Of High Descent Part 100

"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 flas.h.i.+ng 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 is useless to discuss this further. Luke, all this seems mysterious because we have no key to the puzzle. Pis.h.!.+ 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 pa.s.sed 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 hoa.r.s.ely, "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 putting 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 pa.s.sed his left hand over his eyes, and uttered a hoa.r.s.e 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed from his hands by his brother, who held it beneath the lamp-shade and bent down to read.

He raised himself up quickly and pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sent.

"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?"