Chapter Forty Two.
A Startling Visitation.
“Fine night, master, but gashly dark,” said a gruff voice, as Vine was nearly at the bottom of the slope.
“Ah, Perrow! Yes, very dark,” said Vine quietly. “Not out with your boat to-night?”
“No, Master Vine, not to-night. Sea brimes. Why, if we cast a net to-night every mash would look as if it was a-fire. Best at home night like this. Going down town?”
“Yes, Perrow.”
“Ah, you’ll be going to see Master Van Heldre. You don’t know, sir, how glad my mates are as he’s better. Good night, sir. You’ll ketch up to Master Leslie if you look sharp. He come up as far as here and went back.”
“Thank you. Good night,” said Vine, and he walked on, but slackened his pace, for he felt that he could not meet Leslie then. The poor fellow would be suffering from his rebuff, and Vine shrank from listening to any appeal.
But he was fated to meet Leslie all the same, for at a turn of the steep path he encountered the young mine-owner coming towards him, and he appeared startled on finding who it was.
“Going out, Mr Vine?” he stammered. “I was coming up to the house, but—er—never mind; I can call some other time.”
“I would turn back with you, only I promised to go down to Mr Van Heldre’s to-night.”
“Ah, yes, to Van Heldre’s,” said Leslie confusedly. “I’ll walk with you if you will not mind.”
“I shall be glad of your company,” said Vine quietly; and they continued down to the town, Leslie very thoughtful, and Vine disinclined to converse.
“No, I am not going in, Mr Vine. Will you let me come and say a few words to you to-morrow?”
“Yes,” replied Vine gently.
He had meant to speak firmly and decisively, but a feeling of pity and sympathy for the young man, whose heart he seemed to read, changed his tone. It had been in his heart, too, to say, “It will be better if you do not come,” but he found it impossible, and they parted.
Leslie hesitated as soon as he was alone. What should he do? Go home? Home was a horrible desert to him now; and in his present frame of mind, the best thing he could do was to go right off for a long walk. By fatiguing the body he would make the brain ask for rest, instead of keeping up that whirl of anxious thought.
He felt that he must act. That was the only way to find oblivion and repose from the incessant thought which troubled him. He started off with the intention of wearying his muscles, so as to lie down that night and win the sleep to which he was often now a stranger.
His first intent was to go right up by the cliff path, by Uncle Luke’s, and over the hill by his own place, but if he went that way there was the possibility of finding Uncle Luke leaning over the wall, gazing out at the starlit sea, and probably he would stop and question him.
That night his one thought was of being alone, and he took the opposite direction, went down to the ferry, hunted out the man from the inn hard by, and had himself rowed across the harbour, so as to walk along the cliff eastwards, and then strike in north and round by the head of the estuary, where he could recross by the old stone bridge, and reach home—a walk of a dozen miles.
At the end of a couple of miles along the rugged pathway, where in places the greatest care was needed to avoid going over some precipitous spot to the shore below, Leslie stopped short to listen to the hollow moaning sound of the waves, and he seated himself close to the cliff edge, in a dark nook, which formed one of the sheltered lookouts used by the coastguard in bad weather.
The sea glittered as if the surface were of polished jet, strewn with diamonds, and, impressed by the similarity of the scene to that of the night on which the search had been carried on after Harry Vine, Leslie’s thoughts went back to the various scenes which repeated themselves before his mental gaze from the beginning to that terrible finale when the remains lay stark and disfigured in the inn shed, and the saturated cards proclaimed who the dead man was.
“Poor girl!” he said half aloud, “and with all that trouble fresh upon her, and the feeling that she and her family are disgraced for ever, I go to her to press forward my selfish, egotistical love. God forgive me! What weak creatures we men are.”
He sat thinking, taking off his hat for the cool, moist sea air to fan his feverish temples, when the solemn silence of the starry night seemed to bring to him rest and repose such as he had not enjoyed since the hour when Aunt Marguerite planted that sharp, poisoned barb in his breast.
“It is not that,” he said to himself, with a sigh full of satisfaction. “She never felt the full force of love yet for any man, but if ever her gentle young nature turned towards any one, it was towards me. And, knowing this, I, in my impatience and want of consideration, contrived my own downfall. No, not my downfall; there is hope yet, and a few words rightly spoken will remove the past.”
