Chapter Sixty One.
Diogenes Discovers.
“Blame you, my dear? No, no, of course not. Then you knew nothing about it till that night when he came to the window?”
“Oh, no, uncle, dear.”
Louise started up excitedly from the couch at the hotel upon which she was lying, while the old man trotted up and down the room.
“Now, now, now,” he cried piteously, but with exceeding tenderness as he laid his hand upon her brow, and pressed her back till her head rested on the pillow. “Your head’s getting hot again, and the doctor said you were not to be excited in any way. There, let’s talk about fishing, or sea-anemones, or something else.”
“No, no, uncle dear, I must talk about this, or I shall be worse.”
“Then for goodness’ sake let’s talk about it,” he said eagerly, as he took a chair by her side and held her hand.
“You don’t blame me then—very much.”
“Well, say not very much; but it’s not very pleasant to have a nephew who makes one believe he’s dead, and a niece who pretends that she has bolted with a scampish Frenchman.”
“Uncle, uncle,” she cried piteously, “You see it has been a terrible upset for me, while as to your poor father—”
“But, uncle, dear, what could I do?”
“Well, when you were writing, you might have said a little more.”
“I wrote what poor Harry forced me to write. What else could I say?”
“You see, it has upset us all so terribly. George—I mean your father—will never forgive you.”
“But you do not put yourself in my place, uncle. Think of how Harry was situated; think of his horror of being taken. Indeed, he was half mad.”
“No; quite, Louy; and you seem to have caught the complaint.”
“I hardly knew what I did. It was like some terrible dream. Harry frightened me then.”
“Enough to frighten any one, appearing like a ghost at the window when we believed he was dead.”
“I did not mean that, uncle. I mean that he was in a terrible state of fever, and hardly seemed accountable for his actions. I think I should have felt obliged to go with him, even if he had not been so determined.”
“Ah! well, you’ve talked about it quite enough.”
“No, no; I must talk about it—about Harry. Oh! uncle! uncle! after all this suffering for him to be taken after all! The horror! the shame! the disgrace! You must—you shall save him!”
“I’m going to try all I know, my darling; but when once you have started the police it’s hard work to keep them back.”
“How could you do it?”
“How could I do it?” cried the old man testily. “I didn’t do it to find him, of course; but to try and run you to earth. How could I know that Harry was alive?”
“But you will not let him be imprisoned. Has he not suffered enough?”
“Not more than he deserves to suffer, my child; but we must stop all that judge and jury business somehow. Get Van Heldre not to prosecute.”
“I will go down on my knees to him, and stay at his feet till he promises to spare him—poor foolish boy! But, uncle, what are you going to do? You will not send word down?”
“Not send word? Why, I sent to Madelaine a couple of hours ago, while you lay there insensible.”
“You sent?”
“Yes, a long telegram.”
“Uncle, what have you done?”
“What I ought to do, my child, and bade her tell her father and mother, and then go and break it gently to my brother.”
“Uncle!”
“There, there, my dear, you said I ought to put myself in your place; suppose you put yourself in mine.”
“Yes, yes, uncle, dear; I see now; I see.”
“Then try and be calm. You know how these difficulties sometimes settle themselves.”
“Not such difficulties as these, uncle. Harry! my brother! my poor brother!”
“Louy, my dear child!” said the old man, with a comical look of perplexity in his face, “have some pity on me.”
“My dearest uncle,” she sobbed, as she drew his face down to hers.
“Yes,” he said, kissing her; “that’s all very well, and affectionate, and nice; but do look here. You know how I live, and why I live as I do.”
“Yes, uncle.”
“To save myself from worry and anxiety. I am saving myself from trouble, am I not? Here, let go of my hand, and I’ll send off another message to hasten your father up, so as to set me free.”
“No, uncle, dear, you will not leave me,” she said, with a pleading look in his eyes.
“There you go?” he cried. “I wish you wouldn’t have so much faith in me, Louy. You ought to know better; but you always would believe in me.”
“Yes, uncle, always,” said Louise, as she placed his hand upon her pillow, and her cheek in his palm.
“Well, all I can say is that it’s a great nuisance for me. But I’m glad I’ve found you, my dear, all the same.”
“After believing all manner of evil of me, uncle.”
“No, no, not quite so bad as that. There; never mind what I thought. I found you out, and just in the nick of time. I say, where the dickens can Leslie be?”
“Mr Leslie!”
Louise raised her face, with an excited look in her eyes.
“Well, why are you looking like that?”
“Tell me, uncle—was he very much hurt, that night?”
“Nearly killed,” said the old man grimly, and with a furtive look at his niece.
“Uncle!”
“Well, what of it? He’s nothing to you. Good enough sort of fellow, but there are thousands of better men in the world.”
Louise’s brow grew puckered, and a red spot burned in each of her cheeks.
“Been very good and helped me to find you; paid the detective to hunt you out.”
“Uncle! surely you will not let Mr Leslie pay.”
“Not let him? I did let him. He has plenty of money, and I have none—handy.”
“But, uncle!”
“Oh! it pleased him to pay. I don’t know why, though, unless, like all young men, he wanted to make ducks and drakes of his cash.”
Louise’s brow seemed to grow more contracted.
“Bit of a change for him to run up to town. I suppose that’s what made him come,” continued the old man; “and now I’ve found you, I suppose he feels free to go about where he likes. I never liked him.”
If Uncle Luke expected his niece to make some reply he was mistaken, for Louise lay back with her eyes half-closed, apparently thinking deeply, till there was a tap at the door.
“Hah! that’s Leslie,” cried the old man, rising.
“You will come back and tell me if there is any news of Harry, uncle,” whispered Louise. Then, with an agonised look up at him as she clung to his hands, “He will not help them?”
“What, to capture that poor boy? No, no. Leslie must feel bitter against the man who struck him down, but not so bad as that.”
The knock was repeated before he could free his hands and cross the room.
“Yes, what is it?”
“That gentleman who has been to see you before, sir,” said the waiter, in a low voice.
“Not Mr Leslie? He has not returned?”
“No, sir.”
“I’ll come directly. Where is he?”
“In the coffee-room, sir.”
Uncle Luke closed the door and recrossed the room, to where Louise had half risen and was gazing at him wildly.
“News of Harry, uncle?”
“Don’t know, my dear.”
“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.”