Of High Descent

At times he could see a tiny, wandering point of light in the water, which gradually faded out, and after this seemed to reappear farther away, but otherwise all was black and horrible once more. More than once he was tempted to walk down into the water and swim out, but in his half-delirious, fevered state he shrank from doing this, and waited there in the darkness, suffering agonies till, after what seemed to be an interminable time, there was a faint, pearly light in the place, which gradually grew and grew till it became opalescent, then glowing, and he knew that the sun had risen over the sea.

Half frantic with horror, a sudden resolve came upon him. There was so strong a light now in the cavern that he could dimly see the object which had caused him so much dread, an object which he had touched when he first waded in, and imagined to be a seal.

Trembling with excitement, he crept down to the water’s edge, waded in to his knees, and in haste, forcing himself now to act, he drew from where it lay entangled among the rocks the body of a drowned man, the remains of one of the brave fellows who had been lost at the wreck of Van Heldre’s vessel. The body was but slightly wedged in, just as it had been floated in by a higher tide than usual, and left on the far side of some pieces of rock when the water fell, but had not since risen high enough to float it out.

The horrifying object yielded easily enough as he drew it away along the surface, and he was about to wade and swim with it to the mouth, when he stopped short, for a sudden thought occurred to him.

It was a horrible thought, but in his excitement he did not think of that, for in the dim light he could see enough to show him that it was the body of a young man of about his own physique, still clothed and wearing a rough pea-jacket.

Disguise – a means of evading justice – the opportunity for commencing anew and existing till his crime had been forgotten, and then some day making himself known to those who thought him dead.

“They think me dead now,” he muttered, excitedly. “They must. They shall.”

Without pausing for further thought, and without feeling now the loathsome nature of the task, he quickly stripped the pea-jacket and rough vest from the dead form, and trembling with excitement now in place of fear, tore off his own upper garments, pausing for a few moments to take out pocket-book and case and cigars, but only to empty out the latter, thrust the book and case back, and at the end of a few minutes he was standing in shirt and trousers, the rough jacket and vest lying on the sands, and the form of the drowned sailor tightly buttoned in the dry garments just put on.

Harry stood trembling for a few minutes, shrinking from achieving his task. Then with the full knowledge that the body if borne out of the cave would be swept here and there by the current, perhaps for days, and finally cast ashore not many miles away, he softly waded into the water, drew the waif of the sea along after him, right away to the mouth of the cave, where he cautiously peered out, and made well sure that no fishermen were in sight before swimming with his ghastly burden along the zigzag channel, out beyond the rocks, where, after a final thrust, he saw the current bear it slowly away before he returned shuddering into the cave, and then landed on the dry sand to crawl up and crouch there.

“They think me dead,” he said in a husky whisper; “let them find that, and be sure.”

He was silent for a time, and then as the thoughts of the past flooded his soul, he burst into a wild fit of sobbing.

“Home – sister – Madelaine,” he moaned, “gone, gone for ever! Better that I had died; better that I was dead!”

But the horror was no longer there, and in a short time he roused up from his prostrate condition half wild and faint with hunger.

After a few minutes’ search he found a couple of his cigars lying where he had thrown them on the sand, and lighting one, he tried to dull the agony of famine by smoking hard.

The effect was little, and he rose from where he was seated and began to feel about the shelves of the rock for limpets, a few of which he scraped from their conical shells and ate with disgust; but they did something towards alleviating his hunger, and seemed to drive away the strange, half-delirious feeling which came over him from time to time, making him look wildly round and wonder whether this was all some dreadful dream.

About mid-day he heard voices and the beating of oars, when, wading towards the opening, he stood listening, and was not long in convincing himself that the party was in search of him, while a word or two that he heard spoken made him think that the party must have picked up the body of the drowned sailor.

The voices and the sound of the oars died away, and in the midst of the deep silence he crept nearer and peered out to be aware that a couple of boats were passing about a quarter of a mile out, while from their hailing some one, it seemed that a third boat, invisible to the fugitive, was coming along nearer in.

He crept back into the semi-darkness and listened with his ear close to the water till, after a time, as he began to conclude that this last boat must have gone back, and he wondered again and again whether the drifting body had been found, he heard voices once more, every word coming now with marvellous clearness.

