Volume One—Chapter Four.

Volume One—Chapter Four.A Thunderbolt.George Vine, gentleman, as he was set down in the parish books and the West-country directory, lived in a handsome old granite-built residence that he had taken years before, when, in obedience to his sister’s wish, he had retired from the silk trade a wealthy man. But there he had joined issue with the lady in question, obstinately refusing to make France his home, and selecting the house above named in the old Cornish port for two reasons: one, to be near his old friend Godfrey Van Heldre, a well-to-do merchant who carried on rather a mixed business, dealing largely in pilchards, which he sent in his own ships to the Italian ports, trading in return in such produce of the Levant as oranges, olives, and dried fruit; the other, so that he could devote himself to the branch of natural history, upon which he had grown to be an authority so great that his work upon the Actiniadae of our coast was looked forward to with no little expectation by a good many people, in addition to those who wrote F.Z.S. at the end of their names.The pleasant social meal known as high tea was spread in the long low oak-panelled dining-room, whose very wide bay window looked right over the town from its shelf upon the huge granite cliffs, and far away westward from whence came the gales which beat upon the old mansion, whose granite sides and gables had turned them off for the past two hundred years.It was a handsomely furnished room, thoroughly English, and yet with a suggestion of French in the paintings of courtly-looking folk, which decorated the panels above the old oak sideboard and dressers, upon which stood handsome old chased cups, flagons and salvers battered and scratched, but rich and glistening old silver all the same, and looking as if the dents and scratches were only the natural puckers and furrows such venerable pieces of plate should possess.There was another suggestion of the foreign element, too, in the glazing of the deeply embayed window, for right across and between all the mullions, the leaden lattice panes gave place, about two-thirds of the way up, to a series of artistically painted armorial bearings in stained glass, shields and helmets with their crests and supporters, and beneath the scutcheon in the middle, a ribbon with triple curve and fold bearing the wordsRoy et Foy.The furniture had been selected to be thoroughly in keeping with the antiquity of the mansion, and the old oak chairs and so much of the table as could be seen for the long fine white linen cloth was of the oldest and darkest oak.The table was spread with the abundant fare dear to West-country folk; fruit and flowers gave colour, and the thick yellow cream and white sugar were piled high in silver bowls. The great tea urn was hissing upon its stand, the visitors had arrived, and the host was dividing his time between fidgeting to and fro from the door to Van Heldre, who was leaning up against one of the mullions of the great bay window talking to Leslie upon subjects paramount in Cornwall—fish and the yielding of the mines.The young people were standing about talking, Louise with her hand resting on the chair where sat a pleasant-looking, rosy little woman with abundant white hair, and her mittened hands crossed over the waist of her purple velvet gown enriched with good French lace.“Margaret Vine’s keeping us waiting a long time this evening,” she said.“Mamma!” said Madelaine reproachfully.“Well, my clear, it’s the simple truth. And so you go back to business to-morrow, Harry?”“Yes, Mrs Van Heldre. Slave again.”“Nonsense, my boy. Work’s good for every one. I’m sure your friend, Mr Pradelle, thinks so,” she continued, appealing to that gentleman.“Well,” he said, with an unpleasant laugh, “nobody left me a fortune, so I’m obliged to say yes.”“Ah, here she is!” said Mr Vine, with a sigh of relief, as the door opened, and with almost theatrical effect a rather little sharp-looking woman of about sixty entered, gazing quickly round and pausing just within the room to make an extremely formal old-fashioned courtesy—sinking nearly to the ground as if she were a telescopic figure disappearing into the folds of the stiff rich brocade silk dress, of a wonderful pattern of pink and green, and cut in a fashion probably popular at Versailles a hundred years ago. She did not wear powder, but her white hair turned up and piled upon her head after the fashion of that blooming period, produced the same effect; and as she gave the fan she held a twitch which spread it open with a loud rattling noise, she seemed, with her haughty carriage, handsome aquiline face with long chin, that appeared to have formed the pattern for her stomacher, like one of the paintings on the panelled wall suddenly come to life, and feeling strange at finding herself among that modern company.“I hope you have not waited for me,” she said, smiling and speaking in a high-pitched musical voice. “Louise, my child, you should not. Ah!” she continued, raising her gold-rimmed eye-glass to her thin arched nose and dropping it directly, “Mrs Van Heldre, Mr Van Heldre, pray be seated. Mr Victor Pradelle, will you be so good?”The young man had gone through the performance several times before, and he was in waiting ready to take the tips of the gloved fingers extended to him, and walking over the thick Turkey carpet with the lady to the other end of the room in a way that seemed to endow him with a court suit and a sword, and suggested the probability of the couple continuing their deportment walk to the polished oak boards beyond the carpet, and then after sundry bows and courtesies going through the steps of theminuet de la cour.As a matter of fact, Pradelle led the old girl, as he called her, to the seat she occupied at the end of the table, when she condescended to leave her room; the rest of the company took their seats, and the meal began.Harry had tried to ensconce himself beside Madelaine, but that young lady had made a sign to Duncan Leslie, who eagerly took the chair beside her, one which he coveted, for it was between her and Louise, now busy with the tea-tray; and in a sulky manner, Harry obeyed the motion of the elderly lady’s fan.“That’s right, Henri,mon cher,” she said, smiling, “come and sit by me. I shall miss you so, my darling, when you are gone back to that horrible London, and that wretched business.”“Don’t, don’t, don’t, Margaret, my dear,” said Mr Vine, good-humouredly. “You will make him unhappy at having to leave home.”“I hope so, George,” said the lady with dignity, and pronouncing his Christian name with the softness peculiar to the French tongue; “and,” she added with a smile, “especially as we have company, will you oblige me—Marguerite, if you please?”“Certainly, certainly, my dear.”“Is that Miss Van Heldre?” said the lady, raising her glass once more. “I beg your pardon, my child; I hope you are well.”“Quite well, thank you, Miss Marguerite Vine,” said Madelaine quietly, and her bright young face looked perfectly calm, though there was a touch of sarcasm in her tone.“Louise, dearest, my tea a little sweeter, please.”The meal progressed, and the stiffness produced by theentréeof the host’s sister—it was her own term for her appearance—soon wore off, the lady being very quiet as she discussed the viands placed before her with a very excellent appetite. Mrs Van Heldre prattled pleasantly on, with plenty of homely common-sense, to her host. Van Heldre threw in a word now and then, joked Louise and his daughter, and made a wrinkle on his broad forehead, which was his way of making a note.The note he made was that a suspicion which had previously entered his brain was correct.“He’s taken with her,” he said to himself, as he glanced at Louise and then at Duncan Leslie, who seemed to be living in a dream. As a rule he was an energetic, quick, and sensible man; on this occasion he was particularly silent, and when he spoke to either Madelaine or Louise, it was in a softened voice.Van Heldre looked at his daughter. Madelaine looked at her father, and they thoroughly read each other’s thoughts, the girl’s bright grey eyes saying to him as plainly as could be—“You are quite right.”“Well,” said Van Heldre to himself, as he placed a spoonful of black currant jam on his plate, and then over that two piled-up table-spoonfuls of clotted cream—“she’s as nice and true-hearted a girl as ever stepped, and Leslie’s a man, every inch of him. I’d have saidyesin a moment if he had wanted my girl. I’m glad of it; but, poor fellow, what he’ll have to suffer from that terrible old woman!”He had just thought this, and was busy composing anocturneor adiurne—probably the latter from its tints of red and yellow—upon his plate, which flowed with jam and cream, when Aunt Marguerite, who had eaten all she wished, began to stir her tea with courtly grace, and raised her voice in continuation of something she had been saying, but it was twenty-four hours before.“Yes, Mr Pradelle,” she said, so that every one should hear; “my memories of the past are painful, and yet a delight. We old Huguenots are proud of our past.”“You must be, madam.”“And you too,” said the lady. “I feel sure that if you will take the trouble you will find that I am right. The Pradelles must have been of our people.”“I’ll look into it as soon as I get back to town,” said the young man.Harry gave him a very vulgar wink.“Do,” said Aunt Marguerite. “By the way, I don’t think I told you that though my brother persists in calling himself Vine, our name is Des Vignes, and we belong to one of the oldest families in Auvergne.”“Yes, that’s right, Mr Pradelle,” said the host, nodding pleasantly; “but when a cruel persecution drove us over here, and old England held out her arms to us, and we found a kindly welcome—”“My dear George!” interposed Aunt Marguerite.“Let me finish, my dear,” said Mr Vine, good-temperedly. “It’s Mr Pradelle’s last evening here.”“For the present, George, for the present.”“Ah, yes, of course, for the present, and I should like him to hear my version too.”Aunt Marguerite tapped the back of her left hand with her fan impatiently.“We found here a hearty welcome and a home,” continued Mr Vine, “and we said we can never—we will never—return to the land of fire and the sword; and then we, some of us poor, some of us well-to-do, settled down among our English brothers, and thanked God that in this new Land of Canaan we had found rest.”“And my dear Mr Pradelle,” began Aunt Marguerite, hastily; but Mr Vine was started, and he talked on.“In time we determined to be, in spite of our French descent, English of the English, for our children’s sake, and we worked with them, and traded with them; and, to show our faith in them, and to avoid all further connection and military service in the country we had left, we even anglicised our names. My people became Vines; the D’Aubigneys, Daubney or Dobbs; the Boileaus, Drinkwater; the Guipets, Guppy. Vulgarising our names, some people say; but never mind, we found rest, prosperity, and peace.”“Quite right, Mr Pradelle,” said Van Heldre, “and in spite of my name and my Huguenot descent, I say, thank Heaven I am now an Englishman.”“No, no, no, no, Mr Van Heldre,” said Aunt Marguerite, throwing herself back, and looking at him with a pitying smile. “You cannot prove your Huguenot descent.”“Won’t contradict you, ma’am,” said Van Heldre. “Capital jam this, Louise.”“You must be of Dutch descent,” said Aunt Marguerite.“I went carefully over my father’s pedigree, Miss Marguerite,” said Madelaine quietly.“Indeed, my child?” said the lady, raising her brows.“And I found without doubt that the Venelttes fled during the persecutions to Holland, where they stayed for half a century, and changed their names to Van Heldre before coming to England.”“Quite right,” said Van Heldre in a low voice. “Capital cream.”“Ah, yes,” said Aunt Margaret; “but, my dear child, such papers are often deceptive.”“Yes,” said Van Heldre, smiling, “often enough: so are traditions and many of our beliefs about ancestry; but I hope I have enough of what you call thehaute noblessein me to give way, and not attempt to argue the point.”“No, Mr Van Heldre,” said Aunt Margaret, with a smile of pity and good-humoured contempt; “we have often argued together upon this question, but I cannot sit in silence and hear you persist in that which is not true. No; you have not any Huguenot blood in your veins.”“My clear madam, I feel at times plethoric enough to wish that the old-fashioned idea of being blooded in the spring were still in vogue. I have so much Huguenot blood in my veins, that I should be glad to have less.”Aunt Margaret shook her head, and tightened her lips.“Low Dutch,” she said to herself, “Low Dutch.”Van Heldre read her thoughts in the movement of her lips.“Don’t much matter,” he said. “Vine, old fellow, think I shall turn over a new leaf.”“Eh? New leaf?”“Yes; get a good piece of marsh, make a dam to keep out the sea, and take to keeping cows. What capital cream!”“Yes, Mr Pradelle,” continued Aunt Margaret; “we are Huguenots of the Huguenots, and it is the dream of my life that Henri should assert his right to the title his father repudiates, and become Comte des Vignes.”“Ah!” said Pradelle.“Vigorous steps have only to be taken to wrest the family estates in Auvergne from the usurpers who hold them. I have long fought for this, but so far, I grieve to say, vainly. My brother here has mistaken notions about the respectability of trade, and is content to vegetate.”“Oh, you miserable old vegetable!” said Van Heldre to himself, as he gave his friend a droll look, and shook his head.“To vegetate in this out-of-the-way place when he should be watching over the welfare of his country, and as a nobleman of that land, striving to stem the tide of democracy. He will not do it; but if I live my nephew Henri shall, as soon as he can be rescued from the degrading influence of trade, and the clerk’s stool in an office. Ah, my poor boy, I pity you, and I say out boldly that I am not surprised that you should have thrown up post after post in disgust, and refused to settle down to such sordid wretchedness.”“My dear Marguerite! our visitors.”“I must speak, George. Mr Van Heldre loves trade.”“I do, ma’am.”“Therefore he cannot feel with me.”“Well, never mind, my dear. Let some one else be Count des Vignes, only let me be in peace, and don’t fill poor Harry’s head with that stuff just before he’s leaving home to go up to the great city, where he will, I am sure, redeem the follies of the past, and prove himself a true man. Harry, my dear boy, we’ll respect Aunt Margaret’s opinions; but we will not follow them out. Van, old fellow, Leslie, Mr Pradelle, a glass of wine. We’ll drink Harry’s health. All filled? That’s right. Harry, my boy, a true honest man is nature’s nobleman. God speed you, my boy; and His blessing be upon all your works. Health and happiness to you, my son!”“Amen,” said Van Heldre; and the simple old-fashioned health was drunk.“Eh, what’s that—letters?” said Vine, as a servant entered the room and handed her master three.“For you, Mr Pradelle; for you, Harry, and for me. May we open them, Mrs Van Heldre? They may be important.”“Of course, Mr Vine, of course.”Pradelle opened his, glanced at it, and thrust it into his pocket.Harry did likewise.Mr Vine read his twice, then dropped it upon the table.“Papa!—father!” cried Louise, starting from her place, and running round to him as he stood up with a fierce angry light in his eyes, and the table was in confusion.“Tidings at last of the French estates, Mr Pradelle,” whispered Aunt Margaret.“Papa, is anything wrong? Is it bad news?” cried Louise.“Wrong! Bad news!” he cried, flashing up from the quiet student to the stern man, stung to the quick by the announcement he had just received. “Van Heldre, old friend, you know how I strove among our connections and friends to place him where he might work and rise and prove himself my son.”“Yes, yes, old fellow, but be calm.”“Father, hush!” whispered Louise, as she glanced at Leslie’s sympathetic countenance. “Hush! Be calm!”“How can I be calm?” cried the old man fiercely. “The Des Vignes! The family estates! The title! You hear this, Margaret. Here is a fine opportunity for the search to be made—the old castle and the vineyards to be rescued from the occupiers.”“George—brother, what do you mean?” cried the old lady indignantly, and she laid her hand upon her nephew’s shoulder, as he sat gazing straight down before him at his plate.“What do I mean?” cried the indignant father, tossing the letter towards her. “I mean that my son is once more dismissed from his situation in disgrace.”