The feverish sensation was passing away swiftly. The calm serenity of the night beneath the glorious dome of stars was bringing with it restfulness, and hope rose strongly, as, far away in the east, he saw a glittering point of light rise above the sea slowly higher and higher, a veritable star of hope to him.
“What’s that?” he said to himself, as heard above the boom of the waves which struck below and then filled some hollow and fell back with an angry hiss, he fancied he heard a sob.
There was no mistake; a woman was talking in a low, moaning way, and then there came another sob.
He rose quickly.
“Is anything the matter?” he said sharply.
“Ah! Why, how you frightened me! Is that you, Master Leslie?”
“Yes. Who is it? Poll Perrow?”
“Yes, Master Leslie, it’s me.”
“Why, what are you doing here?” said Leslie, as cynical old Uncle Luke’s hints about the smuggling flashed across his mind.
“Nothing to do with smuggling,” she said, as if divining his thoughts.
“Indeed, old lady! Well, it looks very suspicious.”
“No, it don’t, sir. D’you think if I wanted to carry any landed goods I should take ’em along the coastguard path?”
“A man would not,” said Leslie, “but I should say it’s just what a cunning old woman’s brain would suggest, as being the surest way to throw the revenue men off the scent.”
“Dessay you’re right, Master Leslie, but you may search me if you like. I’ve got nothing to-night.”
“I’m not going to search you, old lady. I’ll leave that to the revenue men. But what’s the matter?”
“Matter, Master Leslie?”
“Yes; I heard you sobbing. Are you in trouble?”
“Of course I am, sir. Aren’t I a lone widow?”
“So you have been these fifteen years.”
“Fourteen and three-quarters, sir.”
“Ah, well, I was near enough. But what is it, old lady? Want a little money?”
“No, no, no, Master Leslie, sir; and that’s very kind of you, sir; and if I don’t bring you up half-a-dozen of the finest mack’rel that come in these next days, my name aren’t Perrow.”
“Thank you. There, I don’t want to be inquisitive, but it seems strange for a woman like you to be crying away here on the cliff two miles from home on a dark night.”
“And it seems strange for a young gen’leman like you to be up here all alone and three miles from home. You was watching me, Master Leslie.”
“You’ll take my word, Poll Perrow,” said Leslie quietly. “I did not know you were here.”
“Yes, I’ll believe you, Master Leslie, sir. But you was watching someone else?”
“No, I came for a walk, my good woman, that’s all.”
“Then I won’t stop you, sir. Good night, sir.”
“Good night,” said Leslie; and feeling more content, he took out his cigar case, and after selecting one by feeling he went back into the coastguard’s station and struck a match.
He looked along the cliff path as the match flashed, and caught sight faintly of the old woman.
“Watching me anyhow,” he said to himself, as he lit his cigar. “Now, what can that old girl be doing here? She’s fifty-five if she’s a day, but if she is not courting and had a quarrel with her youthful lover, I’m what that old lady says that Van Heldre is—a Dutchman.”
He turned back along the path feeling comparatively light-hearted and restful. The long, dark, weary walk to tire himself was forgotten, and he went slowly back along the coastguard path, turning a little from time to time to gaze over his left shoulder at the brilliant planet which rose higher and higher over the glistening sea.
“Hope!” he said half aloud. “What a glorious word that is, and what a weary world this would be if there were none! Yes, I will hope.”
He walked slowly on, wondering whether Poll Perrow was watching and following him. Then he forgot all about her, for his thoughts were fixed upon the granite house across the estuary, and the sweet sad face of Louise half in shadow, half lit by the soft glow of the shaded lamp.
“Mr Vine will be back by now,” he said. “I might call in and ask how Van Heldre is to-night. It would he sociable, and I should see her, and let my manner show my sorrow for having grieved her and given her pain; and, is it possible to let her see that I am full of patient, abiding hope, that some day she will speak differently to the way in which she spoke to-day? Yes, a woman would read all that, and I will be patient and guarded now.”