“No, sir, only a bit of a crevice.”

“Does it go far in?”

“Far in, Mr Leslie, sir? Oh, no. Should waste time by going up there. You can see right up to the mouth, and there’s nothing.”

“But the current sets in there.”

“Yes, sir, and comes out round that big rock yonder. Deal more likely place for him to ha’ been washed up farther on.”

“Leslie, and in search of me,” said Harry to himself as the boat passed by. “Yes; they do believe I’m dead.”

That day dragged wearily on with the occupant of the cave, tossed by indecision from side to side till the shadow began to deepen, when, unable to bear his sufferings longer, he crept out of the opening with the full intent of climbing the cliff, and throwing himself on the mercy of one of the cottagers, if he could find no other means of getting food.

The tide was low, and he was standing hesitating as to which way to go, when he turned cold with horror, for all at once he became aware of the fact that not fifty yards away there was a figure stooping down with a hand resting on the rock, peering into an opening as if in search of him.

His first instinct was to dart back into the cavern, but in the dread that the slightest movement or sound would attract attention, he remained fixed to the spot, while the figure waded knee-deep to another place, and seemed to be searching there, for an arm was plunged deeply into the water, a rope raised, and after a good deal of hauling, a dripping basket was drawn out and a door opened at the side, and flapping its tail loudly, a good-sized lobster was brought out and deposited in the basket the figure bore upon her back.

“Mother Perrow!” exclaimed Harry beneath his breath, and then an excited mental debate took place. Dare he trust her, or would she betray him?

Fear was mastering famine, when Poll Perrow, after rebaiting her lobster pot, was about to throw it back into deep water, but dropped it with a splash, and stood staring hard at the shivering man.

“Master Harry!” she exclaimed, and, basket on back, she came through water and over rock toward him with wonderful agility for a woman of her age. “Why, my dear lad,” she cried, in a voice full of sympathy, “is it you?”

“Yes, Poll,” he said tremulously, “it is I.”

“And here have I been trying to find you among the rocks while I looked at my crab pots. For I said to myself, ‘If Master Harry’s washed up anywhere along the coast, there’s nobody more like to find him than me.’ And you’re not dead after all.”

“No, Poll Perrow,” he said agitatedly, “I’m not dead.”

“Come on back home,” she cried. “I am glad I found you. Master Vine and Miss Louise, oh, they will be glad!”

“Hush, woman!” he gasped, “not a word. No one must know you have seen me.”

“Lor’, and I forgot all about that,” she said in a whisper. “More I mustn’t. There’s the police and Master Leslie and everybody been out in boats trying to find you washed up, you know.”

“And now you’ve found me, and will go and get the reward,” he said bitterly.

“I don’t know nothing about no reward,” said the woman, staring hard at him. “Why, where’s your jacket and weskut? Aren’t you cold?”

“Cold? I’m starving,” he cried.

“You look it. Here, what shall I do? Go and get you something to eat?”

“Yes – no!” he cried bitterly. “You’ll go and tell the police.”

“Well, I am ashamed o’ you, Master Harry, that I am.”

“But it was all a misfortune, Poll Perrow, an accident. I am not guilty. I’m not indeed.”

“I warn’t talking about that,” said the woman surlily, “but ’bout you saying I should tell the police. It’s likely, arn’t it?”

“Then you will not tell – you will not betray me?”

“Yah! are it likely, Master Harry? Did I tell the pleece ’bout Mark Nackley when he was in trouble over the smuggling and hid away?”

“But I am innocent; I am indeed.”

“All right, my lad, all right, Master Harry. If you says so, that’s ’nough for me. Here, I’ll go and tell Master Vine I’ve found you.”

“No, no; he thinks I’m dead.”

“Well, everybody does; and I said it was a pity such a nice, handsome young lad should be drowned like that. I told my Liza so.”

“My father must not know.”

“Miss Louie, then?”

“No, no. You must keep it a secret from everybody, unless you want to see me put in prison.”

“Now is that likely, my lad? Here, I’ve got it. I’ll go and tell Master Luke Vine.”

“Worst of all. No; not a word to a soul.”

“All right, Master Harry; I can keep my mouth shut when I try. But what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m hiding yonder.”

