The Haute Noblesse: A Novel

Chapter Fifty

The Discovery

Madelaine rose as the brothers entered the room, and before coming to the bed, where Van Heldre lay rapidly mending now, George Vine took the girl’s hands, looked down in her pale face, which sorrow seemed to have refined, and bent down and kissed her.

“How are you, Maddy?” said Luke Vine, gruffly; and he was going on to the bed, but Madelaine laid her hand upon his shoulder, leant towards him, and kissed him.

“Hah! yes, forgot,” he said, brushing her forehead roughly with his grey beard; and then, yielding to a sudden impulse, kissing the girl tenderly, “How I do hate girls!” he muttered to himself, as he went straight to the window and stood there for a few moments.

“Poor lad!” he said to himself. “Yes, hopeless, or a girl like that would have redeemed him.”

He turned back from the window.

“Room too hot and stuffy,” he said. “Well, how are you, John?”

“Getting well fast,” replied Van Heldre, shaking hands. “Splendid fish that was you sent me to-day; delicious.”

“Humph! all very fine! Shilling or fifteen pence out of pocket,” grumbled Uncle Luke.

“Get out!” said Van Heldre, after a keen look at George Vine. “Poll Perrow wouldn’t have given you more than ninepence for a fish like that. It’s wholesale, Luke, wholesale.”

“Ah! you may grin and wink at George,” grumbled Uncle Luke, “but times are getting hard.”

“They are, old fellow, and we shall be having you in the workhouse, if we can’t manage to get you to the Victoria Park place.”

“Here, come away, George,” snarled Uncle Luke. “He’s better. Beginning to sneer. Temper’s getting very bad now, I suppose, my dear?” he added to Madelaine.

“Terrible. Leads me a dreadful life, Uncle Luke,” she said, putting her arm round Van Heldre’s neck to lay her cheek against his brow for a moment or two before turning to leave the room.

“Cant and carny,” said Uncle Luke. “Don’t you believe her, John Van; she’ll be coming to you for money to-morrow – bless her,” he added sotto voce; then aloud, “What now?”

For Madelaine had gone behind his chair, and placed her hands upon his shoulders.

“It’s all waste of breath, Uncle Luke,” she said gently. “We found you out a long time ago, Louise and I.”

“What do you mean?”

“All this pretended cynicism. It’s a mere disguise.”

“An ass in the lion’s skin, eh?”

“No, Uncle Luke,” she whispered, with her lips close to his ear, so that the others should not catch the words, “that is the wrong way, sir. Reverse the fable.”

“What do you mean, hussy?”

“The dear old lion in the ass’ skin,” she whispered; “and whenever you try to bray it is always a good honest roar.”

“Well, of all – ”

He did not finish, for Madelaine had hurried from the room, but a grim smile came over his cynical countenance, and he rubbed his hands softly as if he was pleased. Then, drawing his chair nearer to the bed, he joined in the conversation at rare intervals, the subjects chosen being all as foreign as possible from the past troubles, till Mrs Van Heldre came softly into the room.

“I am Doctor Knatchbull’s deputy,” she said; “and my orders are not to let John excite himself.”

“All nonsense, my dear,” said Van Heldre.

“She is quite right, John,” said George Vine, rising.

“Quite right,” said Uncle Luke, following his brother’s example. “Keep him quiet. Make haste and get well. Good night. Come, George.”

He was at the door by the time he had finished his speech, and without pausing to shake hands began to descend.

Madelaine came out of the drawing-room as the old man reached the hall.

“What do you think of him?” she said eagerly.

“Going backwards – dying fast,” he said shortly.

“Oh!”

“Don’t be a little goose,” he cried, catching her in his arms as she reeled. “We all are; especially people over fifty. Bonny little nurse. You’ve done wonders. Good night, my dear; God bless you!”

She returned his loving fatherly kiss, given hastily, as if he were ashamed of his weakness, and then he strode out into the dark night.

“Poor Uncle Luke!” she said softly. “I was right. He must have had some shock to change his life like this. Good night, dear Mr Vine. My dearest love to Louy.”

“Good night, my darling,” he whispered huskily, and the next minute he was walking slowly away beside his brother in the direction of the turning up to the granite house.

“Good night, Luke,” said George Vine. “It is of no use to say come up.”

