He had reached the old man's cottage, and almost unconsciously stopped and seated himself on the rough block of granite which was Uncle Luke's favourite spot when the sun shone.

Before him lay the sea spreading out deep and black, and as impenetrable as to its mysteries as the blank future he sought to fathom, and as he looked ahead, the sea, the sky, the future all seemed to grow more black.

His had been a busy life; school, where he had been ambitious to excel; college, where he had worked still more hard for honours, with the intention of studying afterwards for the bar; but fate had directed his steps in another direction, and through an uncle's wish and suggestions, backed by the fact that he held the mine, Duncan Leslie found himself, when he should have been eating his dinners at the Temple, partaking of them in the far West of England, with a better appet.i.te, and perhaps with better prospects from a monetary point of view.

His had been so busy a life that the love-idleness complaint of a young man was long in getting a hold, but when it did seize him, the malady was the more intense.

He sat there upon the old, worn piece of granite, making no effort to go farther, but letting his memory drift back to those halcyon days when he had first begun to know that he possessed a heart disposed to turn from its ordinary force-pump work to the playing of a sentimental part such as had stranded him where he was, desolate and despairing, a wreck with his future for ever spoiled.

He argued on like that, sometimes with tender recollections of happy days when he had gone back home from some encounter, with accelerated pulses and a sensation of hope and joy altogether new.

He dwelt upon one particular day when he had come down from the mine to find Louise seated where he then was; and as he recalled the whole scene, he uttered a groan of misery, and swept it away by the interposition of that of the previous evening; and here his wrath once more grew hot against the man who had come between them, for without vanity he could feel that Louise had turned toward him at one time, and that after a while the memory of the trouble which had come upon them would have grown more faint, and then she would once more have listened to his suit.

But for that man--He ground his teeth as he recalled Aunt Marguerite's hints and smiles; the allusions to the member of the French _haute n.o.blesse_; their own connection with the blue blood of Gaul, and his own plebeian descent in Aunt Marguerite's eyes. And now that the French n.o.ble had arrived, how n.o.ble he was in presence and in act! Stealing clandestinely into the house during the father's absence, forcing the woman he professed to love into obedience by threats, till she knelt at his feet as one who pleads for mercy.

"And this is the _haute n.o.blesse_!" cried Leslie, with a mocking laugh.

"Thank heaven, I am only a commoner after all."

He sat trying to compress his head with his hands, for it ached as if it would split apart. The cool night breeze came off the sea, moist and bearing refreshment on its wings; but Duncan Leslie found no comfort in the deep draught he drank. His head burned, his heart felt on fire, and he gazed straight before him into the blackness trying to make out his path. What should he do? Act like a man and cast her off as unworthy of a second thought, or rouse himself to the manly and forgiving part of seeking her out, dragging her from this scoundrel, and placing her back in her stricken father's arms?

It was a hard fight, fought through the darkness of that terrible night, as he sat there on the rock, with the wind sighing from off the sea, and the dull, low boom of the waves as they broke at the foot of the cliff far below.

It was a fight between love and despair, between love and hate, between the spirit of a true, honest man who loved once in his life, and the cruel spirits of suspicion, jealousy, and malignity, which tortured him with their suggestions of Louise's love for one who had tempted her to leave her father's home.

As the day approached the air grew colder, but Duncan Leslie's brow still burned, and his heart seemed on fire. The darkness grew more dense, and the fight still raged.

What should he do? The worse side of his fallible human nature was growing the stronger; and as he felt himself yielding, the greater grew his misery and despair.

"My darling!" he groaned aloud, "I loved you--I loved you with all my heart."

He started, alarmed at his own words, and gazed wildly round as if expecting that some one might have heard. But he was quite alone, and all was so dark right away ahead. Was there no such thing as hope for one stricken as he? The answer to his wild, mental appeal seemed to come from the far east, for he suddenly became conscious of a pale, pearly light which came from far down where sea and sky were mingled to the sight. That pale, soft light grew and grew, seeming to slowly suffuse the eastern sky, till all at once he caught sight of a fiery flake far on high, of another, and another, till the whole arc of heaven was ablaze with splendour from which the sea borrowed glistening dyes.

And as he gazed the tears rose to his eyes, and seemed to quench the burning fire in his brain, as a fragment which he had read floated through his memory:--

"Joy cometh in the morning--joy cometh in the morning."

Could joy ever again come to such a one as he? He asked the question half-bitterly, as he confessed that the dense blackness had pa.s.sed away, and that hope might still rise upon his life, as he now saw that glittering orb of light rise slowly above the sea, and transform the glorious world with its golden touch.

"No, no," he groaned, as he rose to go on at last to his desolate home.