“What! in the little seal zorn?”

“Yes. Don’t betray me, woman, pray!”

“Betray you, Master Harry? You know I won’t.”

“You will not tell a soul?”

“You tell me not to tell nobody, and I won’t say a word even to my Liza. But they’re seeking for you everywhere – dead. Oh! my dear lad, shake hands. I am glad you warn’t drowned.”

The warm grasp of the rough woman’s coarse hand and the genuine sympathy in her eyes were too much for Harry Vine. Weak from mental trouble – more weak from hunger – manhood, self-respect, everything passed from him as he sank upon one of the hard pieces of weedy rock; and as the woman bent over him and laid her hands upon his shoulder, he flung his arms about her, let his head sink upon her breast, and cried like a child.

“Why, my poor, poor boy!” she said tenderly, with her hard wooden stay busk creaking in front, and her maund basket creaking behind, “don’t – don’t cry like that, or – or – or – there, I knew I should,” she sobbed, as her tears came fast, and her voice sounded broken and hoarse. “There, what an old fool I am! Now, look here; you want to hide for a bit, just as if it was brandy, or a bit o’ lace.”

“Yes, Poll; yes.”

“Then wait till it’s dark, and then come on to my cottage.”

“No, no,” he groaned; “I dare not.”

“And you that cold and hungry?”

“I’ve tasted nothing but the limpets since that night.”

“Limpets!” she cried, with a tone of contempt in her voice, “why, they ain’t even good for bait. And there are no mussels here. Look here, my dear lad, I’ve got a lobster. No, no; it’s raw. Look here; you go back to where you hide, and I’ll go and get you something to eat, and be back as soon as I can.”

“You will?” he said pitifully. “Course I will.”

“And you’ll keep my secret?”

“Now don’t you say that again, my lad, because it aggravates me. There, you go back and wait, and if I don’t come again this side of ten o’clock, Poll Perrow’s dead!”

She bent down, kissed his cold forehead, and hurried back among the rocks, splashing and climbing, till he saw her begin to ascend the narrow rift in the cliff; and in a few minutes the square basket, which looked like some strange crustacean of monstrous size creeping out of the sea and up the rocks, disappeared in the gathering gloom; and Harry Vine, half-delirious from hunger, crept slowly back into the cave, half wondering whether it was not all a dream.

Volume Three – Chapter Four.

The Friend in Adversity

It was a dream from which he was aroused three hours later – a wild dream of a banquet served in barbaric splendour, but whose viands seemed to be snatched from his grasp each time he tried to satisfy the pangs which seemed to gnaw him within. He had fallen into a deep sleep, in which he had remained conscious of his hunger, though in perfect ignorance of what had taken place around.

His first thought was of capture, for his head was clear now, and he saw a rough hand as he gazed up wildly at a dim horn lantern.

The dread was but momentary, for a rough voice full of sympathy said —

“There, that’s right. Sit up, my dear, and keep the blankets round you. They’re only wet at one corner. I did that bringing them in. There, drink that!”

He snatched at the bottle held to him, and drank with avidity till it was drawn away.

“That’ll put some life into you, my dear; it’s milk, and brandy too. Now eat that. It’s only bread and hake, but it was all I could manage now. To-morrow I’ll bring you something better, or I’ll know the reason why.”

Grilled fish still warm, and pleasant homemade bread. It was a feast to the starving man; and he sat there with a couple of blankets sending warmth into his chilled limbs, while the old fishwoman sat and talked after she had placed the lantern upon the sand.

“Let them go on thinking so,” said Harry at last. “Better that I should be dead to every one I know.”

“Now, Master Harry, don’t you talk like that. You don’t know what may happen next. You’re talking in the dark now. When you wake up in the sunshine to-morrow morning you’ll think quite different to this.”

“No,” he said, “I must go right away; but I shall stay in hiding here for a few days first. Will you bring me a little food from time to time, unknown to any one?”

“Why of course I will, dear lad. But why don’t you put on your pea-jacket and weskit? They is dry now.”

Harry shuddered as he glanced at the rough garments the woman was turning over.

“Throw them here on the dry sand,” he said hastily. “I don’t want them now.”