George Vine, gentleman, as he was set down in the parish books and the West-country directory, lived in a handsome old granite-built residence that he had taken years before, when, in obedience to his sister’s wish, he had retired from the silk trade a wealthy man. But there he had joined issue with the lady in question, obstinately refusing to make France his home, and selecting the house above named in the old Cornish port for two reasons: one, to be near his old friend Godfrey Van Heldre, a well-to-do merchant who carried on rather a mixed business, dealing largely in pilchards, which he sent in his own ships to the Italian ports, trading in return in such produce of the Levant as oranges, olives, and dried fruit; the other, so that he could devote himself to the branch of natural history, upon which he had grown to be an authority so great that his work upon the Actiniadae of our coast was looked forward to with no little expectation by a good many people, in addition to those who wrote F.Z.S. at the end of their names.

The pleasant social meal known as high tea was spread in the long low oak-panelled dining-room, whose very wide bay window looked right over the town from its shelf upon the huge granite cliffs, and far away westward from whence came the gales which beat upon the old mansion, whose granite sides and gables had turned them off for the past two hundred years.

It was a handsomely furnished room, thoroughly English, and yet with a suggestion of French in the paintings of courtly-looking folk, which decorated the panels above the old oak sideboard and dressers, upon which stood handsome old chased cups, flagons and salvers battered and scratched, but rich and glistening old silver all the same, and looking as if the dents and scratches were only the natural puckers and furrows such venerable pieces of plate should possess.

There was another suggestion of the foreign element, too, in the glazing of the deeply embayed window, for right across and between all the mullions, the leaden lattice panes gave place, about two-thirds of the way up, to a series of artistically painted armorial bearings in stained glass, shields and helmets with their crests and supporters, and beneath the scutcheon in the middle, a ribbon with triple curve and fold bearing the wordsRoy et Foy.

The furniture had been selected to be thoroughly in keeping with the antiquity of the mansion, and the old oak chairs and so much of the table as could be seen for the long fine white linen cloth was of the oldest and darkest oak.

The table was spread with the abundant fare dear to West-country folk; fruit and flowers gave colour, and the thick yellow cream and white sugar were piled high in silver bowls. The great tea urn was hissing upon its stand, the visitors had arrived, and the host was dividing his time between fidgeting to and fro from the door to Van Heldre, who was leaning up against one of the mullions of the great bay window talking to Leslie upon subjects paramount in Cornwall—fish and the yielding of the mines.

The young people were standing about talking, Louise with her hand resting on the chair where sat a pleasant-looking, rosy little woman with abundant white hair, and her mittened hands crossed over the waist of her purple velvet gown enriched with good French lace.

“Margaret Vine’s keeping us waiting a long time this evening,” she said.

“Mamma!” said Madelaine reproachfully.

“Well, my clear, it’s the simple truth. And so you go back to business to-morrow, Harry?”

“Yes, Mrs Van Heldre. Slave again.”

“Nonsense, my boy. Work’s good for every one. I’m sure your friend, Mr Pradelle, thinks so,” she continued, appealing to that gentleman.

“Well,” he said, with an unpleasant laugh, “nobody left me a fortune, so I’m obliged to say yes.”

“Ah, here she is!” said Mr Vine, with a sigh of relief, as the door opened, and with almost theatrical effect a rather little sharp-looking woman of about sixty entered, gazing quickly round and pausing just within the room to make an extremely formal old-fashioned courtesy—sinking nearly to the ground as if she were a telescopic figure disappearing into the folds of the stiff rich brocade silk dress, of a wonderful pattern of pink and green, and cut in a fashion probably popular at Versailles a hundred years ago. She did not wear powder, but her white hair turned up and piled upon her head after the fashion of that blooming period, produced the same effect; and as she gave the fan she held a twitch which spread it open with a loud rattling noise, she seemed, with her haughty carriage, handsome aquiline face with long chin, that appeared to have formed the pattern for her stomacher, like one of the paintings on the panelled wall suddenly come to life, and feeling strange at finding herself among that modern company.

“I hope you have not waited for me,” she said, smiling and speaking in a high-pitched musical voice. “Louise, my child, you should not. Ah!” she continued, raising her gold-rimmed eye-glass to her thin arched nose and dropping it directly, “Mrs Van Heldre, Mr Van Heldre, pray be seated. Mr Victor Pradelle, will you be so good?”

The young man had gone through the performance several times before, and he was in waiting ready to take the tips of the gloved fingers extended to him, and walking over the thick Turkey carpet with the lady to the other end of the room in a way that seemed to endow him with a court suit and a sword, and suggested the probability of the couple continuing their deportment walk to the polished oak boards beyond the carpet, and then after sundry bows and courtesies going through the steps of theminuet de la cour.

As a matter of fact, Pradelle led the old girl, as he called her, to the seat she occupied at the end of the table, when she condescended to leave her room; the rest of the company took their seats, and the meal began.

Harry had tried to ensconce himself beside Madelaine, but that young lady had made a sign to Duncan Leslie, who eagerly took the chair beside her, one which he coveted, for it was between her and Louise, now busy with the tea-tray; and in a sulky manner, Harry obeyed the motion of the elderly lady’s fan.

“That’s right, Henri,mon cher,” she said, smiling, “come and sit by me. I shall miss you so, my darling, when you are gone back to that horrible London, and that wretched business.”

“Don’t, don’t, don’t, Margaret, my dear,” said Mr Vine, good-humouredly. “You will make him unhappy at having to leave home.”

“I hope so, George,” said the lady with dignity, and pronouncing his Christian name with the softness peculiar to the French tongue; “and,” she added with a smile, “especially as we have company, will you oblige me—Marguerite, if you please?”

“Certainly, certainly, my dear.”

“Is that Miss Van Heldre?” said the lady, raising her glass once more. “I beg your pardon, my child; I hope you are well.”

“Quite well, thank you, Miss Marguerite Vine,” said Madelaine quietly, and her bright young face looked perfectly calm, though there was a touch of sarcasm in her tone.

“Louise, dearest, my tea a little sweeter, please.”

The meal progressed, and the stiffness produced by theentréeof the host’s sister—it was her own term for her appearance—soon wore off, the lady being very quiet as she discussed the viands placed before her with a very excellent appetite. Mrs Van Heldre prattled pleasantly on, with plenty of homely common-sense, to her host. Van Heldre threw in a word now and then, joked Louise and his daughter, and made a wrinkle on his broad forehead, which was his way of making a note.

The note he made was that a suspicion which had previously entered his brain was correct.

“He’s taken with her,” he said to himself, as he glanced at Louise and then at Duncan Leslie, who seemed to be living in a dream. As a rule he was an energetic, quick, and sensible man; on this occasion he was particularly silent, and when he spoke to either Madelaine or Louise, it was in a softened voice.

Van Heldre looked at his daughter. Madelaine looked at her father, and they thoroughly read each other’s thoughts, the girl’s bright grey eyes saying to him as plainly as could be—“You are quite right.”

“Well,” said Van Heldre to himself, as he placed a spoonful of black currant jam on his plate, and then over that two piled-up table-spoonfuls of clotted cream—“she’s as nice and true-hearted a girl as ever stepped, and Leslie’s a man, every inch of him. I’d have saidyesin a moment if he had wanted my girl. I’m glad of it; but, poor fellow, what he’ll have to suffer from that terrible old woman!”

He had just thought this, and was busy composing anocturneor adiurne—probably the latter from its tints of red and yellow—upon his plate, which flowed with jam and cream, when Aunt Marguerite, who had eaten all she wished, began to stir her tea with courtly grace, and raised her voice in continuation of something she had been saying, but it was twenty-four hours before.

“Yes, Mr Pradelle,” she said, so that every one should hear; “my memories of the past are painful, and yet a delight. We old Huguenots are proud of our past.”

“You must be, madam.”

“And you too,” said the lady. “I feel sure that if you will take the trouble you will find that I am right. The Pradelles must have been of our people.”

“I’ll look into it as soon as I get back to town,” said the young man.

Harry gave him a very vulgar wink.

“Do,” said Aunt Marguerite. “By the way, I don’t think I told you that though my brother persists in calling himself Vine, our name is Des Vignes, and we belong to one of the oldest families in Auvergne.”

“Yes, that’s right, Mr Pradelle,” said the host, nodding pleasantly; “but when a cruel persecution drove us over here, and old England held out her arms to us, and we found a kindly welcome—”

“My dear George!” interposed Aunt Marguerite.

“Let me finish, my dear,” said Mr Vine, good-temperedly. “It’s Mr Pradelle’s last evening here.”

“For the present, George, for the present.”

“Ah, yes, of course, for the present, and I should like him to hear my version too.”

Aunt Marguerite tapped the back of her left hand with her fan impatiently.

“We found here a hearty welcome and a home,” continued Mr Vine, “and we said we can never—we will never—return to the land of fire and the sword; and then we, some of us poor, some of us well-to-do, settled down among our English brothers, and thanked God that in this new Land of Canaan we had found rest.”

“And my dear Mr Pradelle,” began Aunt Marguerite, hastily; but Mr Vine was started, and he talked on.