"I am broken with the fight. I can do no more, and there is no cure for such a blow as mine. Where could I look for help?"

"Yes; there," he said resignedly. "I'll bear it like a man," and as he turned he rested his hand upon the rough granite wall to gaze down the path, and drew back with a curious catching of the breath, as he saw the light garments of a woman pa.s.s a great patch of the black shaley rock.

Madelaine Van Heldre was hurrying up the cliff path towards where he had pa.s.sed those long hours of despair.

CHAPTER FIFTY TWO.

A STRANGE SUMMONS.

Madelaine Van Heldre closed the book and sat by the little table gazing towards her father's bed.

Since he had been sufficiently recovered she had taken her father's task, and read the chapter and prayers night and morning in his bedroom--a little later on this night, for George Vine had stayed longer than usual.

Madelaine sat looking across the chamber at where her father lay back on his pillow with his eyes closed, and her mother seated by the bed's head holding his hand, the hand she had kept in hers during the time she knelt and ever since she had risen from her knees.

Incongruous thoughts come at the best of times, and, with the tears standing in her eyes, Madelaine thought of her many encounters with Aunt Marguerite, and of the spiteful words. She did not see why a Dutchman should not be as good as a Frenchman, but all the same there was a little of the love of descent in her heart, and as she gazed at the fine manly countenance on the pillow, with its closely-cut grey hair displaying the broad forehead, and at the clipped and pointed beard and moustache, turned quite white, she thought to herself that if Aunt Marguerite could see her father now she would not dare to argue about his descent.

The veil of tears grew thicker in her eyes, and one great drop fell with a faint _pat_ upon the cover of the prayer-book as she thought of the past, and that the love in her heart would not be divided now. It would be all for those before her, and help to make their path happier to the end.

"'And forgive us our trespa.s.ses as we forgive them that trespa.s.s against us,'" said Van Heldre thoughtfully. "Grand words, wife--grand words.

Hah! I feel wonderfully better to-night. George Vine acted like a tonic. I've lain here hours thinking that our old companionship would end, but I feel at rest now. His manner seemed to say that the old brotherly feeling would grow stronger, and that the past was to be forgotten."

He stopped short, and a faint flush came into his pale checks, for on opening his eyes they had encountered the wistful look in Madelaine's.

He had not thought of her sufferings, but now with a rush came the memories of her confession to him of her love for Harry, on that day when she had asked him to take the young man into his office.

"My darling!" he said softly as he held out his arms; and the next moment she was folded sobbing to his heart.

No word was spoken till the nightly parting; no word could have been spoken that would have been more touching and soothing than that embrace.

Then "Good night!" and Madelaine sought the solitude of her own chamber, to sit by the open window listening to the faintly heard beat of the waves upon the bar at the mouth of the harbour. Her spirit was low, and the hidden sorrow that she had fought hard to keep down all through the past trouble had its way for the time, till, at last wearied out, she closed her window and went to bed. Still for long enough it was not to sleep, but to think of the old boy-and-girl days, when Harry was merely thoughtless, and the better part of his nature, his frank kindness and generosity, had impressed her so that she had grown to love him with increasing years, and in spite of his follies that love still lay hidden in her heart.

"And always will be there," she said softly, as she felt that the terrible end had been the expiation, and with the thought that in the future Harry Vine, forgiven, purified--the Harry of the past--would always be now the frank, manly youth she idealised, she dropped off to sleep--a deep, restful slumber, from which she started with the impression full upon her that she had only just closed her eyes. There must have been some noise to awaken her, and she sat up listening, to see that it was day.

"Yes? Did any one knock?" she said aloud, for the terror was upon her now, one which had often haunted her during the unnerving past days-- that her father had been taken worse.

All silent.

Then a sharp pattering noise at her window, as if some one had thrown up some shot or pebbles. She hurried out of bed, and ran to the window to peep through the slit beside the blind, to see below in the street Liza, the Vines' maid, staring up.

"Louise--ill? or Mr Vine?" thought Madelaine, as she quickly unfastened and opened the window.

"Yes, Liza. Quick! what is it?"

"Oh, miss, I've been awake all night, and, not knowing what to do, and so I come on."

"Is Mr Vine ill?"

"No, 'm; Miss Louise."

"Ill? I'll come on at once."

"No, miss; gone," whispered Liza hoa.r.s.ely; and in a blundering way she whispered all she knew.

"I'll come on and see Mr Vine," said Madelaine hastily, and Liza ran back while her blundering narrative, hastily delivered, had naturally a confusing effect upon one just awakened from sleep.

Louise gone, Mr Leslie found bleeding, Mr Vine sitting alone in his room busy over the molluscs in his aquaria! It seemed impossible. Aunt Marguerite hysterical. Everything so strange.