Chapter Forty Seven.
Brother—Lover.
Trembling, her eyes dilated with horror, Louise Vine stood watching the dimly-seen pleading face for some moments before her lips could form words, and her reason tell her that it was rank folly and superstition to stand trembling there.
“Harry!” she whispered, “alone? yes.”
“Hah!” he ejaculated, and thrusting in his hands he climbed into the room.
Louise gazed wildly at the rough-looking figure in sea-stained old pea-jacket and damaged cap, hair unkempt, and a hollow look in eye and cheek that, joined with the ghastly colourless skin, was quite enough to foster the idea that this was one risen from the grave.
“Don’t be scared,” he said harshly, “I’m not dead after all.”
“Harry! my darling brother.”
That was all in words, but with a low, moaning cry Louise had thrown her soft arms about his neck and covered his damp cold face with her kisses, while the tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Then there is some one left to—My darling sis!”
He began in a half-cynical way, but the genuine embrace was contagious, and clasping her to his breast, he had to fight hard to keep back his own tears and sobs as he returned her kisses.
Then the fugitive’s dread of the law and of discovery reasserted itself, and pushing her back, he said quickly:—
“Where is father?”
“At Mr Van Heldre’s. Let me—”
“Hush! answer my questions. Where is Aunt Marguerite?”
“Gone to bed, dear.”
“And the servants?”
“In the kitchen. They will not come without I ring. But Harry—brother—we thought you dead—we thought you dead.”
“Hush! Louy, for heaven’s sake! You’ll ruin me,” he whispered as she burst into a fit of uncontrollable sobbing, so violent at times that he grew alarmed.
“We thought you dead—we thought you dead.”
It was all she could say as she clung to him, and looking wildly from door to window and back.
“Louy!” he whispered at last passionately, “I must escape. Be quiet or you will be heard.”
By a tremendous effort she mastered her emotion, and tightening her grasp upon him, she set her teeth hard, compressed her lips, and stood with contracted brow gazing in his eyes.
“Now!” he said, “can you listen?”
She nodded her head, and her wild eyes seemed so questioning, that he said quickly—
“I can’t tell you much. You know I can swim well.”
She nodded silently.
“Well, I rose after my dive and let the current carry me away till I swam ashore three miles away, and I’ve been in hiding in one of the zorns.”
“Oh, my brother?” she answered.
“Waiting till it was safe to come out.”
“But Harry!” she paused; “we—my father—we all believed you dead. How could you be so—”
She stopped.
“Cruel?” he said firmly. “Wouldn’t it have been more cruel to be dragged off to prison and disgrace you more?”
“But—”
“Hush! I tell you I have been in hiding. They think me dead?”
“Yes; they found you—”
“Hush, I tell you. I have no time to explain. Let them go on thinking me dead.”
“But Harry?” she cried; “my poor broken-hearted father—Madelaine.”
“Hold your tongue!” he said in a broken voice, “unless you want to drive me mad.”
He paused, for his face was working; but at last with a stamp he controlled his emotion.
“Look here,” he said hoarsely. “I had no one to come to but you. Will you help me?”
“Harry?” she whispered reproachfully, as she clung to him more firmly.
“Hah! that’s better,” he said. “Now don’t talk, only listen. But are you sure that we shall not be overheard?”
“Quite, dear, we are alone.”
“Then listen. I have thought all this out. I’ve been a blackguard; I did knock old Van Heldre down.”
Louise moaned.
“But once more I tell you I’m not a thief. I did not rob him, and I did not go to rob him. I swear it.”
“I believe you, Harry,” she whispered.
“Well, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.”
She nodded again, unable to speak, but clung to him spasmodically, for everything seemed to swim round before her eyes.
“I am penniless. There, that proves to you I did not rob poor old Van. I want money—enough to escape over to France—to get to London first. Then I shall change my name. Don’t be alarmed,” he said tremblingly, as he felt Louise start. “I shall give up the name of Vine, but I’m not going to call myself des Vignes, or any of that cursed folly.”