“In time we determined to be, in spite of our French descent, English of the English, for our children’s sake, and we worked with them, and traded with them; and, to show our faith in them, and to avoid all further connection and military service in the country we had left, we even anglicised our names. My people became Vines; the D’Aubigneys, Daubney or Dobbs; the Boileaus, Drinkwater; the Guipets, Guppy. Vulgarising our names, some people say; but never mind, we found rest, prosperity, and peace.”

“Quite right, Mr Pradelle,” said Van Heldre, “and in spite of my name and my Huguenot descent, I say, thank Heaven I am now an Englishman.”

“No, no, no, no, Mr Van Heldre,” said Aunt Marguerite, throwing herself back, and looking at him with a pitying smile. “You cannot prove your Huguenot descent.”

“Won’t contradict you, ma’am,” said Van Heldre. “Capital jam this, Louise.”

“You must be of Dutch descent,” said Aunt Marguerite.

“I went carefully over my father’s pedigree, Miss Marguerite,” said Madelaine quietly.

“Indeed, my child?” said the lady, raising her brows.

“And I found without doubt that the Venelttes fled during the persecutions to Holland, where they stayed for half a century, and changed their names to Van Heldre before coming to England.”

“Quite right,” said Van Heldre in a low voice. “Capital cream.”

“Ah, yes,” said Aunt Margaret; “but, my dear child, such papers are often deceptive.”

“Yes,” said Van Heldre, smiling, “often enough: so are traditions and many of our beliefs about ancestry; but I hope I have enough of what you call thehaute noblessein me to give way, and not attempt to argue the point.”

“No, Mr Van Heldre,” said Aunt Margaret, with a smile of pity and good-humoured contempt; “we have often argued together upon this question, but I cannot sit in silence and hear you persist in that which is not true. No; you have not any Huguenot blood in your veins.”

“My clear madam, I feel at times plethoric enough to wish that the old-fashioned idea of being blooded in the spring were still in vogue. I have so much Huguenot blood in my veins, that I should be glad to have less.”

Aunt Margaret shook her head, and tightened her lips.

“Low Dutch,” she said to herself, “Low Dutch.”

Van Heldre read her thoughts in the movement of her lips.

“Don’t much matter,” he said. “Vine, old fellow, think I shall turn over a new leaf.”

“Eh? New leaf?”

“Yes; get a good piece of marsh, make a dam to keep out the sea, and take to keeping cows. What capital cream!”

“Yes, Mr Pradelle,” continued Aunt Margaret; “we are Huguenots of the Huguenots, and it is the dream of my life that Henri should assert his right to the title his father repudiates, and become Comte des Vignes.”

“Ah!” said Pradelle.

“Vigorous steps have only to be taken to wrest the family estates in Auvergne from the usurpers who hold them. I have long fought for this, but so far, I grieve to say, vainly. My brother here has mistaken notions about the respectability of trade, and is content to vegetate.”

“Oh, you miserable old vegetable!” said Van Heldre to himself, as he gave his friend a droll look, and shook his head.

“To vegetate in this out-of-the-way place when he should be watching over the welfare of his country, and as a nobleman of that land, striving to stem the tide of democracy. He will not do it; but if I live my nephew Henri shall, as soon as he can be rescued from the degrading influence of trade, and the clerk’s stool in an office. Ah, my poor boy, I pity you, and I say out boldly that I am not surprised that you should have thrown up post after post in disgust, and refused to settle down to such sordid wretchedness.”

“My dear Marguerite! our visitors.”

“I must speak, George. Mr Van Heldre loves trade.”

“I do, ma’am.”

“Therefore he cannot feel with me.”

“Well, never mind, my dear. Let some one else be Count des Vignes, only let me be in peace, and don’t fill poor Harry’s head with that stuff just before he’s leaving home to go up to the great city, where he will, I am sure, redeem the follies of the past, and prove himself a true man. Harry, my dear boy, we’ll respect Aunt Margaret’s opinions; but we will not follow them out. Van, old fellow, Leslie, Mr Pradelle, a glass of wine. We’ll drink Harry’s health. All filled? That’s right. Harry, my boy, a true honest man is nature’s nobleman. God speed you, my boy; and His blessing be upon all your works. Health and happiness to you, my son!”

“Amen,” said Van Heldre; and the simple old-fashioned health was drunk.

“Eh, what’s that—letters?” said Vine, as a servant entered the room and handed her master three.

“For you, Mr Pradelle; for you, Harry, and for me. May we open them, Mrs Van Heldre? They may be important.”

“Of course, Mr Vine, of course.”

Pradelle opened his, glanced at it, and thrust it into his pocket.

Harry did likewise.

Mr Vine read his twice, then dropped it upon the table.

“Papa!—father!” cried Louise, starting from her place, and running round to him as he stood up with a fierce angry light in his eyes, and the table was in confusion.

“Tidings at last of the French estates, Mr Pradelle,” whispered Aunt Margaret.

“Papa, is anything wrong? Is it bad news?” cried Louise.

“Wrong! Bad news!” he cried, flashing up from the quiet student to the stern man, stung to the quick by the announcement he had just received. “Van Heldre, old friend, you know how I strove among our connections and friends to place him where he might work and rise and prove himself my son.”

“Yes, yes, old fellow, but be calm.”

“Father, hush!” whispered Louise, as she glanced at Leslie’s sympathetic countenance. “Hush! Be calm!”

“How can I be calm?” cried the old man fiercely. “The Des Vignes! The family estates! The title! You hear this, Margaret. Here is a fine opportunity for the search to be made—the old castle and the vineyards to be rescued from the occupiers.”

“George—brother, what do you mean?” cried the old lady indignantly, and she laid her hand upon her nephew’s shoulder, as he sat gazing straight down before him at his plate.

“What do I mean?” cried the indignant father, tossing the letter towards her. “I mean that my son is once more dismissed from his situation in disgrace.”