“Yes, it is,” said Uncle Luke snappishly. “I want to see Louy, and have a decent cup of tea.”

“I am very glad,” said his brother warmly. “Hah! that’s right. Come more often, Luke. We are getting old men now, and it’s pleasant to talk of the days when we were boys.”

“And be driven from the place by Madge with her pounce-box and her civet-cat airs. You kick her out, and I’ll come often.”

“Poor Marguerite!”

“There you go; encouraging the silly French notions. Why can’t you call her Margaret, like a British Christian?”

“Let her finish her span in peace, brother,” said George Vine, whose visit to his old friend seemed to have brightened him, and made voice and step elastic. “We are crochety and strange too, I with my mollusc hobby, and you with your fishing.”

“If you want to quarrel, I’m not coming up.”

“Yes, you are, Luke. There, come often, and let poor Margaret say what she likes. We shall have done our duty by her, so that will be enough for us.”

“Hang duty! I’m getting sick of duty. No matter what one does, or how one tries to live in peace and be left alone, there is always duty flying in one’s face.”

“Confession of failure, Luke,” said his brother, taking his arm. “You have given up ordinary social life, invested your property, sent your plate to your banker’s, and settled down to the life of the humblest cottager to, as you say, escape the troubles of everyday life.”

“Yes, and I’ve escaped ’em – roguish trades-people, household anxieties, worries out of number.”

“In other words,” said Vine, smiling, “done everything you could to avoid doing your duty, and for result you have found that trouble comes to your cottage in some form or another as frequently as it does to my big house.”

Uncle Luke stopped short, and gave his stick a thump on the path.

“I have done, Luke,” said Vine quietly. “Come along; Louise will think we are very long.”

“Louise will be very glad to have an hour or two to herself without you pottering about her. Hah! what idiots we men are, fancying that the women are looking out for us from our point of view when they are looking out from theirs for fear of being surprised, and – ”

“Here we are, Luke. Come in, my dear boy.”

Uncle Luke grunted.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, “it’s getting late. Perhaps I had better not come in now.”

“The tea will be waiting,” said his brother, holding his arm lightly as he rang.

“Horribly dark for my walk back afterwards,” grumbled Uncle Luke. “Really dangerous place all along there by the cliff. No business to be out at night. Ought to be at home.”

“Tea ready, Liza?” said George Vine, as the door was opened, and the pleasant glow from the hall shone upon them in a way that, in spite of his assumed cynicism, looked tempting and attractive to Uncle Luke.

“Miss Louise hasn’t rung for the urn yet, sir.”

“Hah! that will do. Give me your hat, Luke.”

“Bah! nonsense! Think I can’t hang up my own hat now.”

George Vine smiled, and he shook his head at his brother with a good-humoured smile as he let him follow his own bent.

“That’s right. Come along. Louy dear, I’ve brought Uncle Luke up to tea. All dark? Liza, bring the lamp.”

Liza had passed through the baize-covered door which separated the domestic offices from the rest of the house, and did not hear the order.

“Louy? Louy dear!”

“Oh! I don’t mind the dark,” said Uncle Luke. “Here, why don’t the girl let in some air these hot nights?” he continued, as he crossed the room towards the big embayment, with its stained glass heraldic device.

Crack! Crackle!

“Hullo here! broken glass under one’s feet,” said Luke Vine, with a chuckle. “This comes of having plenty of servants to keep your place clean.”

“Glass?”

“Yes, glass. Can’t you hear it?” snarled Uncle Luke, who, as he found his brother resume his old demeanour, relapsed into his own. “There! glass – glass – glass crunching into your Turkey carpet.”

As he spoke he gave his foot a stamp, with the result that at each movement there was a sharp cracking sound.

“It’s very strange. Louise!”

“Oh!”

A low, piteous moan.

“What’s that?” cried Uncle Luke sharply.

George Vine stood in the darkness paralysed with dread.

Some fresh trouble had befallen his house – some new horror assailed him; and his hand wandered vaguely about in search of support as a terrible feeling of sickness came over him, and he muttered hoarsely, “Louise! my child! my child!”

Luke Vine was alarmed, but he did not lose his presence of mind.

“Margaret – a fit,” he said to himself, as, turning quickly, his foot kicked against another portion of the lamp-globe, which tinkled loudly as it fell to pieces.

