was opposite to George Vine, when she crossed her arms over her breast, and began to beat her shoulder with her large ivory fan, the thin leaves making a peculiar pattering noise against her whalebone stiffened bodice.

“Don’t talk to him, Margaret,” said Uncle Luke, coming forward. “He is not fit. Say what you have to say another time.”

“Silence! you poor weak imbecile!” she cried, as her eyes flashed at him. “What do you do here at a time like this? Now,” she continued, darting a vindictive look at her broken-hearted brother, “what have you to say?”

“To say, Margaret?” he replied piteously. “God help me, what can I say?”

“Nothing, miserable that you are. The judgment has come upon you at last. Have I not striven to save that poor murdered boy from you – to raise him from the slough into which you plunged him in your wretched degradation. Time after time I have raised my voice, but it has been unheard. I have been treated as your wretched dependant, who could not even say her soul was her own, and with my heart bleeding, I have seen – ”

“Margaret, you were always crazy,” cried Uncle Luke fiercely; “are you raving mad?”

“Yes,” she cried. “Worm, pitiful crawling worm. You are my brother by birth, but what have I seen of you but your wretched selfish life – of you who sold your birthright to sink into the degraded creature you are, so degraded that you side with this man against me, now that he is worthily punished for his crime against his son.”

“I cannot listen to this,” cried Uncle Luke furiously.

“Let her speak,” said George Vine sadly; “she thinks she is right.”

“And so do you,” cried Aunt Marguerite. “If you had kept the poor boy a gentleman all this would not have happened. See to what extent you have driven the poor, brave-hearted, noble boy, the only true Des Vignes. You, degenerate creature that you are, maddened him by the life you forced him to lead, till in sheer recklessness he took this money, struck down the tyrant to whom you made him slave, and at last caused him to be hunted down till, with the daring of a Des Vignes, he turned, and died like one of his chivalrous ancestors, his face to his foes, his – ”

“Bah!” cried Uncle Luke, with a fierce snarl, “his chivalrous ancestors!”

“Luke!”

“I tell you, George, I’m sick of the miserable cant. Died like a hero! Woman, it was your miserable teaching made him the discontented wretch he was.”

“For pity’s sake, Luke.”

“I must speak now,” cried the old man furiously; “it’s time she knew the truth; but for you, who, in return for the shelter of your brother’s roof, filled the boy’s head with your vain folly, he would have been a respectable member of society, an honest Englishman, instead of a would-be murderer and thief.”

“It is false!” cried Aunt Marguerite.

“It is true!” thundered the old man, in spite of his brother’s imploring looks; “true, and you know it’s true. Died like a hero, with his face to the foe! He died, if he be dead, like a coward, afraid to face the officer of the law he had outraged – a disgrace to the name of Vine.”

Aunt Marguerite stood gazing at him, as if trying to stay him with the lightning of her eyes, but his burst of passion was at an end, and he did not even realise that her vindictive looks had faded out, and that she had grown ghastly as a sheet, and tottered half palsied from the room.

For, horrified by the agony he read in his brother’s face, Luke Vine had seized his hands, and was gazing imploringly at him.

“Forgive me, George,” he whispered. “I knew not what I said.”

“Let me be alone – for a while,” faltered his brother. “I am weak. I cannot bear it now.”

But the strain was not yet at an end, for at that moment there was a tap at the door, and Liza entered, looking red-eyed and strange; and a sob escaped her as she saw her master’s face.

“A gentleman to see you, sir. He must see you at once,” she stammered.

“If you please, Mr Vine,” said a short, stern voice, and, without further ceremony, the detective officer entered the room.

George Vine rose painfully, and tried to cross where the man stood inside the door, looking sharply from one to the other.

“No,” he said inaudibly, as his eyes seemed to grasp everything; “they’re honest. Don’t know where he is.”

George Vine did not cross to the officer; his strength seemed to fail him.

“You have come,” he said slowly, as he tried to master a piteous sigh. “Luke, you will come with me?”

“Yes, lad, I’ll come,” said Uncle Luke. Then turning towards the officer, he whispered, “Where did you find the poor lad?”

“You are labouring under a mistake, sir,” said the man. “We have not found him – yet. My people are searching still, and half the fishermen are out in their boats, but they say it is not likely that they will find him till after a tide or two, when he will be cast ashore.”

The words sounded hard and brutal, and Luke gave the speaker a furious look as he saw his brother wince.

“Why have you come here, then?” said Uncle Luke, harshly. “Do you think he has not suffered enough?”

