Of High Descent Part 89

"You tell me not to tell n.o.body, 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 coa.r.s.e 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 pa.s.sed 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 hoa.r.s.e. "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 3, Chapter IV.

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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 n.o.body 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.