Volume One—Chapter Five.Poison and Antidote.“Now, sir, have the goodness to tell me what you mean to do.”Harry Vine looked at his father, thrust his hands low down into his pockets, leaned back against the mantelpiece, and was silent.Vine senior leaned over a shallow glass jar, with a thin splinter of wood in his hand, upon which he had just impaled a small fragment of raw, minced periwinkle, and this he thrust down to where a gorgeous sea-anemone sat spread open upon a piece of rock—chipped from out of one of the caverns on the coast.The anemone’s tentacles bristled all around, giving the creature the aspect of a great flower; and down among these the scrap of food was thrust till it touched them, when the tentacles began to curve over, and draw the scrap of shell-fish down toward the large central mouth, in which it soon began to disappear.Vine senior looked up.“I have done everything I could for you in the way of education. I have, I am sure, been a most kind and indulgent father. You have had a liberal supply of money, and by the exercise of my own and the personal interest of friends, I have obtained for you posts among our people, any one of which was the beginning of prosperity and position, such as a youth should have been proud to win.”“But they were so unsuitable, father. All connected with trade.”“Shame, Harry! As if there was anything undignified in trade. No matter whether it be trade or profession by which a man honestly earns his subsistence, it is an honourable career. And yet five times over you have been thrown back on my hands in disgrace.”“Well, I can’t help it, father; I’ve done my best.”“Your best!” cried Vine senior, taking up a glass rod, and stirring the water in another glass jar. “It is not true.”“But it’s so absurd. You’re a rich man.”“If I were ten times as well off, I would not have you waste your life in idleness. You are not twenty-four, and I am determined that you shall take some post. I have seen too much of what follows when a restless, idle young man sits down to wait for his father’s money. There, I am busy now. Go and think over what I have said. You must and shall do something. It is now a month since I received that letter. What is Mr Pradelle doing down here again?”“Come for a change, as any other gentleman would.”“Gentleman?”“Well, he has a little income of his own, I suppose. If I’ve been unlucky that’s no reason why I should throw over my friends.”The father looked at the son in a perplexed way, and then fed another sea-anemone, Harry looking on contemptuously.“Well, sir, you have heard what I said. Go and think it over.”“Yes, father.”The young man left the business-like study, and encountered his sister in the hall.“Well, Harry?”“Well, Lou.”“What does papa say?”“The old story. I’m to go back to drudgery. I think I shall enlist.”“For shame! and you professing to care as you do for Madelaine.”“So I do. I worship her.”“Then prove it by exerting yourself in the way papa wishes. I wonder you have not more spirit.”“And I wonder you have not more decency towards my friends.”Louise coloured slightly.“Here you profess to believe in my going into trade and drudging behind a counter.”“I did not know that a counter had ever been in question, Harry,” said his sister sarcastically.“Well, a clerk’s desk; it’s all the same. I believe you would like to see me selling tea and sugar.”“I don’t think I should mind.”“No; that’s it. I’m to be disgraced while you are so much of the fine lady that you look down on, and quite insult, my friend Pradelle.”“Aunt Margaret wishes to speak to you, dear,” said Louise gravely. “I promised to tell you as soon as you left the study.”“Then hang it all! why didn’t you tell me? Couldn’t resist a chance for a lecture. There’s only one body here who understands me, and that’s aunt. Why even Madelaine’s turning against me now, and I believe it is all your doing.”“I have done nothing but what is for your good, Harry.”“Then you own to it! You have been talking to Maddy?”“She came and confided in me, and I believe I spoke the truth.”“Yes, I knew it!” cried Harry warmly. “Then look here, my lady, I’m not blind. I’ve petted you and been the best of brothers, but if you turn against me I shall turn against you.”“Harry dear!”“Ah, that startles you, does it! Then I shall tell the truth, and I’ll back up Aunt Margaret through thick and thin.”“What do you mean?”“What Aunt Margaret says. That long Scotch copper-miner is no match for you.”“Harry!”“And I shall tell him this, if he comes hanging about here where he sees he is not wanted, and stands in the way of a gentleman of good French Huguenot descent, I’ll horsewhip him. There!”He turned on his heel, and bounded up the old staircase three steps at a time.“Oh!” ejaculated Louise, as she stood till she heard a sharp tap at her aunt’s door and her brother enter, and close it after him. “Mr Pradelle, too, of all people in the world!”“Ah, my darling,” cried Aunt Margaret, looking up from the tambour-frame and smoothing out the folds of her antique flowered peignoir. “Bring that stool, and come and sit down.”Harry bent down and kissed her rather sulkily. Then in a half-contemptuous way he fetched the said stool, embroidered by the lady herself, and placed it at her feet.“Sit down, my dear.”Harry lowered himself into a very uncomfortable position, while Aunt Margaret placed one arm about his neck, struck a graceful pose, and began to smooth over the young man’s already too smooth hair.“I want to have another very serious talk with you, my boy,” she said. “Ah, yes,” she continued, raising his chin and looking down in his disgusted face: “how every lineament shows your descent!”“I say, aunt, I’ve just brushed my hair.”“Yes, dear, but you should not hide your forehead. It is the brow of the Des Vignes.”“Oh, all right, auntie, have it your own way. But, I say, have you got any money?”“Alas! no, my boy.”“I don’t mean now. I mean haven’t you really got any to leave me in your will?”There was a far-off look in Aunt Margaret’s eyes as she slowly shook her head.“You will leave me what you have, aunt?”“If I had hundreds of thousands, you should have all, Henri; but, alas, I have none. I had property once.”“What became of it?”“Well, my dear, it is a long story and a sad one. I could not tell it to you even in brief, but you are a man now, and must know the meaning of the word love.”“Oh, yes, I know what that means; but I say, don’t fidget my hair about so.”“I could not tell you all, Henri. It was thirty years ago. He was a French gentleman of noble descent. His estates had been confiscated, and I was only too glad to place my little fortune at his disposal to recover them.”“And did he?”“No, my dear. Those were terrible times. He lost all; and with true nobility, he wrote to me that he loved me too well to drag me down to poverty—to share his lot as an exile. I have never seen him since. But I would have shared his lot.”“Humph! Lost it? Then if I had money and tried for our family estates, I might lose it too.”“No, no, my boy; you would be certain to win. Did you do what I told you?”“Yes, aunt; but I can’t use them down here.”“Let me look, my dear; and I do not see why not. You must be bold; and proud of your descent.”“But they’d laugh.”“Let them,” said Aunt Margaret grandly. “By and by they will bow down. Let me see.”The young man took a card-case from his pocket, on which was stamped in gold a French count’s coronet.“Ah! yes; that is right,” said the old lady, snatching the case with trembling fingers, opening it, and taking out a card on which was also printed a coronet. “Comte Henri des Vignes,” she read, in an excited manner, and with tears in her eyes. “My darling boy!”“Cost a precious lot, aunt; made a regular hole in your diamond ring.”“Did you sell it?”“No; Vic Pradelle pawned it for me.”“Ah! he is a friend of whom you may be proud, Henri.”“Not a bad sort of fellow, aunt. He got precious little on the ring, though, and I spent it nearly all.”“Never mind the ring, my boy, and I’m very glad you have the cards. Now for a little serious talk about the future.”“Wish to goodness there was no future,” said Harry glumly.“Would you like to talk about the past, then?” said the old lady playfully.“Wish there was no past neither,” grumbled Harry.“Then we will talk about the present, my dear, and about—let me whisper to you—love!”She placed her thin lips close to her nephew’s ear, and then held him at arm’s length and smiled upon him proudly.“Love! Too expensive a luxury for me, auntie. I say, you are ruffling my hair so.”“Too expensive, Henri? No, my darling boy; follow my advice, and the richest and fairest of the daughters of France shall sue for your hand.”“I say, auntie,” he said laughingly, “aren’t you laying on the colour rather thick?”“Not a bit, my darling; and that’s why I want to talk to you about your sister’s friend.”“What, Maddy?” he said eagerly; “then you approve of it.”“Approve! Pah! you are jesting, my dear. I approve of your making an alliance with a fat Dutch fraulein!”“Oh, come, aunt!” said Harry, looking nettled; “Madelaine is not Dutch, nor yet fat.”“I know better, my boy. Dutch! Dutch! Dutch! Look at her father and her mother! No, my boy, you could not make an alliance with a girl like that. She might do for a kitchen-maid.”“Auntie!”“Silly boy!”“And she’ll be rich some day.”“If she were heiress to millions she could not marry you. As some writer says, eagles do not mate with plump Dutch ducklings. No, Henri, my boy, you must wait.” Harry frowned.“That is a boyish piece of nonsense, unworthy the Comte des Vignes, my dear boy. But tell me—you have been with your father—what does he say now?”“The old story. I must go to work.”“Poor George!” sighed Aunt Margaret: “always so sordid in his ideas in early life: now that he is wealthy so utterly wanting in aspirations! Always dallying over some miserable shrimp. He has no more ambition than one of those silly fish over which he sits and dreams. Oh, Henri, my boy, when I look back at what our family has been—right back into the distant ages of French history—valorous knights and noble ladies; and later on, how they graced the court at banquet and at ball, I weep the salt tears of misery to see my brother sink so low.”“Ah! well, it’s of no use, aunt. I must go and turn somebody’s grindstone again.”“No, Henri, it shall not be,” cried the old lady, with flashing eyes. “We must think; we must plot and plan.”“If you please, ma’am, I’ve brought your lunch,” said a voice; and Liza, the maid, who bore a strong resemblance to the fish-woman who had accosted Uncle Luke at the mouth of the harbour, set down a delicately-cooked cutlet and bit of fish, all spread on a snowy napkin, with the accompaniments of plate, glass, and a decanter of sherry.“Ah! yes, my lunch,” said Aunt Margaret, with a sigh. “Go, and think over what I have said, my dear, and we will talk again another time.”“All right, auntie,” said the young man, rising slowly; “but it seems to me as if the best thing I could do would be to jump into the sea.”“No, no, Henri,” said Aunt Margaret, taking up a silver spoon and shaking it slowly at her nephew, “a Des Vignes was ready with his sword in defence of his honour, and to advance his master’s cause; but he never dreamed of taking his own life. That, my dear, would be the act of one of the low-borncanaille. Remember who you are, and wait. I am working for you, and you shall triumph yet. Consult your friend.”“Sometimes I think it’s all gammon,” said Harry, as he went slowly down-stairs, and out into the garden, “and sometimes it seems as if it would be very jolly. I dare say the old woman is right, and—”“What are you talking about—muttering aside like the wicked man on the stage?”“Hullo, Vic! You there?”“Yes, clear boy. I’m here for want of somewhere better.”“Consult your friend!” Aunt Margaret’s last words.“Been having a cigar?”“I’ve been hanging about here this last hour. How is it she hasn’t been for a walk?”“Louie? Don’t know. Here, let’s go down under the cliff, and have a talk over a pipe.”“The latter, if you like; never mind the former. Yes, I will; for I want a few words of a sort.”“What about?” said Harry, as they strolled away.“Everything. Look here, old fellow; we’ve been the best of chums ever since you shared my desk.”“Yes, and you shared my allowance.”“Well chums always do. Then I came down with you, and it was all as jolly as could be, and I was making way fast, in spite of that confounded red-headed porridge-eating fellow. Then came that upset, and I went away. Then you wrote to me in answer to my letter about having a good thing on, and said ‘Come down.’”“And you came,” said Harry thoughtfully, “and the good thing turned out a bad thing, as every one does that I join in.”“Well, that was an accident; speculators must have some crust as well as crumb.”“But I get all crust.”“No, I seem to be getting all crust now from your people. Your aunt’s right enough, but your father casts his cold shoulder and stale bread at me whenever we meet; and as for a certain lady, she regularly cut me yesterday.”“Well, I can’t help that, Vic. You know what I said when you told me you were on that. I said that I couldn’t do anything, and that I wouldn’t do anything if I could; but that I wouldn’t stand in your way if you liked to try.”“Yes, I know what you said,” grumbled Pradelle, as they strolled down to the shore, went round the rocks, and then strolled on over and amongst the shingle and sand, till—a suitable spot presenting itself, about half a mile from the town—they sat down on the soft sand, tilted their hats over their eyes, leaned their backs against a huge stone, and then lit up and began to smoke.“You see it’s like this,” said Pradelle; “I know I’m not much of a catch, but I like her, and that ought to make up for a great deal.”“Yes.”“She don’t know her own mind, that’s about it,” continued Pradelle; “and a word from you might do a deal.”“Got any money, Vic?”“Now there’s a mean sort of a question to ask a friend! Have I got any money? As if a man must be made of money before he may look at his old chum’s sister.”“I wasn’t thinking about her, but of something else,” said Harry hastily.“Ah, well, I wasn’t; but look there!”“What at?” said Harry, whose eyes were shut, and his thoughts far away.“Them. They’re going for a walk. Why. Hal, old chap, they saw us come down here.”Harry started into wakefulness, and realised the fact that his sister and Madelaine Van Heldre were passing before them, but down by the water’s edge.“Let’s follow them,” said Pradelle eagerly.“Wait a moment.”Harry waited to think, and scraps of his aunt’s remarks floated through his brain respecting the fair daughters of France, who would fall at the feet of the young count.Harry cogitated. The daughters of France were no doubt very lovely, but they were imaginative: and though Madelaine Van Heldre might, as his aunt said, not be of the pure Huguenot blood, still that fact did not seem to matter to him. For that was not imagination before him, but the bright, natural, clever girl whom he had known from childhood, his old playfellow, who had always seemed to supply a something wanting in his mental organisation, the girl who had led him and influenced his career.“Bother Aunt Marguerite!” he said to himself, and then aloud, “Come along!”

“Now, sir, have the goodness to tell me what you mean to do.”

Harry Vine looked at his father, thrust his hands low down into his pockets, leaned back against the mantelpiece, and was silent.

Vine senior leaned over a shallow glass jar, with a thin splinter of wood in his hand, upon which he had just impaled a small fragment of raw, minced periwinkle, and this he thrust down to where a gorgeous sea-anemone sat spread open upon a piece of rock—chipped from out of one of the caverns on the coast.

The anemone’s tentacles bristled all around, giving the creature the aspect of a great flower; and down among these the scrap of food was thrust till it touched them, when the tentacles began to curve over, and draw the scrap of shell-fish down toward the large central mouth, in which it soon began to disappear.

Vine senior looked up.

“I have done everything I could for you in the way of education. I have, I am sure, been a most kind and indulgent father. You have had a liberal supply of money, and by the exercise of my own and the personal interest of friends, I have obtained for you posts among our people, any one of which was the beginning of prosperity and position, such as a youth should have been proud to win.”

“But they were so unsuitable, father. All connected with trade.”

“Shame, Harry! As if there was anything undignified in trade. No matter whether it be trade or profession by which a man honestly earns his subsistence, it is an honourable career. And yet five times over you have been thrown back on my hands in disgrace.”

“Well, I can’t help it, father; I’ve done my best.”

“Your best!” cried Vine senior, taking up a glass rod, and stirring the water in another glass jar. “It is not true.”

“But it’s so absurd. You’re a rich man.”

“If I were ten times as well off, I would not have you waste your life in idleness. You are not twenty-four, and I am determined that you shall take some post. I have seen too much of what follows when a restless, idle young man sits down to wait for his father’s money. There, I am busy now. Go and think over what I have said. You must and shall do something. It is now a month since I received that letter. What is Mr Pradelle doing down here again?”

“Come for a change, as any other gentleman would.”

“Gentleman?”

“Well, he has a little income of his own, I suppose. If I’ve been unlucky that’s no reason why I should throw over my friends.”

The father looked at the son in a perplexed way, and then fed another sea-anemone, Harry looking on contemptuously.

“Well, sir, you have heard what I said. Go and think it over.”

“Yes, father.”

The young man left the business-like study, and encountered his sister in the hall.

“Well, Harry?”

“Well, Lou.”

“What does papa say?”

“The old story. I’m to go back to drudgery. I think I shall enlist.”

“For shame! and you professing to care as you do for Madelaine.”

“So I do. I worship her.”

“Then prove it by exerting yourself in the way papa wishes. I wonder you have not more spirit.”

“And I wonder you have not more decency towards my friends.”

Louise coloured slightly.

“Here you profess to believe in my going into trade and drudging behind a counter.”

“I did not know that a counter had ever been in question, Harry,” said his sister sarcastically.

“Well, a clerk’s desk; it’s all the same. I believe you would like to see me selling tea and sugar.”

“I don’t think I should mind.”

“No; that’s it. I’m to be disgraced while you are so much of the fine lady that you look down on, and quite insult, my friend Pradelle.”

“Aunt Margaret wishes to speak to you, dear,” said Louise gravely. “I promised to tell you as soon as you left the study.”

“Then hang it all! why didn’t you tell me? Couldn’t resist a chance for a lecture. There’s only one body here who understands me, and that’s aunt. Why even Madelaine’s turning against me now, and I believe it is all your doing.”

“I have done nothing but what is for your good, Harry.”

“Then you own to it! You have been talking to Maddy?”

“She came and confided in me, and I believe I spoke the truth.”

“Yes, I knew it!” cried Harry warmly. “Then look here, my lady, I’m not blind. I’ve petted you and been the best of brothers, but if you turn against me I shall turn against you.”

“Harry dear!”

“Ah, that startles you, does it! Then I shall tell the truth, and I’ll back up Aunt Margaret through thick and thin.”

“What do you mean?”

“What Aunt Margaret says. That long Scotch copper-miner is no match for you.”

“Harry!”

“And I shall tell him this, if he comes hanging about here where he sees he is not wanted, and stands in the way of a gentleman of good French Huguenot descent, I’ll horsewhip him. There!”

He turned on his heel, and bounded up the old staircase three steps at a time.

“Oh!” ejaculated Louise, as she stood till she heard a sharp tap at her aunt’s door and her brother enter, and close it after him. “Mr Pradelle, too, of all people in the world!”

“Ah, my darling,” cried Aunt Margaret, looking up from the tambour-frame and smoothing out the folds of her antique flowered peignoir. “Bring that stool, and come and sit down.”

Harry bent down and kissed her rather sulkily. Then in a half-contemptuous way he fetched the said stool, embroidered by the lady herself, and placed it at her feet.

