The Haute Noblesse Part 69

"Got him?" was shouted.

"No."

"Then why did you make the signal?"

The detective officer was a clever man, but it had not occurred to him that the blue light he had obtained from the coastguard station and burned would act as a recall. But so it was, and before long the second boat was reached, and that which contained Duncan Leslie came up, the latter littering an angry expostulation at being brought back from his search.

"It's no good, Mr Leslie, sir," said the fisherman who had made the bargain with Vine.

"No good?" cried Leslie angrily. "You mean you're tired, and have not the manhood to continue the search."

"No, sir, I don't," said the man quietly. "I mean I know this coast as well as most men. I'll go on searching everywhere you like; but I don't think the poor lad can be alive."

"Ay, ay, that's right, mate," growled two others of his fellows.

"He was a great swimmer," continued the man sadly; "but it's my belief he never come up again."

"Why do you say that?" cried the detective from his boat, as the four hung cl.u.s.tered together, a singular-looking meeting out there on the dark sea by lantern light.

"Why do I say that? Why 'cause he never hailed any on us who knew him, and was ready to take him aboard. Don't matter how good a swimmer a man is, he'd be glad of a hand out on a dark night, and with the tide running so gashly strong."

"You may be right," said Leslie, "but I can't go back like this. Now, my lads, who's for going on?"

"All on us," said the fisherman who had first spoken, and the boats separated to continue their hopeless task.

All at once there was a faint streak out in the east, a streak of dull grey, and a strange wild, faint cry came off the sea.

"There!" cried the detective; "pull, my lads, pull! he is swimming still. No, no, more towards the right."

"Swimming?--all this time, and in his clothes!" said one of the coastguard quietly. "That was only a gull."

The detective struck his fist into his open left hand, and stood gazing round over the glistening water, as the stars paled, the light in the east increased till the surface of the sea seemed steely grey, and by degrees it grew so light that near the harbour a black speck could be seen, toward which the officer pointed.

"Buoy," said the nearest rower laconically, and the officer swept the surface again. Then there was a faint shade of orange nearly in the zenith, a flock of gulls flew past, and here and there there were flecks and splashes of the pale silvery water, which ere long showed the reflection of the orange sky, and grew golden. The rocks that lay at the foot of the huge wall of cliff were fringed with foam, and wherever there was a break in the sh.o.r.e and some tiny river gurgled down, a wreathing cloud of mist hung in the hollow.

Moment by moment the various objects grew more distinct; black ma.s.ses of rock fringed with green or brown sea-wrack, about which the tide eddied and played, now hiding, now revealing for some crested wave to pounce upon as a sea-monster might upon its prey. The dark slaty rocks displayed their wreaths of ivy, and the ma.s.ses of granite stood up piled in courses of huge cubes, as if by t.i.tanic hands, grey with parched moss, dull and dead looking; and then all at once, as the sun slowly rose above the sea, glorious in G.o.d's light, sparkling as if set with myriads of gems, the grey became gold, and all around there was a scene of beauty such as no painter could do more than suggest. Everything was glorified by the rising sun; sea, sky, the distant houses, and s.h.i.+pping, all gleamed as if of burnished gold--all was of supreme beauty in the birth of that new day. No, not at all: here and there slowly using their oars as they scanned sea and rock, sat a crew of haggard men, while back on the golden point cl.u.s.tered a crowd watching their efforts, and hanging back with natural kindly delicacy from the group of three at the extreme edge of the granite point--two pale-faced, grey, wild-eyed men, and the girl who sat crouching on a fragment of rock, her hair loose, her hands clasped round her knees, and a look of agonised sorrow in the piteous drawn face, ever directed towards the east.

"They're all coming back," said some one close at hand.

The man was right; slowly one by one the boats crept over the glorious sea towards the harbour, Duncan Leslie's last.

"Nothing?" said Uncle Luke in a low whisper as the coastguard boat was backed toward the point, and the detective sprang ash.o.r.e.

