Of High Descent Part 68

"Ay, lad, and so it is; midst of life we are in death."

"Ah," sighed his companion; "but on such a morn as this!"

Volume 2, Chapter XIV.

AT THE GRANITE HOUSE.

The Vines had hardly reached their home when quietly and in a furtive way boat after boat put off down the harbour, from the little punt belonging to some lugger, right up to the heavy fis.h.i.+ng-craft, rowed by six or eight men. There was no communication one with the other; no general order had been issued, but, with one consent, all were bent upon the same mission, and hour after hour, every ma.s.s of weedy rock, chasm, hollow, and zorn was scanned, where it was known that the current was likely to throw up that which it had engulfed; but, though every inch of sh.o.r.e was searched, the task proved to be without avail, and the brothers, seated together in the quaint, old-fas.h.i.+oned dining-room, waiting to be summoned for the reception of their dead, sat waiting, and without receiving the call.

Louise had refused to leave them, and had clung to her father, asking to be allowed to stay; but no sooner was the consent obtained than it proved to be useless, for the poor girl was completely prostrated by the excitement and horror of the past night, and had to be helped up to her couch.

And there the brothers sat in silence, George Vine calm, stern, and with every nerve on the strain; Uncle Luke watching him furtively without attempting to speak.

When any words had pa.s.sed between the brothers, the old cynic's voice sounded less harsh, and its tones were sympathetic, as he strove to be consolatory to the suffering man. They had been seated some time together in silence, when Uncle Luke rose, and laid his hand upon his brother's shoulder.

"I don't know what to say to you, George," he whispered softly. "For all these years past I've been, what you know, a childless, selfish man; but I feel for you, my lad--I feel for you, and I'd bear half your agony, if I could."

George Vine turned upon him with a piteous smile, and took the hand resting on his shoulder.

"You need not speak, Luke," he said sadly. "Do you think we have lived all these years without my understanding my brother, and knowing what he is at heart?"

Luke shook his head, gripped the hand which held his firmly, but could not speak.

"I am going to bear it like a man, please G.o.d; but it is hard, Luke, hard; and but for poor Louise's sake I could wish that my journey was done."

"No, no; no, no, George," said the brother huskily. "There is, lad, much to do here yet--for you, my boy--for Louise--that poor, half-crazy woman up-stairs, and Uncle Luke, who is not much better, so they say.

No, my boy, you must fight--you must bear, and bear it bravely, as you will, as soon as this first shock is over, and there's always hope-- always hope. The poor boy may have escaped."

"Ay, to where? Luke, brother, for Heaven's sake let me be in peace. I cannot bear to speak now. I feel as if the strain is too great for my poor brain."

Luke pressed his hand, and walked slowly to the window, from whence he could gaze down at the boats going; and coming into the harbour; and he shuddered as he thought what any one of them might bring.

"Better it should, and at once," he said to himself. "He'll know no rest until that is past."

He turned and looked in wonder at the door, which opened then, and Aunt Marguerite, dressed in one of her stiffest brocades, pale, but with her eyes stern and fierce, entered the room, to sweep slowly across, till she was opposite to George Vine, when she crossed her arms over her breast, and began to beat her shoulder with her large ivory fan, the thin leaves making a peculiar pattering noise against her whalebone stiffened bodice.

"Don't talk to him, Margaret," said Uncle Luke, coming forward. "He is not fit. Say what you have to say another time."

"Silence! you poor weak imbecile!" she cried, as her eyes flashed at him. "What do you do here at a time like this? Now," she continued, darting a vindictive look at her broken-hearted brother, "what have you to say?"

"To say, Margaret?" he replied piteously. "G.o.d help me, what can I say?"

"Nothing, miserable that you are. The judgment has come upon you at last. Have I not striven to save that poor murdered boy from you--to raise him from the slough into which you plunged him in your wretched degradation. Time after time I have raised my voice, but it has been unheard. I have been treated as your wretched dependant, who could not even say her soul was her own, and with my heart bleeding, I have seen--"

"Margaret, you were always crazy," cried Uncle Luke fiercely; "are you raving mad?"

"Yes," she cried. "Worm, pitiful crawling worm. You are my brother by birth, but what have I seen of you but your wretched selfish life--of you who sold your birthright to sink into the degraded creature you are, so degraded that you side with this man against me, now that he is worthily punished for his crime against his son."

"I cannot listen to this," cried Uncle Luke furiously.

"Let her speak," said George Vine sadly; "she thinks she is right."

"And so do you," cried Aunt Marguerite. "If you had kept the poor boy a gentleman all this would not have happened. See to what extent you have driven the poor, brave-hearted, n.o.ble boy, the only true Des Vignes.

You, degenerate creature that you are, maddened him by the life you forced him to lead, till in sheer recklessness he took this money, struck down the tyrant to whom you made him slave, and at last caused him to be hunted down till, with the daring of a Des Vignes, he turned, and died like one of his chivalrous ancestors, his face to his foes, his--"

"Bah!" cried Uncle Luke, with a fierce snarl, "his chivalrous ancestors!"

"Luke!"

"I tell you, George, I'm sick of the miserable cant. Died like a hero!

Woman, it was your miserable teaching made him the discontented wretch he was."

"For pity's sake, Luke."

"I must speak now," cried the old man furiously; "it's time she knew the truth; but for you, who, in return for the shelter of your brother's roof, filled the boy's head with your vain folly, he would have been a respectable member of society, an honest Englishman, instead of a would-be murderer and thief."

"It is false!" cried Aunt Marguerite.

"It is true!" thundered the old man, in spite of his brother's imploring looks; "true, and you know it's true. Died like a hero, with his face to the foe! He died, if he be dead, like a coward, afraid to face the officer of the law he had outraged--a disgrace to the name of Vine."

Aunt Marguerite stood gazing at him, as if trying to stay him with the lightning of her eyes, but his burst of pa.s.sion was at an end, and he did not even realise that her vindictive looks had faded out, and that she had grown ghastly as a sheet, and tottered half palsied from the room.

For, horrified by the agony he read in his brother's face, Luke Vine had seized his hands, and was gazing imploringly at him.

"Forgive me, George," he whispered. "I knew not what I said."

"Let me be alone--for a while," faltered his brother. "I am weak. I cannot bear it now."

But the strain was not yet at an end, for at that moment there was a tap at the door, and Liza entered, looking red-eyed and strange; and a sob escaped her as she saw her master's face.

"A gentleman to see you, sir. He must see you at once," she stammered.

"If you please, Mr Vine," said a short, stern voice, and, without further ceremony, the detective officer entered the room.

George Vine rose painfully, and tried to cross where the man stood inside the door, looking sharply from one to the other.

"No," he said inaudibly, as his eyes seemed to grasp everything; "they're honest. Don't know where he is."

George Vine did not cross to the officer; his strength seemed to fail him.

"You have come," he said slowly, as he tried to master a piteous sigh.

"Luke, you will come with me?"

"Yes, lad, I'll come," said Uncle Luke. Then turning towards the officer, he whispered, "Where did you find the poor lad?"

"You are labouring under a mistake, sir," said the man. "We have not found him--yet. My people are searching still, and half the fishermen are out in their boats, but they say it is not likely that they will find him till after a tide or two, when he will be cast ash.o.r.e."

The words sounded hard and brutal, and Luke gave the speaker a furious look as he saw his brother wince.