“Sit down, my dear.”

Harry lowered himself into a very uncomfortable position, while Aunt Margaret placed one arm about his neck, struck a graceful pose, and began to smooth over the young man’s already too smooth hair.

“I want to have another very serious talk with you, my boy,” she said. “Ah, yes,” she continued, raising his chin and looking down in his disgusted face: “how every lineament shows your descent!”

“I say, aunt, I’ve just brushed my hair.”

“Yes, dear, but you should not hide your forehead. It is the brow of the Des Vignes.”

“Oh, all right, auntie, have it your own way. But, I say, have you got any money?”

“Alas! no, my boy.”

“I don’t mean now. I mean haven’t you really got any to leave me in your will?”

There was a far-off look in Aunt Margaret’s eyes as she slowly shook her head.

“You will leave me what you have, aunt?”

“If I had hundreds of thousands, you should have all, Henri; but, alas, I have none. I had property once.”

“What became of it?”

“Well, my dear, it is a long story and a sad one. I could not tell it to you even in brief, but you are a man now, and must know the meaning of the word love.”

“Oh, yes, I know what that means; but I say, don’t fidget my hair about so.”

“I could not tell you all, Henri. It was thirty years ago. He was a French gentleman of noble descent. His estates had been confiscated, and I was only too glad to place my little fortune at his disposal to recover them.”

“And did he?”

“No, my dear. Those were terrible times. He lost all; and with true nobility, he wrote to me that he loved me too well to drag me down to poverty—to share his lot as an exile. I have never seen him since. But I would have shared his lot.”

“Humph! Lost it? Then if I had money and tried for our family estates, I might lose it too.”

“No, no, my boy; you would be certain to win. Did you do what I told you?”

“Yes, aunt; but I can’t use them down here.”

“Let me look, my dear; and I do not see why not. You must be bold; and proud of your descent.”

“But they’d laugh.”

“Let them,” said Aunt Margaret grandly. “By and by they will bow down. Let me see.”

The young man took a card-case from his pocket, on which was stamped in gold a French count’s coronet.

“Ah! yes; that is right,” said the old lady, snatching the case with trembling fingers, opening it, and taking out a card on which was also printed a coronet. “Comte Henri des Vignes,” she read, in an excited manner, and with tears in her eyes. “My darling boy!”

“Cost a precious lot, aunt; made a regular hole in your diamond ring.”

“Did you sell it?”

“No; Vic Pradelle pawned it for me.”

“Ah! he is a friend of whom you may be proud, Henri.”

“Not a bad sort of fellow, aunt. He got precious little on the ring, though, and I spent it nearly all.”

“Never mind the ring, my boy, and I’m very glad you have the cards. Now for a little serious talk about the future.”

“Wish to goodness there was no future,” said Harry glumly.

“Would you like to talk about the past, then?” said the old lady playfully.

“Wish there was no past neither,” grumbled Harry.

“Then we will talk about the present, my dear, and about—let me whisper to you—love!”

She placed her thin lips close to her nephew’s ear, and then held him at arm’s length and smiled upon him proudly.

“Love! Too expensive a luxury for me, auntie. I say, you are ruffling my hair so.”

“Too expensive, Henri? No, my darling boy; follow my advice, and the richest and fairest of the daughters of France shall sue for your hand.”

“I say, auntie,” he said laughingly, “aren’t you laying on the colour rather thick?”

“Not a bit, my darling; and that’s why I want to talk to you about your sister’s friend.”

“What, Maddy?” he said eagerly; “then you approve of it.”

“Approve! Pah! you are jesting, my dear. I approve of your making an alliance with a fat Dutch fraulein!”

“Oh, come, aunt!” said Harry, looking nettled; “Madelaine is not Dutch, nor yet fat.”

“I know better, my boy. Dutch! Dutch! Dutch! Look at her father and her mother! No, my boy, you could not make an alliance with a girl like that. She might do for a kitchen-maid.”

“Auntie!”

“Silly boy!”

“And she’ll be rich some day.”

“If she were heiress to millions she could not marry you. As some writer says, eagles do not mate with plump Dutch ducklings. No, Henri, my boy, you must wait.” Harry frowned.

“That is a boyish piece of nonsense, unworthy the Comte des Vignes, my dear boy. But tell me—you have been with your father—what does he say now?”

“The old story. I must go to work.”

“Poor George!” sighed Aunt Margaret: “always so sordid in his ideas in early life: now that he is wealthy so utterly wanting in aspirations! Always dallying over some miserable shrimp. He has no more ambition than one of those silly fish over which he sits and dreams. Oh, Henri, my boy, when I look back at what our family has been—right back into the distant ages of French history—valorous knights and noble ladies; and later on, how they graced the court at banquet and at ball, I weep the salt tears of misery to see my brother sink so low.”

“Ah! well, it’s of no use, aunt. I must go and turn somebody’s grindstone again.”

“No, Henri, it shall not be,” cried the old lady, with flashing eyes. “We must think; we must plot and plan.”

“If you please, ma’am, I’ve brought your lunch,” said a voice; and Liza, the maid, who bore a strong resemblance to the fish-woman who had accosted Uncle Luke at the mouth of the harbour, set down a delicately-cooked cutlet and bit of fish, all spread on a snowy napkin, with the accompaniments of plate, glass, and a decanter of sherry.

“Ah! yes, my lunch,” said Aunt Margaret, with a sigh. “Go, and think over what I have said, my dear, and we will talk again another time.”

“All right, auntie,” said the young man, rising slowly; “but it seems to me as if the best thing I could do would be to jump into the sea.”

“No, no, Henri,” said Aunt Margaret, taking up a silver spoon and shaking it slowly at her nephew, “a Des Vignes was ready with his sword in defence of his honour, and to advance his master’s cause; but he never dreamed of taking his own life. That, my dear, would be the act of one of the low-borncanaille. Remember who you are, and wait. I am working for you, and you shall triumph yet. Consult your friend.”

“Sometimes I think it’s all gammon,” said Harry, as he went slowly down-stairs, and out into the garden, “and sometimes it seems as if it would be very jolly. I dare say the old woman is right, and—”

“What are you talking about—muttering aside like the wicked man on the stage?”

“Hullo, Vic! You there?”

“Yes, clear boy. I’m here for want of somewhere better.”

“Consult your friend!” Aunt Margaret’s last words.

“Been having a cigar?”

“I’ve been hanging about here this last hour. How is it she hasn’t been for a walk?”

“Louie? Don’t know. Here, let’s go down under the cliff, and have a talk over a pipe.”

“The latter, if you like; never mind the former. Yes, I will; for I want a few words of a sort.”

“What about?” said Harry, as they strolled away.

“Everything. Look here, old fellow; we’ve been the best of chums ever since you shared my desk.”

“Yes, and you shared my allowance.”

“Well chums always do. Then I came down with you, and it was all as jolly as could be, and I was making way fast, in spite of that confounded red-headed porridge-eating fellow. Then came that upset, and I went away. Then you wrote to me in answer to my letter about having a good thing on, and said ‘Come down.’”

“And you came,” said Harry thoughtfully, “and the good thing turned out a bad thing, as every one does that I join in.”

“Well, that was an accident; speculators must have some crust as well as crumb.”

“But I get all crust.”

“No, I seem to be getting all crust now from your people. Your aunt’s right enough, but your father casts his cold shoulder and stale bread at me whenever we meet; and as for a certain lady, she regularly cut me yesterday.”

“Well, I can’t help that, Vic. You know what I said when you told me you were on that. I said that I couldn’t do anything, and that I wouldn’t do anything if I could; but that I wouldn’t stand in your way if you liked to try.”

“Yes, I know what you said,” grumbled Pradelle, as they strolled down to the shore, went round the rocks, and then strolled on over and amongst the shingle and sand, till—a suitable spot presenting itself, about half a mile from the town—they sat down on the soft sand, tilted their hats over their eyes, leaned their backs against a huge stone, and then lit up and began to smoke.

“You see it’s like this,” said Pradelle; “I know I’m not much of a catch, but I like her, and that ought to make up for a great deal.”

“Yes.”

“She don’t know her own mind, that’s about it,” continued Pradelle; “and a word from you might do a deal.”

“Got any money, Vic?”

“Now there’s a mean sort of a question to ask a friend! Have I got any money? As if a man must be made of money before he may look at his old chum’s sister.”

“I wasn’t thinking about her, but of something else,” said Harry hastily.

“Ah, well, I wasn’t; but look there!”

“What at?” said Harry, whose eyes were shut, and his thoughts far away.

“Them. They’re going for a walk. Why. Hal, old chap, they saw us come down here.”

Harry started into wakefulness, and realised the fact that his sister and Madelaine Van Heldre were passing before them, but down by the water’s edge.

“Let’s follow them,” said Pradelle eagerly.

“Wait a moment.”

Harry waited to think, and scraps of his aunt’s remarks floated through his brain respecting the fair daughters of France, who would fall at the feet of the young count.

Harry cogitated. The daughters of France were no doubt very lovely, but they were imaginative: and though Madelaine Van Heldre might, as his aunt said, not be of the pure Huguenot blood, still that fact did not seem to matter to him. For that was not imagination before him, but the bright, natural, clever girl whom he had known from childhood, his old playfellow, who had always seemed to supply a something wanting in his mental organisation, the girl who had led him and influenced his career.

“Bother Aunt Marguerite!” he said to himself, and then aloud, “Come along!”