“Harry!”
“All right, dear. It made me mad to think of it all. I’ve come to my senses now, and I’m going over the channel to make a fresh start and to try and prove myself a man. Some day when I’ve done this father shall know that I am alive, and perhaps then he may take me by the hand and forgive me.”
“Harry, let me send for him—let me tell him now.”
“No,” said the young man sternly.
“He loves you! He will forgive you and bless God for restoring you once more, as I do, my darling. Oh, Harry, Harry! My mother!”
“Hush,” he whispered with his voice trembling as he held her to him and stroked her face. “Hush, sis, hush!”
“Then I may send for him?”
“No, no, no?” he cried fiercely. “I am little better than a convict. He must not, he shall not know I am alive.”
“But Harry, dearest—”
“Silence!” he whispered angrily, “I came to you, my sister, for help. No, no, dear, I’m not cross; but you talk like a woman. The dear old dad would forgive me, God bless him! I know he would, just as you have, and fall on my neck and kiss me as—as—as—Ah! Lou, Lou, Lou, my girl,” he cried, fighting against his emotion, “the law will not be like your love. You must help me to escape, at all events for a time.”
“And may I tell him where you are gone—my father and Maddy?”
“Hush!” he cried, in so wild and strange a voice that she shrank from him. “Do you want to unman me when I have planned my future, and then see me handcuffed and taken to gaol? No; Harry Vine is dead. Some day another man will come and ask the forgiveness he needs.”
“Harry!”
“But not this shivering, cowardly cur—a man, a true blameless man, whom it will take years to make. Now, then, once more, will you help me, and keep my secret?”
Louise was silent for a few moments.
“Well, never mind, you must keep my secret, for after I am gone if you said you had seen me, people would tell you that you were mad.”
“I will help you, Harry, and keep your secret, dear—even,” she added to herself, “if it breaks my heart.”
“That’s right. We’ve wasted too much time in talking as it is, and—”
“But Harry—Madelaine—she loves you.”
He wrested himself from her violently, and stood with his hands pressed to his head. A few moments before he had been firm and determined, but the agonised thought of Madelaine and of giving her up for ever had ended the fictitious strength which had enabled him to go so far.
It was the result of his long agony shut up in that cave; and though he struggled hard he could do no more, but completely unnerved, trembling violently, and glancing wildly from time to time at the door and window, he sank at his sister’s feet and clutched her knees.
“Harry, Harry!” she whispered—she, the stronger now—“for Heaven’s sake don’t give way like that.”
“It’s all over now. I’m dead beat; I can do no more.”
“Then let me go for father; let me fetch him from Van Heldre’s.”
“Yes,” he moaned; “and while you are gone I’ll go down to the end of the point and jump in. This time I shall be too weak to swim.”
“Harry, don’t talk like that!” she cried, embracing him, as she saw with horror the pitiable, trembling state in which he was.
“I can’t help it,” he whispered as he clung to her now like a frightened child, and looked wildly at the door. “You don’t know what I’ve suffered, buried alive like, in that cave, and expecting the sea to come in and drown me. It has been one long horror.”
“But, Harry, dear, you are safe now.”
“Safe?” he groaned; “yes, to be taken by the first policeman I meet, and locked up in gaol.”
“But, Harry!” she cried, his agitation growing contagious, “I have promised. I will help you now. I’ll keep it a secret, if you think it best, dear. Harry, for Heaven’s sake be a man.”
“It’s all over now,” he groaned, “so better end it all. I wish I was dead. I wish I was dead.”
“But, Harry, dear,” she whispered, trembling now as much as he, “tell me what to do.”
“I can’t now,” he said; “I’m too weak and broken. All this has been so maddening that I’m like some poor wretch half-killed by drink. It’s too late now.”