The officer made no reply, but stood, notebook in hand, thinking. Then sharply:

“A person named Pradelle has been staying here.”

“Yes,” said Uncle Luke, with a snap of his teeth; “and if you had taken him instead of hunting down our poor boy you would have done some good.”

“All in good time, sir. I expect he was at the bottom of it all. Have you any information you can give me as to where he is likely to have gone?”

“Where do all scoundrels and thieves go to hide? London, I suppose.”

“I expected that,” said the officer, talking to Uncle Luke, but watching George Vine’s drawn, grief-stricken face the while. “I dare say we shall be able to put a finger upon him before long. He does not seem to have a very good record, and yet you gentlemen appear to have given him a welcome here.”

George Vine made a deprecating movement with his hands, the detective watching him keenly the while, and evidently hesitating over something he had to say.

“And now, sir,” said Uncle Luke, “you’ll excuse me if I ask you to go. This is not a time for cross-examination.”

“Eh? perhaps not,” said the officer sharply, as he gave the old man a resentful glance. Then to himself, “Well – it’s duty. He had no business to. I’ve no time for fine feelings.”

“At another time,” continued Uncle Luke, “if you will come to me, I dare say I can give you whatever information you require.”

“Oh, you may rest easy about that, sir,” said the officer, half laughingly, “don’t you be afraid. But I want a few words now with this other gentleman.”

“And I say no; you shall not torture him now,” cried Uncle Luke angrily. “He has suffered enough.”

“Don’t you interfere, sir, till you are called upon,” said the officer roughly. “Now, Mr George Vine, if you please.”

“I will not have it,” cried Uncle Luke; “it is an outrage.”

“Let him speak, brother,” said George Vine, with calm dignity. “Now, sir, go.”

“I will, sir. It’s a painful duty, but it is a duty. Now, sir, I came here with a properly signed warrant for the arrest of Henry Vine, for robbery and attempted murder.”

“Ah!” sighed Vine, with his brow wrinkling.

“The young man would have resigned himself quietly, but you incited him to resist the law and escape.”

“It is quite true. I have sinned, sir,” said Vine, in a low pained voice, “and I am ready to answer for what I have done.”

“But that is not all,” continued the officer. “Not content with aiding my prisoner to escape, you attacked me, sir, and twice over you struck me in the execution of my duty.”

“Is this true, George?” cried Uncle Luke, excitedly.

“Yes,” said his brother, calmly bending to this new storm: “yes, it is quite true.”

“Well, sir, what have you to say?”

“Nothing.”

“You know, I suppose, that it is the duty of every citizen to help the officers of the law?”

“Yes.”

“And yet you not only fought against me, but struck me heavily. I have the marks.”

“Yes; I own to it all.”

“And you know that it is a very serious offence?”

“Yes,” said the wretched man; and he sank into the nearest chair, looking straight before him into vacancy.

“Well, sir,” said the officer sharply, “I’m glad you know the consequences.” Then turning sharply on Uncle Luke, who stood biting his lips in an excited manner, “Perhaps you’ll come into the next room with me, sir. I should like a few words with you.”

Uncle Luke scowled at him, as he led the way into the drawing-room, and shut the door angrily.

“Now, sir,” he began fiercely, “let me – ”

“Hold hard, old gentleman!” said the officer; “don’t be so excitable. I want a few words, and then, for goodness’ sake, give me a glass of wine and a biscuit. I’ve touched nothing since I came here last night.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Uncle Luke, furiously; but the man went on —

“Of course it’s a serious thing striking an officer; let alone the pain, there’s the degradation, for people know of it. I’m sore at losing my prisoner, and if he had not held me I should have had the young fellow safe, and that horrible accident wouldn’t have happened.”

“And now what are you going to do?” snarled Uncle Luke; “drag him off to gaol?”

“Going to act like a man, sir. Think I’m such a brute? Poor old fellow, I felt quite cut, hard as I am, and I’d have asked him to shake hands over it, only he couldn’t have taken it kindly from me. You seem a man of the world, sir. He’s one of those dreamy sort of naturalist fellows. Tell him from me I’d have given anything sooner than all this should have happened. It was my duty to see him about his resistance to the law. But, poor old fellow, he was doing his natural duty in defence of his boy, just as I felt that I was doing mine.”

Uncle Luke did not speak, but stood holding out his hand. The officer gripped it eagerly, and they two stood gazing in each other’s faces for a few moments.

“Thank you,” said Uncle Luke gently; and after a time the officer rose to go.