He brushed by his brother, hurrying out into the hall, to return directly bearing the lamp which stood on a bracket, and holding it high above his head as he stepped carefully across the carpet.

“There! there!” whispered George Vine, pointing towards the fireplace, where he could see a figure lying athwart the hearthrug.

Then, as Luke held the light higher, George Vine seemed to recover his own presence of mind, and going down on one knee as he bent over, he turned the face of the prostrate man to the light.

“Duncan Leslie!” cried Uncle Luke excitedly, as he quickly set down the lamp and knelt on the other side. “Where’s Louy? The poor boy’s in a fit.”

“No, no,” whispered his brother hoarsely. “Look! look!”

Luke drew in a quick, hissing breath.

“Call Louy,” he said sharply. “Tell her to bring something to bind up his head – scissors, sponge, and water.”

“Has he been struck down?” faltered George Vine, with the thought of his old friend rushing to his mind.

“No, no. Don’t talk. Here, your handkerchief, man,” said Luke, who was far the more matter-of-fact. “A fall. Head cut. Slip on the cliff, I suppose, and he has come here for help.”

Taking the handkerchief passed to him by his brother, he rapidly bound it round the place where a deep cut was slowly swelling, while George Vine dragged sharply at the bell and then ran to the door and called, “Louise! Louise.”

Liza came hurrying into the hall, round-eyed and startled.

“Where is your mistress?” cried Vine.

“Miss Louise, sir? Isn’t she there?”

“No. Go up to her room and fetch her. Perhaps she is with Miss Vine.”

“I’ll go and see, sir,” said the girl wonderingly; and she ran up-stairs.

“Help me to get him on the sofa, George,” said Uncle Luke; and together they placed the injured man with his head resting on a cushion.

“Now, then, I think we had better have Knatchbull. He must have had a nasty fall. Send your girl; or no, I’ll go myself.”

“No,” said Leslie feebly; “don’t go.”

“Ah! that’s better. You heard what I said?”

“Yes; what you said.”

It was a feeble whisper, and as the brothers bent over the injured man, they could see that he was gazing wildly at them with a face full of horror and despair.

“I’ll trot down and fetch Knatchbull,” whispered Uncle Luke.

“No.”

The negative came from Leslie, who was lying back with his eyes closed, and it was so decisive that the brothers paused.

At that moment Liza entered the room.

“She isn’t up-stairs, sir. Ow!”

The girl had caught sight of Leslie’s ghastly face, and she uttered an excited howl and thrust her fingers into her ears.

Leslie looked up at George Vine vacantly for a moment, and then light seemed to come to his clouded brain, and his lips moved.

“Say it again,” said Vine, bending over him.

“Send – her – away,” whispered the injured man.

“Yes, of course. Liza, go and wait – no; get a basin of water, sponge, and towel, and bring them when I ring.”

The girl looked at him wildly, but she had not heard his words; and Uncle Luke put an end to the difficulty by taking her arm and leading her into the hall.

“Go and get sponge and basin. Mr Leslie has fallen and hurt himself. Now, don’t be stupid. You needn’t cry.”

The girl snatched her arm away and ran through the baize door.

“Just like a woman!” muttered Uncle Luke as he went back; “no use when she’s wanted. Well, how is he?”

Leslie heard the whisper, and turned his eyes upon him with a look of recognition.

“Better,” he whispered. “Faint – water.”

George Vine opened the cellarette, and gave him a little brandy, whose reviving power proved wonderful. But after heaving a deep sigh, he lay back with his forehead puckered.

“Hadn’t I better fetch Knatchbull, my lad?” said Uncle Luke gruffly, but with a kindly ring in his voice. “Cut on the back of your head. He’d soon patch it up.”

“No. Better soon,” said Leslie in a low voice. “Let me think.”

“Be on the look-out,” whispered Uncle Luke to his brother. “Better not let Louise come in.”

Leslie’s eyes opened quickly, and he gazed from one to the other.

“Better not let her see you till you are better,” said Uncle Luke, taking the injured man into their confidence.

A piteous sigh escaped from Leslie, and he closed his eyes tightly.

“Poor boy!” said Uncle Luke, “he must have had an ugly fall. Missed his way in the dark, I suppose. George, you’ll have to keep him here to-night.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said George Vine uneasily, for his ears were on the strain to catch his child’s step, and her absence troubled him.

