Of High Descent Part 122

"Now that's unkind, Louie, after all the time you've made me be away.

Well, I will, as a reward to you for rousing yourself up a bit. One condition though; will you come down to-morrow and talk to me while I fish?"

She remained silent.

"Then I don't stop to-night."

"I will come to-morrow, uncle."

"Then I'll stop."

The train glided on as they watched in silence now for the lights of the little town. First, the ruddy glow of the great lamp on the east pier of the harbour appeared; then, glittering faintly like stars, there were the various lights of the town rising from the water's edge right up to the high terrace level, with the old granite house--the erst peaceful, calm old home.

The lights glittered brightly, but they looked dim to Louise, seen as they were through a veil of tears, and now as they rapidly neared a strange feeling of agitation filled the brain of the returned wanderer.

It was home, but it could never be the same home again. All would be changed. A feeling of separation must arise between her and Madelaine.

The two families must live apart, and a dark rift in her life grow wider as the time glided on, till she was farther and farther away from the bright days of youth, with little to look forward to but sorrow and the memory of the shadow hanging over their home.

"Here we are," cried Uncle Luke, as the train glided slowly alongside the platform and then stopped. "Got all your traps? George, give me my stick. Now, then, you first."

The station lamps were burning brightly as Louise gave her father her hand and stepped out. Then she felt blind and troubled with a strange feeling of dread, and for a few moments everything seemed to swim round as a strange singing filled her ears.

Then there was a faint e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, two warm soft arms clasped her, and a well-known voice said, in a loving whisper, "Louise--sister--at last!"

For one moment the dark veil over her eyes seemed to lift, and like a flash she realised that Madelaine was not in black, and that resting upon a stick there was a pale face which lit up with smiles as its owner clasped her to his breast in turn.

"My dearest child! welcome back. The place is not the same without you."

"Louie, my darling!" in another pleasant voice, as kisses were rained upon her cheek, and there was another suggestion of rain which left its marks warm.

"He would come, George Vine;" and the giver of these last kisses, and warm tears, did battle for the possession of the returned truant.

"Maddy, my dear," she cried reproachfully and in a loud parenthesis, "let me have one hand. He ought not to have left the house, but he is so determined. He would come."

"Well, Dutch doll, don't I deserve a kiss?" cried old Luke grimly.

"Dear Uncle Luke!"

"Hah, that's better. George, I think I shall go home with the Van Heldres. I'm starving."

"But you can't," cried the lady of that house in dismay; "we are all coming up to you. Ah, Mr Leslie, how _do_ you do?"

"Quite well," said that personage quietly; and Madelaine felt Louise's hand close upon hers spasmodically.

"Leslie! you here?" said George Vine eagerly.

"Yes; I came down from town in the same train."

"Too proud to be seen with us, eh?" said Uncle Luke sarcastically, as there was a warm salute from the Van Heldres to one as great a stranger as the Vines.

"I thought it would be more delicate to let you come down alone," said Leslie gravely.

George Vine had by this time got hold of the young man's hand.

"My boy--Harry?" he whispered, "have you any news?"

"Yes," was whispered back. "Let me set your mind at rest. He is safe."

"But where? For Heaven's sake, man, speak!" panted the trembling father as he clung to him.

"Across the sea."

Volume 3, Chapter XXII.

HARRY'S MESSAGE.

"Do you wish me to repeat it? Have you not heard from your father or your uncle?"

"Yes; but I want to hear it all again from you. Harry sent me some message."

Leslie was silent.

"Why do you not speak? You are keeping something: back."

"Yes; he gave me a message for you, one I was to deliver."

"Well," said Louise quickly, "why do you not deliver it?"

"Because Harry is, in spite of his trouble, still young and thoughtless.

It is a message that would make you more bitter against me than you are now."

Louise rose from where she was seated in the dining-room, walked across to the bay window, looked out upon the sea, and then returned.

"I am not bitter against you, Mr Leslie. How could I be against one who has served us so well? But tell me my brother's message now."

He looked at her with so deep a sense of pa.s.sionate longing in his eyes, that as she met his ardent gaze her eyes sank, and her colour began to heighten.

"No," he said, "I cannot deliver the message now. Some day, when time has worked its changes, I will tell you word for word. Be satisfied when I a.s.sure you that your brother's message will not affect his position in the least, and will be better told later on."

She looked at him half wonderingly, and it seemed to him that there was doubt in her eyes.

"Can you not have faith in me," he said quietly, "and believe when I tell you that it is better that I should not speak?"

"Yes," she said softly, "I will have faith in you and wait."

"I thank you," he said gravely.

"Now tell me more about Harry."

"There is very little to tell," replied Leslie. "As I went down-stairs that day, I found him just about to enter the house. For a moment I was startled, but I am not a superst.i.tious man, and I grasped at once how we had all been deceived, and who it was dealt me the blow and tripped me that night; and in the reaction which came upon me, I seized him, and dragged him to the first cab I could find.

"I was half mad with delight," continued Leslie, speaking, in spite of his burning words, in a slow, calm, respectful way. "I saw how I had been deceived that night, who had been your companion, and why you had kept silence. For the time I hardly knew what I did or said in my delirious joy, but I was brought to myself, as I sat holding your brother's wrist tightly, by his saying slowly,