Volume One—Chapter Six.Harry Vine Speaks Plainly; So does his Friend.Louise and Madelaine went on down by the water’s edge, in profound ignorance of the fact that they were followed at a distance of about a couple of hundred yards.The two friends female were then in profound ignorance of the fact that they were watched, so were the two friends male.For some time past the owner of the mine high up on the cliff had been a thoroughly energetic man of business, but after the first introduction to the Vine family his business energy seemed to receive an impetus. He was working for her, everything might be for her.Then came Pradelle upon the scene, and the young Scot was not long in seeing that the brother’s London friend was also impressed, and that his advances found favour with Harry. Whether they did with the sister he could not tell.The consequence was that there was a good deal of indecision on Duncan Leslie’s part, some neglect of his busy mine, and a good deal of use of a double glass, which was supposed to be kept in a room, half office, half study and laboratory, for the purpose of scanning the shipping coming into port.On the day in question the glass was being applied to a purpose rather reprehensible, perhaps, but with some excuse of helping Duncan Leslie’s affair of the heart. From his window he could see the old granite-built house, and with interruptions, due to rocks and doublings and jutting pieces of cliff, a great deal of the winding and zigzag path, half steps, which led down to the shore.As, then, was frequently the case, the glass was directed toward the residence of the Vines, and Duncan Leslie saw Louise and Madelaine go down to the sea, stand watching the receding tide, and then go off west.After gazing through the glass for a time he laid it down, with his heart beating faster than usual, as he debated within himself whether he should go down to the shore and follow them.It was a hard fight, and inclination was rapidly mastering etiquette, when two figures, hitherto concealed, came into view from beneath the cliff and began to follow the ladies.Duncan Leslie’s eyes flashed as he caught up the glass again, and after looking through it for a few minutes he closed it and threw it down.“I’m making a fool of myself,” he said bitterly. “Better attend to my business and think about it no more.”The desire was upon him to focus the glass again and watch what took place, but he turned away with an angry ejaculation and put the glass in its case.“I might have known better,” he said, “and it would be like playing the spy.”He strode out and went to his engine-house, forcing himself to take an interest in what was going on, and wishing the while that he had not used that glass in so reprehensible a way.Oddly enough, just at that moment Uncle Luke was seated outside the door of his little cottage in its niche of the cliff below the mine, and wishing for this very glass.His was a cottage of the roughest construction, which he had bought some years before of an old fisherman; and his seat—he could not afford chairs, he said—was a rough block of granite, upon which he was very fond of sunning himself when the weather was fine.“I’ve a good mind to go and ask Leslie to lend me his glass,” muttered the old man. “No. He’d only begin asking favours of me. But all that ought to be stopped. Wonder whether George knows. What’s Van Heldre about? As for those two girls, I’ll give them such a talking to—the gipsies! Bah! it’s no business of mine! I’m not going to marry.”“Yes, let’s sit down,” said Madelaine, turning round. “Oh!”“What is it? sprained your ankle?”“No. Mr Pradelle and Harry are close by.”“Let’s walk on quickly then, and go round back by the fields.”“But it will be six miles.”“Never mind if it’s sixteen,” said Louise, increasing her pace.“Hallo, girls,” cried Harry, and they were obliged to face round.There was no warm look of welcome from either, but Pradelle was too much of the London man of the world to be taken aback, and he stepped forward to Louise’s side, smiling.“You have chosen a delightful morning for your walk, Miss Vine.”“Yes, but we were just going back.”“No; don’t go back yet,” said Harry quickly, for he had strung himself up. “Vic, old fellow, walk on with my sister. I want to have a chat with Miss Van Heldre.”The girls exchanged glances, each seeming to ask the other for counsel.Then, in a quiet, decisive way, Madelaine spoke.“Yes, do, Louie dear; I wanted to speak to your brother, too.”There was another quick look passing between the friends, and then Louise bowed and walked on, Pradelle giving Harry a short nod which meant, according to his judgment, “It’s all right.”Louise was for keeping close to her companion, but her brother evidently intended her to have atête-à-têteencounter with his friend, and she realised directly that Madelaine did not second her efforts. In fact the latter yielded at once to Harry’s manoeuvres, and hung back with him, while Pradelle pressed forward, so that before many minutes had elapsed, the couples, as they walked west, were separated by a space of quite a couple of hundred yards.“Now I do call that good of you, Maddy,” said Harry eagerly. “You are, and you always were, a dear good little thing.”“Do you think so?” she said directly, and her pleasant bright face was now very grave.“Do I think so! You know I do. There, I want a good talk with you, dear. It’s time I spoke plainly, and that we fully understood one another.”“I thought we did, Harry.”“Well, yes, of course, but I want to be more plain. We’re no boy and girl now.”“No, Harry, we have grown up to be man and woman.”“Yes, and ever since we were boy and girl, Maddy, I’ve loved you very dearly.”Madelaine turned her clear searching eyes upon him in the most calm and untroubled way.“Yes, Harry, you have always seemed to.”“And you have always cared for me very much?”“Yes, Harry. Always.”“Well, don’t say it in such a cold, serious way, dear.”“But it is a matter upon which one is bound to be cool and very serious.”“Well, yes, of course. I don’t know that people are any the better for showing a lot of gush.”“No, Harry, it is not so deep as the liking which is calm and cool and enduring.”“I s’pose not,” said the young man very disconcertedly. “But don’t be quite so cool. I know you too well to think you would play with me.”“I hope I shall always be very sincere, Harry.”“Of course you will. I know you will. We began by being playmates—almost like brother and sister.”“Yes, Harry.”“But I always felt as I grew older that I should some day ask you to be my darling little wife; and, come now, you always thought so too?”“Yes, Harry, I always thought so too.”“Ah, that’s right, dear,” said the young man, flushing. “You always were the dearest and most honest and plain-spoken girl I ever met.”“I try to be.”“Of course; and look yonder, there’s old Pradelle, the dearest and best friend a fellow ever had, talking to Louie as I’m talking to you.”“Yes, I’m afraid he is.”“Afraid? Oh, come now, don’t be prejudiced. I want you to like Victor.”“That would be impossible.”“Impossible! What, the man who will most likely be Louie’s husband?”“Mr Pradelle will never be Louie’s husband.”“What! Why, how do you know?”“Because I know your sister’s heart too well.”“And you don’t like Pradelle?”“No, Harry; and I’m sorry you ever chose him for a companion.”“Oh, come, dear, that’s prejudice and a bit of jealousy. Well, never mind about that now. I want to talk about ourselves.”“Yes, Harry.”“I want you to promise to be my little wife. I’m four-and-twenty, and you are nearly twenty, so it’s quite time to talk about it.”Madelaine shook her head.“Oh, come!” he said merrily, “no girl’s coyness: we are too old friends for that, and understand one another too well. Come, dear, when is it to be?”She turned and looked in the handsome flushed face beside her, and then said in the most cool and matter-of-fact way:“It is too soon to talk like that, Harry.”“Too soon? Not a bit of it. You have told me that you will be my wife.”“Some day, perhaps.”“Oh, nonsense, dear! I’ve been thinking this all over well. You see, Maddy, you’ve let my not sticking to business trouble you.”“Yes, Harry, very much.”“Well, I’m very sorry, clear; and I suppose I have been a bit to blame, but I’ve been doing distasteful work, and I’ve been like a boat swinging about without an anchor. I want you to be my anchor to hold me fast. I’ve wanted something to steady me—something to work for; and if I’ve got you for a wife I shall be a different man directly.”Madelaine sighed.“Aunt Marguerite won’t like it, because she is not very fond of you.”“No,” said Madelaine, “she does not like fat Dutch frauleins—Dutch dolls.”“Get out! What stuff! She’s a prejudiced old woman full of fads. She never did like you.”“Never, Harry.”“Well, that doesn’t matter a bit.”“No. That does not matter a bit.”“You see I’ve had no end of thinks about all this, and it seems to me that if we’re married at once, it will settle all the worries and bothers I’ve had lately. The governor wants me to go to business again: but what’s the use of that? He’s rich, and so is your father, and they can easily supply us with all that we should want, and then we shall be as happy as can be. Of course I shall work at something. I don’t believe in a fellow with nothing to do. You don’t either?”“No, Harry.”“Of course not, but all that toiling and moiling for the sake of money is a mistake. Never mind what Aunt Marguerite says. I’ll soon work her round, and of course I can do what I like with the governor. He’s so fond of you that he’ll be delighted, and he knows it will do me good. So now there’s nothing to do but for me to go and see your father and ask his consent. I did think of letting you coax him round: but that would be cowardly, wouldn’t it?”“Yes, Harry, very cowardly, and lower you very much in my eyes.”“Of course: but, I say, don’t be so serious. Well, it’s a bitter pill to swallow, for your governor will be down on me tremendously. I’ll face him, though. I’ll talk about our love and all that sort of thing, and it will be all right. I’ll go to him to-day.”“No, Harry,” said Madelaine, looking him full in the face, “don’t do that.”“Why?”“Because it would expose you to a very severe rebuff.”“Will you speak to him then? No: I’ll do it.”“No. If you did my father would immediately speak to me, and I should have to tell him what I am going to tell you.”“Well? Out with it.”“Do you suppose,” said Madelaine, once more turning her clear frank eyes upon the young man, and speaking with a quiet decision that startled him; “do you suppose I could be so wanting in duty to those at home, so wanting in love to you, Harry, that I could consent to a marriage which would only mean fixing you permanently in your present thoughtless ways?”“Madelaine!”“Let me finish, Harry, and tell you what has been on my lips for months past. I am younger by several years than you, but do you think I am so wanting in worldly experience that I am blind to your reckless folly, or the pain you are giving father and sister by your acts?”“Why, Maddy,” he cried, in a voice full of vexation, which belied the mocking laugh upon his lips, “I didn’t think you could preach like that.”“It is time to preach, Harry, when I see you so lost to self-respect, and find that you are ready to place yourself and the girl you wish to call wife, in a dependent position, instead of proudly and manfully making yourself your own master.”“Well, this is pleasant! Am I to understand that you throw me over?”“No, Harry,” said Madelaine sadly, “you are to understand that I care for you too much to encourage you in a weak folly.”“A weak folly—to ask you what you have always expected I should, ask!”“Yes, to ask it at such a time when, after being placed in post after post by my father’s help, and losing them one by one by your folly, you—”“Oh, come, that will do,” cried the young man angrily; “if it’s to be like this it’s a good job that we came to an explanation at once. So this is gentle, amiable, sweet-tempered Madelaine, eh! Hallo! You!”He turned sharply. Louise and Pradelle had come over a stretch of sand with their footsteps inaudible.“It is quite time we returned, Madelaine,” said Louise gravely; and without another word the two girls walked away.“’Pon my word,” cried Harry with a laugh, “things are improving. Well, Vic, how did you get on?”“How did I get on indeed!” cried Pradelle angrily. “Look here, Harry Vine, are you playing square with me?”“What do you mean?”“What I say: are you honest, or have you been setting her against me?”“Why you—no, I won’t quarrel,” cried Harry. “What did she say to you?”“Say to me? I was never so snubbed in my life. Her ladyship doesn’t know me if she thinks I’m going to give up like that.”“There, that’ll do, Vic. No threats, please.”“Oh, no; I’m not going to threaten. I can wait.”“Yes,” said Harry, thoughtfully; “we chose the wrong time. We mustn’t give up, Vic; we shall have to wait.”And they went back to their old nook beneath the cliff to smoke their pipes, while as the thin blue vapour arose Harry’s hot anger grew cool, and he began to think of his aunt’s words, of Comte Henri des Vignes, and of the fair daughters of France—a reverie from which he was aroused by his companion, as he said suddenly—“I say, Harry, lad, I want you to lend me a little coin.”

Louise and Madelaine went on down by the water’s edge, in profound ignorance of the fact that they were followed at a distance of about a couple of hundred yards.

The two friends female were then in profound ignorance of the fact that they were watched, so were the two friends male.

For some time past the owner of the mine high up on the cliff had been a thoroughly energetic man of business, but after the first introduction to the Vine family his business energy seemed to receive an impetus. He was working for her, everything might be for her.

Then came Pradelle upon the scene, and the young Scot was not long in seeing that the brother’s London friend was also impressed, and that his advances found favour with Harry. Whether they did with the sister he could not tell.

The consequence was that there was a good deal of indecision on Duncan Leslie’s part, some neglect of his busy mine, and a good deal of use of a double glass, which was supposed to be kept in a room, half office, half study and laboratory, for the purpose of scanning the shipping coming into port.

On the day in question the glass was being applied to a purpose rather reprehensible, perhaps, but with some excuse of helping Duncan Leslie’s affair of the heart. From his window he could see the old granite-built house, and with interruptions, due to rocks and doublings and jutting pieces of cliff, a great deal of the winding and zigzag path, half steps, which led down to the shore.

As, then, was frequently the case, the glass was directed toward the residence of the Vines, and Duncan Leslie saw Louise and Madelaine go down to the sea, stand watching the receding tide, and then go off west.

After gazing through the glass for a time he laid it down, with his heart beating faster than usual, as he debated within himself whether he should go down to the shore and follow them.

It was a hard fight, and inclination was rapidly mastering etiquette, when two figures, hitherto concealed, came into view from beneath the cliff and began to follow the ladies.

Duncan Leslie’s eyes flashed as he caught up the glass again, and after looking through it for a few minutes he closed it and threw it down.

“I’m making a fool of myself,” he said bitterly. “Better attend to my business and think about it no more.”

The desire was upon him to focus the glass again and watch what took place, but he turned away with an angry ejaculation and put the glass in its case.

“I might have known better,” he said, “and it would be like playing the spy.”

He strode out and went to his engine-house, forcing himself to take an interest in what was going on, and wishing the while that he had not used that glass in so reprehensible a way.

Oddly enough, just at that moment Uncle Luke was seated outside the door of his little cottage in its niche of the cliff below the mine, and wishing for this very glass.

His was a cottage of the roughest construction, which he had bought some years before of an old fisherman; and his seat—he could not afford chairs, he said—was a rough block of granite, upon which he was very fond of sunning himself when the weather was fine.

“I’ve a good mind to go and ask Leslie to lend me his glass,” muttered the old man. “No. He’d only begin asking favours of me. But all that ought to be stopped. Wonder whether George knows. What’s Van Heldre about? As for those two girls, I’ll give them such a talking to—the gipsies! Bah! it’s no business of mine! I’m not going to marry.”

