ON HIS BEHALF.

"What have I done? what have I done?" groaned Vine. "I might have forgiven him and let him escape, and then--Louise, Louise, my child, come with me. We must find him and help."

Louise hurried back into her room to get hat and scarf, and returned to the landing to find her father and Aunt Margaret face to face.

"It is a judgment upon you, George--a judgment!" cried the old lady excitedly. "Yes; you dragged the poor boy down to that wretched life, and in his madness and misery he made one bold stroke for freedom."

"Louise, my child, quick!" cried Vine. "I cannot answer her now.

Quick! get me away, or I shall say words to her that I shall repent as long as I live."

"I say it is a judgment!" cried Aunt Margaret. "Poor boy! if you had taken my advice--"

The door closed. They were out in the clear, starry night, hurrying down the path toward the town, but Aunt Margaret's words were ringing in Vine's ears. A judgment.

Why? What had he done?

"Have I been to blame? Is she right? Have I been to blame?" he muttered, as they hurried down, the words being the secret communings of his heart, but they were loud enough for Louise to hear, and as she clung to his arm she whispered emphatically--

"No, father, no!"

"No? Louise, what are you saying?"

"That you have not been to blame. My dear, patient, indulgent father."

"Indulgent?" he said hoa.r.s.ely. "Yes; indulgent. I have been indulgent, and yet heaven knows how I have striven to make ours a happy home for all."

"And you have, father," sobbed Louise, "till Harry proved so wilful and went astray."

"Yes; went astray. But he must go, my child; he must not be taken. I have a little money with me, and will send him more. I want to do that which is just and right, but I could not bear to see him taken off to gaol."

Louise uttered a low moan as they hurried on down the path.

"Where will he hide? where will he hide?" whispered Vine excitedly. "He could not escape by the road, the railway station is certain to be watched, and there is the telegraph."

"Stop!" said Louise, holding one hand to her head, as in the terrible confusion of conflicting thoughts she tried to recall something her brother had said.

"Yes, I recollect now," she said. "He told me he meant to escape across to France, and that he would ask one of the fishermen to sail with him to Saint Malo."

"Hah! yes. Then he will escape. Whom did he say?"

"I cannot recollect the name, and yet it is familiar."

"Try, my child, try."

"I am trying hard, father," said Louise sadly, "but I cannot recollect."

"Oh!" groaned her father, as they hurried on down the path, "for pity's sake, try, my child, try."

"Yes, I remember," she cried at last--"Paul."

"d.i.c.k Paul--the man who sailed with us to the rocks near Scilly?"

"Yes, yes!"

"Hah! then if he has escaped so far he will be there."

"Do you know which is his cottage?"

"Yes, I know. Quick, girl, quick!"

They almost ran down the rest of the way, each looking excitedly about in the expectation of there being a hue and cry, and of seeing the fugitive rush by, hunted by a senseless crowd, eager to see him caught.

But all was perfectly still, the great stars shone down on the sleepy place, the lights burned in windows here and there, and as they reached a turn where the harbour lay before them the light at the mouth shone out like a lurid, fiery eye, staining the calm water with a patch of light, which seemed weird and strange amidst the spangled gleams reflected from the stars. Hardly a sound, till a swing door was opened a short distance in front, and there floated out in harmony one of the West-Country ditties the fishermen loved to sing. The door swung to, and the part-song became a murmur.

Vine gripped his daughter's hand with spasmodic violence, but she did not wince. There was a pain, an agony in her breast which neutralised all other, as she hurried on by her father's side, thinking now of her erring brother, now of Duncan Leslie. That dream, that growing love which she had tremblingly avowed to herself she felt for the frank, manly young mine-owner, was over, was crushed out, with all its bright-hued hopes of happiness; but he had said he loved her, and offered his aid. Why was he not there now to help, when her brother was in such peril? Why was he not there?

The answer came like a dull blow. She had reviled him, insulted him, and driven him away. Then her heart replied: He loves me, he will forgive my hasty words, and will save my brother if I humble myself and ask.

She started back to the reality from what seemed a dream, as her father hurried on along by a row of ill-built, rugged cottages on the cliff.

"It is in one of these," he said huskily, "but I cannot recall which."

As he hesitated one of the doors was opened, and a great, burly merman appeared, pipe in mouth.

"d.i.c.k Paul's," he said, in answer to a question, "first door furder on.

Fine night, master."

"Yes, yes; thank you, thank you," cried Vine hastily.

"But he aren't at home."

"What?"

"Him and four more went out at sundown to shoot their nets."

Vine uttered a low groan.

"Good night!" said the man, and he moved off.

"Stop!" cried Vine, and the man's heavy boots ceased to clatter on the rugged pebbles with which the way was paved.

"Call me, Master Vine!"

"Yes. You know me?"

"Know you? Ay, and the young lady too. Liza Perrow's Uncle Bob.

Didn't I take you 'long the coast one day?"