"Nothing, sir. Poor foolish, misguided lad! Might have been my boy, sir, I've only done my duty; but this is a dark night's work I shall never forget. I feel as if I were answerable for his death."

Ten minutes later Duncan Leslie landed in the same way, and laid his hand upon Uncle Luke's arm.

"I was obliged to come back," he said; "my men are f.a.gged out."

"No signs of him!"

Leslie shook his head and spoke in a whisper.

"I'll be off again as soon as I can get a fresh crew, and search till I do find him. For Heaven's sake, sir, do take them home!"

It was a kindly whisper, but Louise heard every word, and shuddered as she turned, and hid her face in her father's breast. For she knew what it meant; it was to spare her the agonising sight, when the sea, according to its wont, threw something up yonder among the rugged stones, where, to use the fishermen's words, the current bit hardest on the sh.o.r.e. She fought hard to keep back the wild cry that struggled in her breast; but it was in vain, and many a rough fellow turned aside as he heard the poor girl's piteous wail out there in the suns.h.i.+ne of that glorious morn.

"Harry! brother! what shall I do?"

George Vine's lips parted as he bent down over his child. "The Lord gave, and--"

His voice failed, but his lips completed poor old stricken Job's words, and there was a pause. Then he seemed to draw himself up, and held out his hand for a moment to Duncan Leslie.

"Luke!" he said then calmly and gravely. "Your arm too. Let us go home."

The little crowd parted left and right, and every hat was doffed in the midst of a great silence, as the two old men walked slowly up the rough pier, supporting the stricken girl.

Duncan Leslie followed, and as they pa.s.sed on through the narrow lane of humble, sympathising people of the port, these turned in and slowly followed, two and two, bare-headed, as if it were a funeral procession.

Just then, high above the top of the grand cliff, a lark soared up, sprinkling the air as from a censer of sound, with his silvery notes joyous, loud, and thrilling; and one patriarchal fisherman, who had seen many a scene of sorrow in his time, whispered to the mate walking at his side--

"Ay, lad, and so it is; midst of life we are in death."

"Ah," sighed his companion; "but on such a morn as this!"

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

AT THE GRANITE HOUSE.

The Vines had hardly reached their home when quietly and in a furtive way boat after boat put off down the harbour, from the little punt belonging to some lugger, right up to the heavy fis.h.i.+ng-craft, rowed by some six or eight men. There was no communication one with the other; no general order had been given, but, with one consent, all were bent upon the same mission, and hour after hour, every ma.s.s of weedy rock, chasm, hollow, and zorn was scanned, where it was known that the current was likely to throw up that which it had engulfed; but, though every inch of sh.o.r.e was searched, the task proved to be without avail, and the brothers, seated together in the quaint, old-fas.h.i.+oned dining-room, waiting to be summoned for the reception of their dead, sat waiting, and without receiving the call.

Louise had refused to leave them, and had clung to her father, asking to be allowed to stay; but no sooner was the consent obtained than it proved to be useless, for the poor girl was completely prostrated by the excitement and horror of the past night, and had to be helped up to her couch.

And there the brothers sat in silence, George Vine calm, stern, and with every nerve on the strain; Uncle Luke watching him furtively without attempting to speak.

When any words had pa.s.sed between the brothers, the old cynic's voice sounded less harsh, and its tones were sympathetic, as he strove to be consolatory to the suffering man. They had been seated some time together in silence, when Uncle Luke rose, and laid his hand upon his brother's shoulder.

"I don't know what to say to you, George," he whispered softly. "For all these years past I've been, what you know, a childless, selfish man; but I feel for you, my lad--I feel for you, and I'd bear half your agony, if I could."

George Vine turned upon him with a piteous smile, and took the hand resting on his shoulder.

"You need not speak, Luke," he said sadly. "Do you think we have lived all these years without my understanding my brother, and knowing what he is at heart?"

Luke shook his head, gripped the hand which held his firmly, but could not speak.

"I am going to bear it like a man, please G.o.d; but it is hard, Luke, hard; and but for poor Louise's sake I could wish that my journey was done."