“Yes, let’s sit down,” said Madelaine, turning round. “Oh!”

“What is it? sprained your ankle?”

“No. Mr Pradelle and Harry are close by.”

“Let’s walk on quickly then, and go round back by the fields.”

“But it will be six miles.”

“Never mind if it’s sixteen,” said Louise, increasing her pace.

“Hallo, girls,” cried Harry, and they were obliged to face round.

There was no warm look of welcome from either, but Pradelle was too much of the London man of the world to be taken aback, and he stepped forward to Louise’s side, smiling.

“You have chosen a delightful morning for your walk, Miss Vine.”

“Yes, but we were just going back.”

“No; don’t go back yet,” said Harry quickly, for he had strung himself up. “Vic, old fellow, walk on with my sister. I want to have a chat with Miss Van Heldre.”

The girls exchanged glances, each seeming to ask the other for counsel.

Then, in a quiet, decisive way, Madelaine spoke.

“Yes, do, Louie dear; I wanted to speak to your brother, too.”

There was another quick look passing between the friends, and then Louise bowed and walked on, Pradelle giving Harry a short nod which meant, according to his judgment, “It’s all right.”

Louise was for keeping close to her companion, but her brother evidently intended her to have atête-à-têteencounter with his friend, and she realised directly that Madelaine did not second her efforts. In fact the latter yielded at once to Harry’s manoeuvres, and hung back with him, while Pradelle pressed forward, so that before many minutes had elapsed, the couples, as they walked west, were separated by a space of quite a couple of hundred yards.

“Now I do call that good of you, Maddy,” said Harry eagerly. “You are, and you always were, a dear good little thing.”

“Do you think so?” she said directly, and her pleasant bright face was now very grave.

“Do I think so! You know I do. There, I want a good talk with you, dear. It’s time I spoke plainly, and that we fully understood one another.”

“I thought we did, Harry.”

“Well, yes, of course, but I want to be more plain. We’re no boy and girl now.”

“No, Harry, we have grown up to be man and woman.”

“Yes, and ever since we were boy and girl, Maddy, I’ve loved you very dearly.”

Madelaine turned her clear searching eyes upon him in the most calm and untroubled way.

“Yes, Harry, you have always seemed to.”

“And you have always cared for me very much?”

“Yes, Harry. Always.”

“Well, don’t say it in such a cold, serious way, dear.”

“But it is a matter upon which one is bound to be cool and very serious.”

“Well, yes, of course. I don’t know that people are any the better for showing a lot of gush.”

“No, Harry, it is not so deep as the liking which is calm and cool and enduring.”

“I s’pose not,” said the young man very disconcertedly. “But don’t be quite so cool. I know you too well to think you would play with me.”

“I hope I shall always be very sincere, Harry.”

“Of course you will. I know you will. We began by being playmates—almost like brother and sister.”

“Yes, Harry.”

“But I always felt as I grew older that I should some day ask you to be my darling little wife; and, come now, you always thought so too?”

“Yes, Harry, I always thought so too.”

“Ah, that’s right, dear,” said the young man, flushing. “You always were the dearest and most honest and plain-spoken girl I ever met.”

“I try to be.”

“Of course; and look yonder, there’s old Pradelle, the dearest and best friend a fellow ever had, talking to Louie as I’m talking to you.”

“Yes, I’m afraid he is.”

“Afraid? Oh, come now, don’t be prejudiced. I want you to like Victor.”

“That would be impossible.”

“Impossible! What, the man who will most likely be Louie’s husband?”

“Mr Pradelle will never be Louie’s husband.”

“What! Why, how do you know?”

“Because I know your sister’s heart too well.”

“And you don’t like Pradelle?”

“No, Harry; and I’m sorry you ever chose him for a companion.”

“Oh, come, dear, that’s prejudice and a bit of jealousy. Well, never mind about that now. I want to talk about ourselves.”

“Yes, Harry.”

“I want you to promise to be my little wife. I’m four-and-twenty, and you are nearly twenty, so it’s quite time to talk about it.”

Madelaine shook her head.

“Oh, come!” he said merrily, “no girl’s coyness: we are too old friends for that, and understand one another too well. Come, dear, when is it to be?”

She turned and looked in the handsome flushed face beside her, and then said in the most cool and matter-of-fact way:

“It is too soon to talk like that, Harry.”

“Too soon? Not a bit of it. You have told me that you will be my wife.”

“Some day, perhaps.”

“Oh, nonsense, dear! I’ve been thinking this all over well. You see, Maddy, you’ve let my not sticking to business trouble you.”

“Yes, Harry, very much.”

“Well, I’m very sorry, clear; and I suppose I have been a bit to blame, but I’ve been doing distasteful work, and I’ve been like a boat swinging about without an anchor. I want you to be my anchor to hold me fast. I’ve wanted something to steady me—something to work for; and if I’ve got you for a wife I shall be a different man directly.”

Madelaine sighed.

“Aunt Marguerite won’t like it, because she is not very fond of you.”

“No,” said Madelaine, “she does not like fat Dutch frauleins—Dutch dolls.”

“Get out! What stuff! She’s a prejudiced old woman full of fads. She never did like you.”

“Never, Harry.”

“Well, that doesn’t matter a bit.”

“No. That does not matter a bit.”

“You see I’ve had no end of thinks about all this, and it seems to me that if we’re married at once, it will settle all the worries and bothers I’ve had lately. The governor wants me to go to business again: but what’s the use of that? He’s rich, and so is your father, and they can easily supply us with all that we should want, and then we shall be as happy as can be. Of course I shall work at something. I don’t believe in a fellow with nothing to do. You don’t either?”

“No, Harry.”

“Of course not, but all that toiling and moiling for the sake of money is a mistake. Never mind what Aunt Marguerite says. I’ll soon work her round, and of course I can do what I like with the governor. He’s so fond of you that he’ll be delighted, and he knows it will do me good. So now there’s nothing to do but for me to go and see your father and ask his consent. I did think of letting you coax him round: but that would be cowardly, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, Harry, very cowardly, and lower you very much in my eyes.”

“Of course: but, I say, don’t be so serious. Well, it’s a bitter pill to swallow, for your governor will be down on me tremendously. I’ll face him, though. I’ll talk about our love and all that sort of thing, and it will be all right. I’ll go to him to-day.”

“No, Harry,” said Madelaine, looking him full in the face, “don’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Because it would expose you to a very severe rebuff.”

“Will you speak to him then? No: I’ll do it.”

“No. If you did my father would immediately speak to me, and I should have to tell him what I am going to tell you.”

“Well? Out with it.”

“Do you suppose,” said Madelaine, once more turning her clear frank eyes upon the young man, and speaking with a quiet decision that startled him; “do you suppose I could be so wanting in duty to those at home, so wanting in love to you, Harry, that I could consent to a marriage which would only mean fixing you permanently in your present thoughtless ways?”

“Madelaine!”

“Let me finish, Harry, and tell you what has been on my lips for months past. I am younger by several years than you, but do you think I am so wanting in worldly experience that I am blind to your reckless folly, or the pain you are giving father and sister by your acts?”

“Why, Maddy,” he cried, in a voice full of vexation, which belied the mocking laugh upon his lips, “I didn’t think you could preach like that.”

“It is time to preach, Harry, when I see you so lost to self-respect, and find that you are ready to place yourself and the girl you wish to call wife, in a dependent position, instead of proudly and manfully making yourself your own master.”

“Well, this is pleasant! Am I to understand that you throw me over?”

“No, Harry,” said Madelaine sadly, “you are to understand that I care for you too much to encourage you in a weak folly.”

“A weak folly—to ask you what you have always expected I should, ask!”

“Yes, to ask it at such a time when, after being placed in post after post by my father’s help, and losing them one by one by your folly, you—”

“Oh, come, that will do,” cried the young man angrily; “if it’s to be like this it’s a good job that we came to an explanation at once. So this is gentle, amiable, sweet-tempered Madelaine, eh! Hallo! You!”

He turned sharply. Louise and Pradelle had come over a stretch of sand with their footsteps inaudible.

“It is quite time we returned, Madelaine,” said Louise gravely; and without another word the two girls walked away.

“’Pon my word,” cried Harry with a laugh, “things are improving. Well, Vic, how did you get on?”

“How did I get on indeed!” cried Pradelle angrily. “Look here, Harry Vine, are you playing square with me?”

“What do you mean?”

“What I say: are you honest, or have you been setting her against me?”

“Why you—no, I won’t quarrel,” cried Harry. “What did she say to you?”

“Say to me? I was never so snubbed in my life. Her ladyship doesn’t know me if she thinks I’m going to give up like that.”

“There, that’ll do, Vic. No threats, please.”

“Oh, no; I’m not going to threaten. I can wait.”

“Yes,” said Harry, thoughtfully; “we chose the wrong time. We mustn’t give up, Vic; we shall have to wait.”

And they went back to their old nook beneath the cliff to smoke their pipes, while as the thin blue vapour arose Harry’s hot anger grew cool, and he began to think of his aunt’s words, of Comte Henri des Vignes, and of the fair daughters of France—a reverie from which he was aroused by his companion, as he said suddenly—

“I say, Harry, lad, I want you to lend me a little coin.”

