“And now you would ask after my niece, young man, but you feel as if you dare not.”
Leslie gave him an imploring look.
“Broken-hearted as her poor father, Leslie, seeing nothing in the future but one black cloud of misery. There, let’s go out and sit in the sunshine and think.”
Leslie followed the old man without a word. He longed to ask his advice about that future, and to question him about the friend in France, for in spite of himself he could not help feeling a thrill of satisfaction at the thought that for a certainty there must be an end to that engagement. No scion of a great house could enter into an alliance with the sister of a man whose career had ended as had ended Harry Vine’s.
But he could not lay bare his heart to that cynical old man, who read him as easily as the proverbial book, and on whose lip there was always lurking the germ of a sneering smile.
He accompanied him then to his favourite seat among the rocks, just in front of his cottage, and they sat in silence for a time, Leslie hardly caring to start a topic lest it should evoke a sneer.
“Let’s go down into the town,” said Uncle Luke, jumping up suddenly.
Leslie rose without a word, and looked wonderingly at the old man, who, with his eyes shaded by his hands, was gazing along the rugged coast towards where, looking like dolls, a couple of fishermen were standing by something lying on a pebbly patch of sand.
Leslie looked at Uncle Luke, but the old man avoided his gaze, as if unwilling to lay bare his thoughts, and together they walked pretty quickly down the steep slope.
“Yes,” said Uncle Luke; “the doctor says he will pull him through.”