“There you are, then, dear lad,” said the old woman, spreading out the drowned man’s clothes; “p’r’aps they are a bit damp yet. And now I must go. There’s what’s left in the bottle, and there’s a fried mackerel and the rest of the loaf. That’ll keep you from starving, and to-morrow night I’ll see if I can’t bring you something better.”

“And you’ll be true to me?”

“Don’t you be afraid of that,” said the old woman quietly, as Harry clasped her arm.

“Why, you are quite wet,” he said.

“Wet! Well, if you’ll tell me how to get in there with the tide pretty high and not be wet I should like to know it. Why, I had hard work to keep the basket out of the water, and one corner did go in.”

“And you’ll have to wade out,” said Harry thoughtfully.

“Well, what of that? How many times have I done the same to get alongside of a lugger after fish? Drop o’ salt water won’t hurt me, Master Harry; I’m too well tanned for that.”

“I seem to cause trouble and pain to all I know,” he said mournfully.

“What’s a drop o’ water?” said the old woman with a laugh. “Here, you keep that lantern up in the corner, so as nobody sees the light. There’s another candle there, and a box o’ matches; and now I’m going. Goodbye, dear lad.”

“Good-bye,” he said, with a shudder; “I trust you, mind.”

“Trust me! Why, of course you do. Good-night.”

“One moment,” said Harry. “What is the time?”

“Lor’, how particular people are about the time when they’ve got naught to do. Getting on for twelve, I should say. There, good-night. Don’t you come and get wet too.”

She stepped boldly into the water, and waded on with the depth increasing till it was up to her shoulders, and then Harry Vine watched her till she disappeared, and the yellow light of the lantern shone on the softly heaving surface, glittering with bubbles, which broke and flashed. Then, by degrees, the rushing sound made by the water died out, and the lit-up place seemed more terrible than the darkness of the nights before.

The time glided on; now it was day, now it was night; but day or night, that time seemed to Harry Vine one long and terrible punishment. He heard the voices of searchers in boats and along the cliffs overhead, and sat trembling with dread lest he should be discovered; and with but one thought pressing ever – that as soon as Poll Perrow could tell him that the heat of the search was over, he must escape to France, not in search of the family estates, but to live in hiding, an exile, till he could purge his crime.

After a while he got over the terrible repugnance, and put on the rough pea-jacket and vest which had lain upon a dry piece of the rock, for the place was chilly, and in his inert state he was glad of the warmth; while as the days slowly crept by, his sole change was the coming of the old fishwoman with her basket punctually, almost to the moment, night by night.

He asked her no questions as to where she obtained the provender she brought for him, but took everything mechanically, and in a listless fashion, never even wondering how she could find him in delicacies as well as in freshly-cooked fish and homemade bread. Wine and brandy he had, too, as much as he wished; and when there was none for him, it was Poll Perrow who bemoaned the absence, not he.

“Poor boy!” she said to herself, “he wants it all badly enough, and he shall have what he wants somehow, and if my Liza don’t be a bit more lib’ral, I’ll go and help myself. It won’t be stealing.”

Several times over she had so much difficulty in obtaining supplies that she determined to try Madelaine and the Van Heldres; but her success was not great.

“If he’d only let me tell ’em,” she said, “it would be as easy as easy.” But at the first hint of taking any one into their confidence, Harry broke out so fiercely in opposition that the old woman said no more.

“No,” he said; “I’m dead – they believe I’m dead. Let them think so still. Some day I may go to them and tell them the truth, but now let them think I’m dead.”

“Which they do now,” said the old woman.

“What do you mean?”

She hesitated to tell him what had taken place, but he pressed her fiercely, and at last he sat trembling with horror and with great drops bedewing his brow as she told him of the finding of the body and what had followed.

It was only what he had planned and looked for, but the fruition seemed too horrible to bear, and at last a piteous groan escaped from his breast.

That night, after the old woman had gone, the food she had obtained from his old home remained untouched, and he lay there upon the sand listening to the sighing wind and the moaning and working of the waves, picturing the whole scene vividly – the finding of the body, the inquest, and the funeral.

“Yes,” he groaned again and again, “I am dead. I pray God that I may escape now, forgotten and alone, to begin a new life.”

