Part 103 (2/2)

He stopped short, and a faint flush came into his pale cheeks, 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.

No mention had been made of Uncle Luke by the girl, nor yet of Leslie's departure.

”Am I still dreaming?” Madelaine asked herself as she hastily dressed, ”or has some fresh terrible disaster come upon us?”

”Upon _us_,” she said, for the two families seemed so drawn together that one could not suffer without thrilling the other's nerves.

”Louise gone! It is impossible!”

She said that again and again, trying all the while to be cool and think out what were best to be done. She felt that it would be better not to alarm her father by waking him at that early hour, and that she could not arouse her mother without his knowing.

She was not long in deciding.

Uncle Luke had shown during the troubles of the past how he could throw aside his eccentricity and become a useful, helpful counsellor, and it seemed the natural thing to send a message up to him, and beg him to come down. Better still, to save time, she would run up there first.

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