“No, no, Harry, dear. It shall be our secret then. Up, and be a man, my brave, true brother, and you shall go and redeem yourself. Yes, I’ll suffer it all hopefully, for the future shall make amends, dear. You shall go across to France, and I will study my father’s comfort, and pray nightly for you.”
“Too late,” he moaned—“too late!”
She looked at him wildly. The long strain upon his nerves had been too great, and he was white as a sheet, and shaking violently.
“Harry, dear, tell me what to do.”
“Let them take me,” he said weakly. “It’s of no use.”
“Hush?” she said, full now of a wild desire to save him from disgrace and to aid him in his efforts to redeem the past. “Let me think. Yes; you want money.”
Full of the recollection of his former appeal, she took out her keys, opened a drawer, while he half knelt, half crouched upon the carpet. She had not much there, and, whispering to him to wait, she left the room, locking him in, and ran up to her chamber.
Harry started as he heard the snap made by the lock; but he subsided again in a helpless state, and with the disease that had been hanging about waiting to make its grand attack, gradually sapping its way.
In five minutes Louise was back.
“I have not much money,” she whispered hastily; “but here are my watch, two chains, and all the jewels I have, dear. They are worth a great deal.”
“Too late!” he moaned as he gazed up at her piteously, and for the moment he was delirious, as a sudden flush of fever suffused his cheeks.
“It is not too late,” she said firmly. “Take them. Now tell me what next to do.”
“What next?” he said vacantly.
“Yes. You must not stay here. My father may return at any time. Brother—Harry—shall I get you some clothes?”
“No—no,” he said mournfully. “I shall want no more clothes.”
“Harry!” she cried, taking his face between her hands, and drawing it round so that the light fell upon it; “are you ill?”
“Ill? yes,” he said feebly. “I’ve felt it before—in the wet cave—fever, I suppose. Lou, dear, is it very hard to die?”
“Oh, what shall I do?” cried the agitated girl, half frantic now. “Harry, you are not very ill?”
“Only sometimes,” he said slowly, as he looked round. “I seem to lose my head a bit, and then something seems to hold me back.”
“Harry!”
“Yes,” he cried, starting up; “who called? You, Louy, money—give me some money.”
“I gave you all I had, dear, and my jewels.”
“Yes, I forgot,” he said huskily, as in a moment his whole manner had changed, and with feverish energy he felt for the trinkets she had given him.
“You are ill, dear,” she whispered tenderly. “Would it not be better to let me fetch our father?”
“I’d sooner die,” he cried, catching her wrist. “No. He shall not know. There, I can see clearly now. That horrible weakness is always taking me now, and when it’s on I feel as if I should kill myself.”
“Harry!”
“Hush! I know now. We must go before he comes back.”
“We?” she said aghast.
“Yes, we. I’m not fit to be alone. You must come with me, Lou, and help me. If I go alone I shall go mad.”
“Oh, Harry! my darling brother.”
“Yes,” he cried in a hoarse whisper; “I know I shall. It’s too horrible to live alone, as I’ve been living. You must come with me and save me—from myself—from everybody. Why do you look at me like that?”
He caught her by the shoulder, and glared at her with a long, fierce stare.
“I—I could not leave home, Harry,” she said faintly.
“You must, you shall,” he cried, “unless you want me to really die.”
“But my father, dear?”
“Quick! write!” he said with the feverish energy which frightened her; and dragging open the blotter on a side table, he pointed to a chair.
“He is mad—he is mad,” she wailed to herself, as in obedience to a will far stronger at that moment than her own, she sat down and took up pen and paper.
“Write,” he said hoarsely.
“Write, Harry?”
“Yes, quick!”
In a horror of dread as she read her brother’s wild looks, and took in his feverish semi-delirium, lest he should carry out a threat which chilled her, she dipped her pen and waited as, after an evident struggle with a clouding intellect, Harry said quickly:
“Dear father, I am forced by circumstances to leave home. Do not grieve for me, I am well and happy; and no matter what you hear do not attempt to follow me. If you do you will bring sorrow upon yourself, and ruin upon one I love. Good-bye; some day all will be cleared up. Till then, your loving daughter, Louise.”
