Of High Descent Part 121

"No; it's very hard to make one's self heard in this noisy place. I was only saying, my dear, that your nerves have been terribly upset, and that you are suffering from the shock. You feel now afraid to meet your father lest he should reproach you, and you can only think of him as being bitter and angry against you for going away, as you did; but when he thoroughly grasps the situation, and how you acted as you did to save your brother from arrest, and all as it were in the wild excitement of that time, and under pressure--"

"Don't leave me, uncle."

"No, no, my dear. Only going to walk up and down," said the old man as he left his chair. "When he grasps all this, and your dread of Harry's arrest, and that it was all nonsense--there, lie back still, it is more restful so. That's better," he said, kissing her, and drawing away.

"When, I say, he fully knows that it was all nonsense due to confounded Aunt Margaret and her n.o.ble Frenchmen, and that instead of an elopement with some scoundrel, you were only performing a sisterly duty, he'll take you in his arms--"

Uncle Luke was on the far side of the room now, and in obedience to his signs, and trembling violently, George Vine had gone slowly towards the vacated seat.

"You think he will, uncle, and forgive me?" she faltered, as she lay back still with her eyes closed.

"Think, my darling? I'm sure of it. Yes, he'll take you in his arms."

A quiet sigh.

"And say--"

George Vine sank trembling into the empty chair.

"Forgive me, my child, for ever doubting you."

"Oh, no, uncle."

"And I say, yes; and thank G.o.d for giving me my darling back once more."

"Forgive me! Thank G.o.d for giving me my darling back once more!

Louise!"

"Father!"

A wild, sobbing cry, as they two were locked in each other's arms.

At that moment the door was closed softly, and Uncle Luke stood blowing his nose outside upon the mat.

"Nearly seventy, and sobbing like a child," he muttered softly. "Dear me, what an old fool I am!"

Volume 3, Chapter XXI.

LESLIE MAKES AN ANNOUNCEMENT.

It was a week before the London doctor said that Louise Vine might undertake the journey down home, but when it was talked of she looked up at her father in a troubled way.

"It would be better, my darling," he whispered. "You shrink from going back to the old place. Why should you, where there will be nothing but love and commiseration?"

"It is not that," she said sadly. "Harry!"

"Yes! But we can do no more by staying here."

"Not a bit," said Uncle Luke. "Let's get down to the old sea-sh.o.r.e again, Louie. If we stop here much longer I shall die. Harry's safe enough somewhere. Let's go home."

Louise made no more opposition, and it was decided that they should start at once, but the journey had to be deferred on account of business connected with Pradelle's examination.

This was not talked of at the hotel, and Louise remained in ignorance of a great deal of what took place before they were free to depart.

That journey down was full of painful memories for Louise, and it was all she could do to restrain her tears as the train stopped at the station, which was a.s.sociated in her mind with her brother, and again and again she seemed to see opposite to her, shrinking back in the corner by the window nearest the platform, the wild, haggard eyes and the frightened furtive look at every pa.s.senger that entered the carriage.

The journey seemed interminable, and even when Plymouth had been reached there was still the long slow ride over the great wooden bridges with the gurgling streams far down in the little rock ravines.

"Hah!" said Uncle Luke cheerily, "one begins to breathe now. Look."

He pointed to the shadow of the railway train plainly seen against the woods, for the full round moon was rising slowly.

"This is better than a gas-lamp shadow, eh, and you don't get such a moon as that in town. I've lost count, George. How are the tides this week?"

Vine shook his head.

"No, you never did know anything about the tides, George. Always did get cut off. Be drowned some day, shut in under a cliff; and you can't climb."

They rode on in silence for some time, watching the moonlight effect on the patches of wood in the dark hollows, the rocky hill-slopes, and upon one or another of the gaunt deserted engine-houses looking like the towers of ruined churches high up on the hills, here black, and there glittering in the moonlight, as they stood out against the sky.

These traces of the peculiar industry of the district had a peculiar fascination for Louise, who found herself constantly comparing these buildings with one beyond their house overlooking the beautiful bay.

There it seemed to stand out bold and picturesque, with the long shaft running snake-like up the steep hillside, to end in the perpendicular monument-like chimney that formed the landmark by which the sailors set vessels' heads for the harbour.

But that place did not seem deserted as these. At any time when she looked she could picture the slowly-moving beam of the huge engine, and the feathery plume of grey smoke which floated away on the western breeze. There was a bright look about the place, and always a.s.sociated with it she seemed to see Duncan Leslie, now looking appealingly in her eyes, now bitter and stern as he looked on her that night when Harry beat him down and they fled, leaving him insensible upon the floor.

What might have been!

That was the theme upon which her busy brain toiled in spite of her efforts to divert the current of thought into another channel. And when in despair she conversed with father or uncle for a few minutes, and silence once more reigned, there still was Duncan Leslie's home, and its owner gazing at her reproachfully.

"Impossible!" she always said to herself; and as often as she said this she felt that there would be a terrible battle with self, for imperceptibly there had grown to be a subtle advocate for Duncan Leslie in her heart.

"But it is impossible," she always said, and emphasised it. "We are disgraced. With such a shadow over our house that could never be; and he doubted, he spoke so cruelly, his eyes flashed such jealous hatred.

If he had loved me, he would have trusted, no matter what befell."

But as she said all this to herself, the advocate was busy, and she felt the weakness of her case, but grew more determinedly obstinate all the same.

And the train glided on over the tall scaffold-like bridges, the tree-tops glistened in the silvery moonlight, and there was a restful feeling of calm in her spirit that she had not known for days.

"No place like home," said Uncle Luke, breaking a long silence as they glided away from the last station.

"No place like home," echoed his brother, as he sought for and took his child's hand. "You will stop with us to-night, Luke?"

"Hear him, Louie?" said the old man. "Now is it likely?"

"But your place will be cheerless and bare to-night."

"Cheerless! Bare! You don't know what you are talking about. If you only knew the longing I have to be once more in my own bed, listening to wind and sea. No, thank you."

"But, uncle, for to-night do stay."