All at once Leslie made an effort to sit up, but a giddy sensation overcame him, and he sank back, staring at them wildly.

“Don’t be alarmed,” said George Vine kindly. “You are faint. That’s better.”

Leslie lay still for a few moments, and then made a fresh effort to sit up. This time it was with more success.

“Give him a little more brandy,” whispered Uncle Luke.

“No; he is feverish, and it may do harm. Yes,” he said to Leslie, as the injured man grasped his arm, “you want to tell us how you fell down.”

“No,” said Leslie quickly, but in a faint voice, “I did not fall. It was in the struggle.”

“Struggle?” cried Uncle Luke. “Were you attacked?”

Leslie nodded quickly.

“Where? Along the road?”

“No,” said Leslie hoarsely; “here.”

“Here!” exclaimed the brothers in a breath; and then they exchanged glances, each silently saying to the other, “The poor fellow is wandering.”

“There,” said Leslie, “I can think clearly now. It all seemed like a dream. You must know, Mr Vine. I must tell you,” he added piteously. “Mr Vine, what do you propose doing?”

“Hush!” said George Vine, laying his hand upon the young man’s shoulder, “you are ill and excited now. Don’t talk at present. Wait a little while.”

“Wait?” cried Leslie, growing more excited. “You do not know what you are saying. How long have I been lying here? What time is it?”

“About nine,” said Vine kindly. “Come, come, lie back for a few moments. We’ll get some cold water, and bathe your temples.”

“Man, you will drive me mad,” cried Leslie. “Do you not – no, you have not understood yet. Louise – Miss Vine!”

George Vine staggered as if he had been struck, and his brother caught his arm as he stood there gasping, with his hand to his throat.

“What do you mean?” cried Uncle Luke sternly.

“I am sick and faint,” said Leslie, pressing his hands to his brow, as if unable to think clearly. “I remember now. I came in to ask about Mr Van Heldre, and a stranger was with Miss Vine. I tried to stop him – till you returned. We struggled, and he threw me. I recollect no more.”

“You’re mad!” said Uncle Luke savagely. “Where is Louise?”

His brother caught hold of the back of a chair to support himself, and his lips moved, but no sound came.

“Yes, I can recollect it all clearly now,” panted Leslie. “You must know!”

And he told them all.

They heard him in silence, devouring his words, and from time to time exchanging a hurried glance of inquiry.

“Bah!” ejaculated Uncle Luke, as the young man finished. Then, changing his manner, “Yes, of course. There, lie back, my lad, and tell us again after you’ve had a rest.”

“No, no,” cried Leslie passionately, “it is wasting time. She was forced to go. She was imploring him to let her stay when I came in, and they must be miles away by now. For heaven’s sake do something before it is too late.”

“A Frenchman?” said Uncle Luke eagerly.

“Yes; he spoke to her in French, as well as in English.”

“And did my niece speak to him in French?”

“No; she was appealing to him in English, but he spoke at times in French.”

“Do you hear this, George? Has Louise a French friend?”

“No,” cried her father angrily, “it is a delusion.”

“I would to heaven it were,” groaned Leslie, “I would to heaven it were!”

George Vine crossed to the bell-pull, and rang sharply, repeating the summons before Liza had time to enter the room.

“When did you see your mistress last?” he said sharply.

“When I took in the lamp, sir.”

Liza knew no more, and was dismissed, after staring wonderingly from one to the other.

“Stop!” cried Uncle Luke. “Go up and ask Miss Vine if my niece has been with her.”

Liza returned with an answer in the negative; and as soon as they were alone, Leslie said piteously:

“You disbelieve me.”

“No, no, my lad,” said Uncle Luke; “we only think you are suffering from your fall, and distrust what you have, or think you have, seen.”

“Think!” said Leslie angrily.

“You say some man was with my niece – a Frenchman.”

“Yes; I am bound to tell you for her sake.”

“It is not true,” cried George Vine fiercely.

They looked at him with surprise, for he seemed transformed from the quiet, mild-looking man to one full of fierce determination as he stood there with flashing eyes.

“My daughter knew no Frenchman.”

Leslie winced as if stung, for the mental suggestion was there that Louise had hoodwinked her father, and kept up some clandestine engagement with this man.