“Harry!” she sobbed, as he laid down the pen, and gazed at the tear-blurred paper. “You cannot mean this. I dare not—I could not go.”
“Very well,” he said coldly. “I told you it was too late. It does not matter now.”
“Oh,” she panted, “you are not reasonable. I have given you money. Go as you said and hide somewhere. You are weak and ill now.”
“Yes,” he said, in a voice which wrung her heart. “I am weak and ill now.”
“A little rest, dear, and the knowledge that you have the means of escaping will make you more calm.”
He looked at her with his eyes so full of wild anger that she half shrank from him, but his face changed.
“Poor little sis!” he said tenderly; “I frighten you. Look at me. Am I fit to go away alone? I know—I feel that at any moment I may break down and go off my head among strangers.”
She looked at him wildly, and as she stood trembling there in a state of agitation which overset her generally calm balance, she read in his eyes that he was speaking the truth.
“Put that note in an envelope and direct it,” he said in a slow, measured way, and mechanically, and as if for the time being his will was again stronger than hers, she obeyed him, dropped the letter on the table, and then stood gazing from it to her brother and back again.
“It’s hard upon you,” he said, with his hand to his head, as if he could think more clearly then, “hard upon the poor old dad. But it seems my only chance, Lou, my girl.”
Father—brother—what should she do?
“I can feel it now,” he said drearily. “There, I’m cool now. It’s lying in that cold, wet cave, and the horrors I’ve gone through. I’ve got something coming on—had touches of it before—in the nights,” he went on slowly and heavily, “p’r’aps it’ll kill me—better if it does.”
“No, no, Harry. Stay and let me nurse you here. We could keep it a secret from every one, and—”
“Hold your tongue!” he said fiercely. “I might live—if I went away—where I could feel—I was safe. I can’t face the old man again. It would kill me. There, it’s too much to ask you—what’s that?”
Louise started to the door. Harry dashed to the window, and his manner was so wild and excited that she darted after him to draw him away.
“Nothing, dear, it is your fancy. There, listen, there is no one coming.”
He looked at her doubtingly, and listened as she drew him from the window.
“I thought I heard them coming,” he said. “Some one must have seen me crawl up here. Coming to take me—to gaol.”
“No, no, dear. You are ill, and fancy all this. Now come and listen to me. It would be so wild, so cruel if I were to leave my home like this. Harry! be reasonable, dear. Your alarm is magnified because you are ill. Let me—no, no, don’t be angry with me—let me speak to my father—take him into our confidence, and he will help you.”
“No,” he said sternly.
“Let me make him happy by the knowledge that you are alive.”
“And come upon him like a curse,” said Harry, as there was a tap at the door, which neither heard in the excitement of the moment, for, eager to help him, and trembling lest he should, in the excited state he was, go alone, Louise threw herself upon her knees at her brother’s feet.
“Be guided by me, dearest,” she sobbed, in a low, pained voice. “You know how I love you, how I would die if it were necessary to save you from suffering; but don’t—pray don’t ask me to go away from poor father in such a way as this.”
As she spoke a burst of hysteric sobbing accompanied her words, and then, as she raised her tear-blinded eyes, she saw that which filled her with horror. Uttering a faint cry, she threw herself before her brother, as if to shield him from arrest.
Duncan Leslie was standing in the open doorway, and at her action, he took a stride fiercely into the room.
Harry’s back was half turned toward him, but he caught a glimpse of the figure in the broad mirror of an old dressoir, and with one sweep of his arm dashed the light over upon the floor.
The heavy lamp fell with a crash of broken glass, and as Louise stood clinging to her brother, there was a dead silence as well as darkness in the room.