“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.”