He pressed his clasped hands to his rugged brow, and thought over his wasted opportunities, the rejected happiness of his past youth, and there were moments when he was ready to curse the weak old woman who had encouraged him in the chimerical notions of wealth and title. But all that passed off.

“I ought to have known better,” he said bitterly. “Poor, weak old piece of vanity! Poor Louise! My sweet, true sister! Father!” he groaned, “my indulgent, patient father! Poor old honest, manly Van Heldre! Madelaine! my lost love!” And then, rising to his knees for the first time since his taking refuge in the cave, he bowed himself down in body and spirit in a genuine heartfelt prayer of repentance, and for the forgiveness of his sin.

One long, long communing in the gloom of that solemn place with his God. The hours glided on, and he still prayed, not in mere words, but in thought, in deep agony of spirit, for help and guidance in the future, and that he might live, and years hence return to those who had loved him and loved his memory, another man.

The soft, pearly light of the dawn was stealing in through the narrow opening, and the faint querulous cry of a gull fell upon his ear, and seemed to arouse him to the knowledge that it was once more day – a day he spent in thinking out what he should do.

Time glided slowly on, and a hundred plans had been conceived and rejected. Poll Perrow came and went, never once complaining of the difficulties she experienced in supplying him and herself, and daily did her best to supply him with everything but money. That was beyond her.

And that was the real necessary now. He must have money to enable him to reach London, and then France. So long a time had elapsed, and there had been so terrible a finale to the episode, that he knew he might endeavour to escape unchallenged; and at last, after a long hesitancy and shrinking, and after feeling that there was only one to whom he could go and confide in, and who would furnish him with help, he finally made up his mind.

It was a long process, a constant fight of many hours of a spirit weakened by suffering, till it was swayed by every coward dread which arose. He tried to start a dozen times, but the heavier beat of a wave, the fall of a stone from the cliff, the splash made by a fish, was sufficient to send him shivering back; but at last he strung himself up to the effort, feeling that if he delayed longer he would grow worse, and that night poor old Poll Perrow reached the hiding-place after endless difficulties, to sit down broken-hearted and ready to sob wildly, as she felt that she must have been watched, and that in spite of all her care and secrecy her “poor boy” had been taken away.

Volume Three – Chapter Five.

Brother – Lover

Trembling, her eyes dilated with horror, Louise Vine stood watching the dimly-seen pleading face for some moments before her lips could form words, and her reason tell her that it was rank folly and superstition to stand trembling there.

“Harry!” she whispered, “alone? yes.”

“Hah!” he ejaculated, and thrusting in his hands he climbed into the room.

Louise gazed wildly at the rough-looking figure in sea-stained old pea-jacket and damaged cap, hair unkempt, and a hollow look in eye and cheek that, joined with the ghastly colourless skin, was quite enough to foster the idea that this was one risen from the grave.

“Don’t be scared,” he said harshly, “I’m not dead after all.”

“Harry! my darling brother.”

That was all in words, but with a low, moaning cry Louise had thrown her soft arms about his neck and covered his damp cold face with her kisses, while the tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Then there is some one left to – My darling sis!” He began in a half-cynical way, but the genuine embrace was contagious, and clasping her to his breast, he had to fight hard to keep back his own tears and sobs as he returned her kisses.

Then the fugitive’s dread of the law and of discovery reasserted itself, and pushing her back, he said quickly —

“Where is father?”

“At Mr Van Heldre’s. Let me – ”

“Hush! answer my questions. Where is Aunt Marguerite?”

“Gone to bed, dear.”

“And the servants?”

“In the kitchen. They will not come without I ring. But, Harry – brother – we thought you dead – we thought you dead.”

“Hush! Louie, for Heaven’s sake! You’ll ruin me,” he whispered, as she burst into a fit of uncontrollable sobbing, so violent at times that he grew alarmed.

“We thought you dead – we thought you dead.”

It was all she could say as she clung to him, and looked wildly from door to window and back.

“Louie!” he whispered at last passionately, “I must escape. Be quiet, or you will be heard.”

By a tremendous effort she mastered her emotion, and tightening her grasp upon him, she set her teeth hard, compressed her lips, and stood with contracted brow gazing in his eyes.

“Now?” he said, “can you listen?”

She nodded her head, and her wild eyes seemed so questioning, that he said quickly —