“Yes, sir,” he said, at parting, “I shall stay down here till the poor boy is found. Some one in town will be on the look-out for our friend Pradelle, for, unless I’m very much mistaken, he’s the monkey who handled the cat’s paws. Good morning.”

Uncle Luke stood at the door watching the officer till he was out of sight, and then returned to the old dining-room, to find his brother still gazing into vacancy, just as he had been left.

“News, Luke?” he said, as he looked eagerly. “No, you need not speak. Perhaps it is better so. Better death than this terrible dishonour.”

Volume Two – Chapter Fifteen.
George Vine Asks for Help

“She shall go. I always knew she was a thief,” said Aunt Marguerite, as she stood by her open window, listening to a whispered communication going on. “Wait till Louise can act like a woman, and see to her housekeeping again, and that girl shall go.”

She listened again, and could hear a rough woman’s voice urging something, while the more familiar voice of Liza was raised again and again in a whispered protest.

Then followed more talking, and at last there was a pause, followed by a hasty whisper, and the heavy step of old Poll Perrow, with her basket on her back, supported by the strap across her brow. Aunt Marguerite had been to her niece’s door again and again, and tried it to find it fastened; and she could get no response to her taps and calls. She seemed to feel no sorrow, only rage against all by whom she was surrounded; and, isolated as it were, she spent the afternoon going to and fro between her own room and one which gave her a good view of the harbour mouth with boats going and returning; for the search for the body of Harry Vine was kept up without cessation, the fishermen lending themselves willingly to the task, and submitting, but with an ill grace, to the presence of the police.

Aunt Marguerite, however, in spite of her vindictive feeling, suffered intense grief; and her sorrow seemed to deepen the lines in her handsome old face.

“They’ve murdered him, they’ve murdered him!” she kept on muttering as she watched the passing boats. “Nne understood him but me.”

She drew back sharply from the window, for just then a closely-veiled figure came hurriedly into view, her goal being evidently the old granite house.

Aunt Marguerite’s eyes sparkled with vindictive malice.

“Yes,” she said, half aloud; “and you too, madam – you had your share in the poor boy’s death. Oh! how I do hate your wretched Dutch race.”

She crossed to the door, and opened it slightly, to stand listening, to hear voices a few minutes later, and then steps on the stairs, which stopped, after a good deal of whispering, at her niece’s door, after which there was a low tapping, and Liza’s voice arose:

“Miss Louise! Miss Louise!”

“Yes, knock again. She will not answer. One of them has some pride left.”

“Miss Louise, Miss Louise, you’re wanted, please.”

There was no reply, nor yet to repeated knocks. There was a smile of satisfaction on Aunt Marguerite’s face as she drew herself up, and opened her fan as if at some presentation, or about to dismiss an intruder; but her countenance changed directly, and, forgetting her dignity, she craned forward, for all at once a pleading voice arose.

“Louise, Louise, for pity’s sake let me in.”

There was a short pause, and then the sharp sound of the shooting back of a bolt and the creaking of a door. Then it was closed again, and as the listener threw her own open there came the faint sound of a passionate cry and a low sobbing.

Aunt Marguerite stepped out into the passage, her head erect, and her stiff silk trailing noisily behind her, to go to her own room, but the way was barred by the presence of Liza, who was down on the floor crouched in a heap, sobbing passionately, with her apron up to her eyes.

“Get up!” said Aunt Marguerite imperiously, as she struck at the girl’s hand with her fan.

Liza leaped to her feet, looked aghast at the figure before her, and fled, while Aunt Marguerite strode into her room, and loudly closed the door. As she passed her niece’s chamber, Louise was clasped tightly in Madelaine’s arms, and it was long before the two girls were seated, hand in hand, gazing wonderingly at the inroads made so soon by grief.

“It is so horrible – all so horrible,” whispered Madelaine at last, for the silence was for long unbroken, save by an occasional sob. Louise looked at her wildly, and then burst into a passion of tears.

“Maddy!” she cried at last, “is it all true?”

They could say no more, but sat gathering comfort from the sympathetic grasp of each other’s hands.

At last, in a dull heavy way, the words came, each sounding as if the speaker were in despair, but willing to suffer so that her companion might be spared, and by degrees Louise learned that Van Heldre still lay in the same insensible state, the awaking from which Madelaine shrank from with horror, lest it should mean the return for a brief time of sense before the great final change.

“I could not come to you,” said Louise, after a long silence, as she gazed wistfully in her friend’s face, “and thought we should never meet again as friends.”