“Do you hear me?” cried Vine angrily. “I say it is not true. Mr Leslie, you have been deceived, or you have deceived yourself. I beg your pardon. You are not yourself. It seems useless to discuss this further. Luke, all this seems mysterious because we have no key to the puzzle. Pish! puzzle! it is no puzzle. Louise will be here shortly. Mr Leslie, be advised; lie still for an hour, and then my brother and I will see you home. Or, better still, let me offer you the hospitality of my house for the night.”

The cloud that had obscured Leslie’s brain had now passed away, leaving his mental perceptions clear, while his temper was exacerbated by the injury he had received, and by the agony he suffered on account of Louise. In place of lying back, he rose from the couch and faced George Vine, with his lips quivering and an angry look in his eyes.

“Look,” he said hoarsely, “I am weak and helpless. If I take a few steps I shall reel and fall, or I would do what I tried to do before, act on her behalf. You mock at my words. You, her father, and stand there wasting time; valuable time, which, if used now, might save that poor girl from a life of misery. Do you hear me? I tell you she has gone – fled with that man. He forced her to go with threats. Do you not hear me?”

“Leslie, my lad,” said Uncle Luke, “be calm, be calm.”

“You are as mad and blind as he!” cried Leslie. “Heaven help me, and I am as weak as a child.”

He strode towards the door, and proved the truth of his words, for he tottered, and would have fallen but for Uncle Luke.

“There, you see,” he cried fiercely, “I can do nothing, and you, uncle and father, stand blind to the misery and disgrace which threaten you.”

“Silence!” cried George Vine; “I can hear no more.”

He turned upon Leslie fiercely.

“Your words, sir, are an insult to me, an insult to my child. I tell you I can hear no more. What you say is false. My daughter could not leave my house like this. Go, sir, before I say words which I may afterwards repent, and – and – ”

“George, man, what is it?” cried Uncle Luke, as his brother’s words trailed off, and he stopped suddenly in the agitated walk he had kept up to and fro while he was addressing Leslie.

There was no answer to the agitated question, for George Vine was gazing down at something beside the table, lying half covered by the dragged-aside cloth.

Whatever it was it seemed to act as a spell upon the old naturalist, whose eyes were fixed, and his whole aspect that of one suddenly fixed by some cataleptic attack.

“What is it? Are you ill?” cried Uncle Luke excitedly as he stepped forward. “Hah, a letter!”

He was in the act of stooping to pick it up, but his act seemed to rouse his brother from his lethargy, and he caught him by the arm.

“No, no,” he whispered; and slowly put his brother back, he stooped and stretched out his hand to pick up the half-hidden letter.

They could see that his hand trembled violently, and the others stood watching every act, for the feeling was strong upon both that the letter which Vine raised and held at arm’s length contained the explanation needed.

George Vine held the letter toward the shaded lamp, and then passed his left hand over his eyes, and uttered a hoarse sigh, which seemed as if torn from his heart.

“I – I can’t read,” he whispered – “eyes dim to-night, Luke. Read.”

Uncle Luke’s hand trembled now as he took the missive, and slowly tore open the envelope; but as he drew out the letter it was snatched from his hands by his brother, who held it beneath the lamp-shade and bent down to read.

He raised himself lip quickly and passed his hand across his eyes, as if to sweep away some film which hindered his reading, and the silence in that room was terrible as he bent down again.

A strong pang of suffering shot through Duncan Leslie as he saw the old man’s lips quivering, while he read in a slow, laborious way the few lines contained in the note, and then, after once more making an effort to clear his vision, he seemed to read it again.

“George – brother – why don’t you speak?” said Uncle Luke at last. George Vine looked up in a curiously dazed way. “Speak?” he said huskily; “speak?”

“Yes; is that from Louise?” He bowed his head in assent.

“Well, what does she say, man? What does it mean?” George Vine looked in his brother’s eyes once more – the same curiously dazed look as if he hardly comprehended what was taking place. Then he slowly placed the note in Luke’s hands.

There was no slow, dazed manner here, for the old cynic was full of excitement, and he seemed to read the note at a glance.

“Gone!” he said. “Then she has gone?”

“Yes,” said his brother slowly; “she has gone.”

“But this man, George – this man, Leslie. Don’t stare, man, speak.”

“What do you wish me to say, sir?” said Leslie, hoarsely.