Volume One—Chapter Seven.Chez Van Heldre.The two friends parted at the gate, Madelaine refusing to go in.“No,” she said; “they will be expecting me at home.”“Maddy dear, ought we not to confide in each other?”“Ah!” exclaimed Madelaine, with a sigh of relief that the constraint was over. “Yes, dear. Did Mr Pradelle propose to you?”“Yes.”“And you told him it was impossible?”“Yes. What did my brother want to say?”“That we ought to be married now, and it would make him a better man.”“And you told him it was impossible?”“Yes.”There was another sigh as if of relief on both sides, and the two girls kissed again and parted.It was a brisk quarter of an hour’s walk to the Van Heldres’, which lay at the end of the main street up the valley down which the little river ran; and on entering the door, with a longing upon her to go at once to her room and sit down and cry, Madelaine uttered a sigh full of misery, for she saw that it was impossible.As she approached the great stone porch leading into the broad hall, which was one of the most attractive-looking places in the house, filled as it was with curiosities and other objects brought by the various captains from the Mediterranean, and embracing cabinets from Constantinople with rugs and pipes, little terra-cotta figures from Sardinia, and pictures and pieces of statuary from Rome, Naples, and Trieste, she was saluted with—“Ah, my dear, I’m so glad you’ve come back. Where’s papa?”“I have not seen him, mamma.”“Busy, I suppose. How he does work!” Then suddenly, “By the way, that Mr Pradelle. I don’t like him, my dear.”“Neither do I, mamma.”“That’s right, my dear; I’m very glad to hear you say so; but surely Louie Vine is not going to be beguiled by him?”“Oh no.”“All, that’s all very well; but Luke Vine came in as he went by, to say in his sneering fashion that Louie and Mr Pradelle were down on the shore, and that you were walking some distance behind with Harry.”“Mr Luke Vine seems to have plenty of time for watching his neighbours,” said Madelaine contemptuously.“Yes; he is always noticing things; but don’t blame him, dear. I’m sure he means well, and I can forgive him anything for that. Here’s your father.”“Ah! my dears,” said Van Heldre cheerily. “Tired out.”“You must be,” said Mrs Van Heldre, bustling about him to take his hat and gloves.“Here, do come and sit down.”The merchant went into the drawing-room very readily, and submitted to several little pleasant attentions from wife and daughter.Evening came on with Van Heldre seated in his easy-chair, thoughtfully watching wife and daughter; both of whom had work in their laps; but Mrs Van Heldre’s was all a pretence, for, after a few stitches, her head began to nod forward, then back against the cushion, and then, as if by magic, she was fast asleep.Madelaine’s needle, however, flew fast, and she went on working, with her father watching her attentively, till she raised her eyes.“You want to say something to me, Maddy,” he said in a low voice.“Yes, papa.”“About your walk down on the beach?”Madelaine nodded.“You know I went.”“Yes; I saw you, and Luke Vine came and told me as well.”“It was very kind of him,” said Madelaine, with a touch of sarcasm in her voice.“Kind and unkind, my dear. You see he has no business—nothing to do but to think of other people. But he means well, my dear, and he likes you.”“I have often thought so.”“Yes; and you were right. He warned me that I was not to let your intimacy grow closer with his nephew.”“Indeed, papa!”“Yes, my dear. He said that I was a—well, I will not tell you what, for not stopping it directly, for that Harry was rapidly drifting into a bad course—that it was a hopeless case.”“That is not the way to redeem him, father.”“No, my clear, it is not. But you were going to say something to me?”“Yes,” said Madelaine, hesitating. Then putting down her work she rose and went to her father’s side, knelt down, and resting her arms upon his knees, looked straight up in his face.“Well, Maddy?”“I wanted to speak to you about Harry.” There was a slight twitching about the merchant’s brows, but his face was calm directly, and he said coolly—“What about Harry Vine?” Madelaine hesitated for a few moments, and then spoke out firmly and bravely.“I have been thinking about his position, father, and of how sad it is for him to be wasting his days as he is down here.”“Very sad, Maddy. He is, as Luke Vine says, going wrong. Well?”“I have been thinking, papa, that you might take him into your office and give him a chance of redeeming the past.”“Nice suggestion, my dear. What would old Crampton say?”“Mr Crampton could only say that you had done a very kind act for the son of your old friend.”“Humph! Well?”“You could easily arrange to take him, papa, and with your firm hand over him it would do an immense deal of good.”“Not to me.”There was a pause, and Van Heldre gazed into his child’s unblenching eyes.“So we are coming at facts,” he said at last. “Harry asked you to interfere on his behalf?”Madelaine shook her head and smiled.“Is this your own idea?”“Entirely.”“Then what was the meaning of the walk on the beach to-day?”“Harry sought for it, and said that we had been playfellows from children, that he loved me very dearly, and he asked me to be his wife.”“The—”Van Heldre checked himself.“And what did you say?”“That it was impossible.”“Then you do not care for him?”Madelaine was silent.“Then you do not care for him?”“I’m afraid I care for him very much indeed,” said Madelaine firmly.“Let me thoroughly understand you, my darling. You love George Vine’s son—your old friend’s brother?”“Yes, father,” said Madelaine, in a voice little above a whisper.“And he has asked you to be his wife?”“Yes.”“Tell me what answer you gave him.”“That I would never marry a man so wanting in self-respect.”“Hah!”“He said that our parents were rich, that there was no need for him to toil as he had done, but that if I consented it would give him an impetus to work.”“And you declined conditionally?”“I declined absolutely, father.”“And yet you love him?”“I’m afraid I love him very dearly.”“You are a strange girl, Madelaine.”“Yes, father.”“Do you know what it means for me to take this fellow into my office?”“Much trouble and care.”“Yes. Then why should I?”“Because, as you have so often taught me, we cannot live for ourselves alone. Because he is the son of your very old friend.”“Yes,” said Van Heldre softly.“Because it might save him from a downward course now that there is, I believe, a crisis in his life.”“And because you love him, Maddy?”She answered with a look.“And if I were so insane, so quixotic, as to do all this, what guarantee have I that he would not gradually lead you to think differently—to consent to be his wife before he had redeemed his character?”“The trust you have in me.”“Hah!” ejaculated Van Heldre again. And there was another long silence.“I feel that I must plead for him, father. You could influence him so much.”“I’m afraid not, my child. If he has not the manliness to do what is right for your sake, anything I could do or say would not be of much avail.”“You underrate your power, father,” said Madelaine, with a look full of pride in him.“And if I did this I might have absolute confidence that matters should go no farther until he had completely changed?”“You know you might.”“Hah!” sighed Van Heldre.“You will think this over, father?”“There is no need, my dear.”“No need?”“No, my child. I have for some days past been thinking over this very thing, just in the light in which you placed it.”“You have?”“Yes, and I had a long talk with George Vine this afternoon respecting his son.”“Oh, father!”“I told him I could see that the trouble was growing bigger and telling upon him, and proposed that I should take Harry here.”Madelaine had started to her feet.“Presuming that he does not refuse after his father has made my proposals known, Harry Vine comes here daily to work.”Madelaine’s arms were round her father’s neck.“You have made me feel very happy and satisfied, my dear, and may Heaven speed what is going to be a very arduous task.”Just then Mrs Van Heldre raised her head and looked round.“Bless my heart!” she exclaimed. “I do believe I have nearly been to sleep.”

The two friends parted at the gate, Madelaine refusing to go in.

“No,” she said; “they will be expecting me at home.”

“Maddy dear, ought we not to confide in each other?”

“Ah!” exclaimed Madelaine, with a sigh of relief that the constraint was over. “Yes, dear. Did Mr Pradelle propose to you?”

“Yes.”

“And you told him it was impossible?”

“Yes. What did my brother want to say?”

“That we ought to be married now, and it would make him a better man.”

“And you told him it was impossible?”

“Yes.”

There was another sigh as if of relief on both sides, and the two girls kissed again and parted.

It was a brisk quarter of an hour’s walk to the Van Heldres’, which lay at the end of the main street up the valley down which the little river ran; and on entering the door, with a longing upon her to go at once to her room and sit down and cry, Madelaine uttered a sigh full of misery, for she saw that it was impossible.

As she approached the great stone porch leading into the broad hall, which was one of the most attractive-looking places in the house, filled as it was with curiosities and other objects brought by the various captains from the Mediterranean, and embracing cabinets from Constantinople with rugs and pipes, little terra-cotta figures from Sardinia, and pictures and pieces of statuary from Rome, Naples, and Trieste, she was saluted with—

“Ah, my dear, I’m so glad you’ve come back. Where’s papa?”

“I have not seen him, mamma.”

“Busy, I suppose. How he does work!” Then suddenly, “By the way, that Mr Pradelle. I don’t like him, my dear.”

“Neither do I, mamma.”

“That’s right, my dear; I’m very glad to hear you say so; but surely Louie Vine is not going to be beguiled by him?”

“Oh no.”

“All, that’s all very well; but Luke Vine came in as he went by, to say in his sneering fashion that Louie and Mr Pradelle were down on the shore, and that you were walking some distance behind with Harry.”

“Mr Luke Vine seems to have plenty of time for watching his neighbours,” said Madelaine contemptuously.

“Yes; he is always noticing things; but don’t blame him, dear. I’m sure he means well, and I can forgive him anything for that. Here’s your father.”

“Ah! my dears,” said Van Heldre cheerily. “Tired out.”

“You must be,” said Mrs Van Heldre, bustling about him to take his hat and gloves.

“Here, do come and sit down.”

The merchant went into the drawing-room very readily, and submitted to several little pleasant attentions from wife and daughter.

Evening came on with Van Heldre seated in his easy-chair, thoughtfully watching wife and daughter; both of whom had work in their laps; but Mrs Van Heldre’s was all a pretence, for, after a few stitches, her head began to nod forward, then back against the cushion, and then, as if by magic, she was fast asleep.

Madelaine’s needle, however, flew fast, and she went on working, with her father watching her attentively, till she raised her eyes.

“You want to say something to me, Maddy,” he said in a low voice.

“Yes, papa.”

“About your walk down on the beach?”

Madelaine nodded.

“You know I went.”

“Yes; I saw you, and Luke Vine came and told me as well.”

“It was very kind of him,” said Madelaine, with a touch of sarcasm in her voice.

“Kind and unkind, my dear. You see he has no business—nothing to do but to think of other people. But he means well, my dear, and he likes you.”

“I have often thought so.”

“Yes; and you were right. He warned me that I was not to let your intimacy grow closer with his nephew.”

“Indeed, papa!”

“Yes, my dear. He said that I was a—well, I will not tell you what, for not stopping it directly, for that Harry was rapidly drifting into a bad course—that it was a hopeless case.”

“That is not the way to redeem him, father.”

“No, my clear, it is not. But you were going to say something to me?”

“Yes,” said Madelaine, hesitating. Then putting down her work she rose and went to her father’s side, knelt down, and resting her arms upon his knees, looked straight up in his face.

“Well, Maddy?”

“I wanted to speak to you about Harry.” There was a slight twitching about the merchant’s brows, but his face was calm directly, and he said coolly—

“What about Harry Vine?” Madelaine hesitated for a few moments, and then spoke out firmly and bravely.

“I have been thinking about his position, father, and of how sad it is for him to be wasting his days as he is down here.”

“Very sad, Maddy. He is, as Luke Vine says, going wrong. Well?”

“I have been thinking, papa, that you might take him into your office and give him a chance of redeeming the past.”

“Nice suggestion, my dear. What would old Crampton say?”

“Mr Crampton could only say that you had done a very kind act for the son of your old friend.”

“Humph! Well?”

“You could easily arrange to take him, papa, and with your firm hand over him it would do an immense deal of good.”

“Not to me.”

There was a pause, and Van Heldre gazed into his child’s unblenching eyes.

“So we are coming at facts,” he said at last. “Harry asked you to interfere on his behalf?”

Madelaine shook her head and smiled.

“Is this your own idea?”

“Entirely.”

“Then what was the meaning of the walk on the beach to-day?”

“Harry sought for it, and said that we had been playfellows from children, that he loved me very dearly, and he asked me to be his wife.”

“The—”

Van Heldre checked himself.

“And what did you say?”

“That it was impossible.”

“Then you do not care for him?”

Madelaine was silent.

“Then you do not care for him?”

“I’m afraid I care for him very much indeed,” said Madelaine firmly.

“Let me thoroughly understand you, my darling. You love George Vine’s son—your old friend’s brother?”

“Yes, father,” said Madelaine, in a voice little above a whisper.

“And he has asked you to be his wife?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what answer you gave him.”

“That I would never marry a man so wanting in self-respect.”

“Hah!”

“He said that our parents were rich, that there was no need for him to toil as he had done, but that if I consented it would give him an impetus to work.”

“And you declined conditionally?”

“I declined absolutely, father.”

“And yet you love him?”

“I’m afraid I love him very dearly.”

“You are a strange girl, Madelaine.”

“Yes, father.”

“Do you know what it means for me to take this fellow into my office?”

“Much trouble and care.”

“Yes. Then why should I?”

“Because, as you have so often taught me, we cannot live for ourselves alone. Because he is the son of your very old friend.”

“Yes,” said Van Heldre softly.

“Because it might save him from a downward course now that there is, I believe, a crisis in his life.”

“And because you love him, Maddy?”

She answered with a look.

“And if I were so insane, so quixotic, as to do all this, what guarantee have I that he would not gradually lead you to think differently—to consent to be his wife before he had redeemed his character?”

“The trust you have in me.”

“Hah!” ejaculated Van Heldre again. And there was another long silence.

“I feel that I must plead for him, father. You could influence him so much.”

“I’m afraid not, my child. If he has not the manliness to do what is right for your sake, anything I could do or say would not be of much avail.”

“You underrate your power, father,” said Madelaine, with a look full of pride in him.

“And if I did this I might have absolute confidence that matters should go no farther until he had completely changed?”

“You know you might.”

“Hah!” sighed Van Heldre.

“You will think this over, father?”

“There is no need, my dear.”

“No need?”

“No, my child. I have for some days past been thinking over this very thing, just in the light in which you placed it.”

“You have?”

“Yes, and I had a long talk with George Vine this afternoon respecting his son.”

“Oh, father!”

“I told him I could see that the trouble was growing bigger and telling upon him, and proposed that I should take Harry here.”

Madelaine had started to her feet.

“Presuming that he does not refuse after his father has made my proposals known, Harry Vine comes here daily to work.”

Madelaine’s arms were round her father’s neck.

“You have made me feel very happy and satisfied, my dear, and may Heaven speed what is going to be a very arduous task.”

Just then Mrs Van Heldre raised her head and looked round.

“Bless my heart!” she exclaimed. “I do believe I have nearly been to sleep.”

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