It was astonishing how eager Duncan Leslie felt now to see what news George Vine had brought from Van Heldre’s; and with the beautiful absurdity of young men in his position, he never allowed himself to think that when he crossed the ferry he would be within a stone’s throw of the merchant’s house, and that all he need do was to knock and ask old Crampton or Mrs Van Heldre for the latest bulletin, which would be gladly given.
It was so much easier to go on by the house, make for the path which led up the steep slope, and go right to the home on the shelf of the cliff, and ask there.
Meanwhile, Louise Vine had seated herself by the dining-room table, with the light of the shaded lamp falling athwart her glossy hair, and half throwing up her sweet pale face, just as Leslie had pictured it far away upon the cliff. Now and then her needle glittered, but only at rare intervals, for she was deep in thought.
At times her eyes closed, and as she sat there bending forward, it seemed as if she slept; but her lips moved, and a piteous sigh escaped her overladen breast.
The night seemed hot and oppressive, and she rose after a time and unhasped the casement window, beneath the old painted glass coat-of-arms; and, as she approached it, dimly-seen by the light cast from behind her, she shuddered, for it struck her there was a black stain across the painting, and a shadowy dark mark obliterated the proud words of the old family motto.
As she threw back the easement she stood leaning her head against the window, gazing out into the starlit space, and listening to the faint whisper of the coming tide.
While she listened it seemed to her that the faint boom and rush of the water obliterated every other sound, as she tried in vain to detect her father’s step slowly ascending the steep path.
“Too soon—too soon,” she said softly, and she returned to her seat to try and continue her work, but the attempt was vain. The light fell upon her motionless hands holding a piece of some black material, the thread was invisible, and only at times a keen thin gleam of light betrayed the whereabouts of the needle. Her sad eyes were fixed on the dark opening of the window, through which she could see a scarcely defined patch of starry sky, while the soft night air gave her a feeling of rest, such as had come to the man who had told her that he loved.
“Never more,” she sighed at last; “that is all passed. A foolish dream.”
Making an effort over herself, she resumed her work, drawing the needle through quickly for a few moments, and trying hard to dismiss Duncan Leslie from her thoughts. As she worked, she pictured her father seated by Van Heldre’s side; and a feeling of thankfulness came over her as she thought of the warm friendship between her elders, and of how firm and staunch Van Heldre seemed to be. Then she thought of the home troubles with her Aunt Marguerite, and her father’s patient forbearance under circumstances which were a heavy trial to his patience.
“Poor Aunt Marguerite!” she sighed, as her hands dropped with her work, and she sat gazing across the table straight out at the starry heavens. “How she loved poor Harry in her way; and yet how soon he seems to have passed out of her mind!”
She sighed as the past came back with her brothers wilfulness and folly; but, throwing these weaknesses into the shade, there were all his frank, good qualities, his tenderness to her before the troubles seemed to wrench them apart; the happy hours they had passed with Madelaine as boy and girls together; all happy days—gone for ever, but which seemed to stand out now as parts of Harry’s life which were to be remembered to the exclusion of all that was terrible and black.
“My brother!” she breathed, as she gazed straight out seaward, and a faint smile passed her lips; “he loved me, and I could always win him over to my side.”
The thought seemed frozen in her brain, her half-closed eyes opened widely, the pupils dilated, and her lips parted more and more, as she sat there fixed to her seat, the chilly drops gathering on her white brow, and a thrill of horror coursing through her veins. For as she looked she seemed to have conjured up the countenance of her brother, to gaze in there by the open casement—the face as she had seen it last—when he escaped from her bedroom, but not flushed and excited; it was now pale, the eyes hollow, and his hair clinging unkempt about his brow.
Was she awake, or was this some evolution of her imagination, or were those old stories true that at certain times the forms of those we loved did return to visit the scenes where they had passed their lives? This then was such a vision of the form of the brother whom she loved; and she gazed wildly, with her eyes starting, excited, more than fearing, in the strange exaltation which she felt.
Then she sank back in her chair with the chill of dread now emphasised, as she gazed fixedly at the ghastly face, for she saw the lips part as if to speak, and she uttered a low, gasping sound, for from the open window came in a quick hoarse whisper—“Louy, why don’t you speak? Are you alone?”