“You should have known me better,” replied Madelaine. “It is very terrible, such a – such a – oh, Louie, dearest, there must have been some mistake. Harry – Harry could not have been so base.”

Louise was silent for a time. At last she spoke.

“There must be times,” she said gently, “when even the best of us are not answerable for our actions. He must have been mad. It was when, too – he had – promised – he had told me – that in the future – oh,” she cried, shuddering, as she covered her face with her hands, “it can’t be true – it cannot be true.”

Again there was a long silence in the room, whose drawn-down blind turned the light of a sickly yellow hue. But the window was open, and from time to time the soft sea breeze wafted the blind inward, and a bright ray of sunny light streamed in like hope across the two bent forms.

“I must not stay long,” said Madelaine. “I shiver whenever I am away, lest – ”

“No, no,” cried Louise, passionately, as she strained her friend to her breast, “we will not despond yet. All this comes across our lives like a dense black cloud, and there must be a great change in the future. Your father will recover.”

“I pray that he may,” said Madelaine.

“And I will not believe that Harry is – dead.”

“I pray that he may be alive, Louie, to come some time in the future to ask forgiveness of my father. For I did love him, Louie; at first as a sister might the brother with whom she had played from childhood, and of late in sorrow and anguish, as the woman whom he had always said he loved. I fought with it, oh, so hard, but the love was there, and even when I was most hard and cold – ”

“And he believed you cared for Mr Leslie.”

The words slipped from Louise Vine’s lips like an escaped thought, and the moment they were spoken, she shrank away with her pale cheeks crimsoning, and she gazed guiltily at her companion.

“It was a foolish fancy on his part,” said Madelaine gravely. “I cannot blame myself for anything I ever said or did to your brother. If I had been wrong, my lapse would have come upon me now like the lash of a whip; but in the long hours of my watches by my poor father’s bed, I have gone over it again and again, and I cannot feel that I have been wrong.”

Louise drew her more closely to her breast.

“Maddy,” she whispered, “years will have to pass, and we must separate. The pleasant old days must end, but some day, when all these horrors have been softened by time, we may call each other sister again, and in the long dark interval you will not forget.”

“Forget!” said Madelaine, with a smile full of sadness. “You know that we shall always be unchanged.”

“Going – so soon?” exclaimed Louise, for her friend had risen.

“He is lying yonder,” said Madelaine. “I must go back. I could not stay away long from you, though, without a word.”

They stood for a few moments clasped in each other’s arms, and then in a slow, sad way went hand in hand towards the door. As she opened it for her friend to pass through, Louise shrank back from the burst of sunshine that flooded the passage, and placed her hand across her eyes. It was a momentary act, and then she drew a long breath and followed her friend, as if her example had given the needed strength, and acted as an impetus to raise her from the lethargic state into which she had fallen.

In this spirit she went down with her to the door, when, as their steps sounded on the hall floor, the dining-room door was thrown open quickly, and Vine stood in the darkened opening, gazing wildly at the veiled figure of Madelaine.

“Van Heldre?” he said, in an excited whisper; “not – not – ” He could not finish his speech, but stood with his hand pressed to his throat.

“My father’s state is still unchanged,” said Madelaine gently.

“Then there may yet be hope, there may yet be hope,” said Vine hoarsely as he shrank once more into the darkened room.

“Mr Vine,” said Madelaine piteously, as she stood with extended hands asking sympathy in her grievous trouble.

“My child!” he cried, as he caught her to his breast, and she clung there sobbing bitterly. Then he softly disengaged her hands from his neck. “No, no,” he said dreamily, “I am guilty too; I must never take you to my heart again.”

“What have I done?” sobbed Madelaine, as she clung to him still.

“You?” he said fondly. “Ah! it was once my dream that you would be more and more my child. Little Madelaine!”

He drew her to his breast again, kissed her with spasmodic eagerness, and then held out a hand to Louise, who flew to his breast as with an angry, malicious look, Aunt Marguerite advanced to the end of the landing and looked down at the sobbing group.

“Good-bye!” whispered the stricken man hoarsely, “good-bye, my child. I am weak and helpless. I hardly know what I say; but you must come here no more. Good-bye.”

He turned from them hastily, and glided back into the darkened room, where Louise followed him, as Madelaine went slowly down toward the town.

Vine was seated before the empty grate, his head resting on his hand, as Louise went to his side, and he started as if from a dream when she touched his shoulder.

“You, my child?” he said, sinking back. “Ah! stay with me – pray with me. It is so hard to bear alone.”