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.”They kissed, and then stood holding one another’s hands, both wanting to relieve their full hearts, but dreading to begin. Hardly a word had been spoken on their way back, and such words as had been said were upon indifferent subjects.But now the moment for parting had come, and they gazed wistfully in each other’s eyes.Louise was the first to break the painful since.“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 Heldre’s, 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—there was the sound of music, but such music as might be expected from a tiny bird organ, whose handle Mrs Van Heldre was turning as she gazed wistfully up at a bullfinch, whose black cap was set on one side, and little beady eyes gazed down from the first one and then the other side of their owner’s little black stumpy beak, which it every now and then used to ruffle the delicate red feathers of its breast or the soft grey blue of its back.The notes that came from the little box-like instrument—a very baby of an organ—as Mrs Van Heldre turned, were feeble in the extreme, but there was a method in the machine which piped forth most irregularly and in the most feeble way the quaint old French air “Ma Normandie;” and as Madelaine heard it, her broad white forehead grew perplexed and a thrill of misery and discomfort ran through her.“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! But do look, dear, at this tiresome bird. He’ll never learn to pipe.”“Not with patience, mamma? I think so.”“I don’t, Maddy. It seems to take more patience than I’ve got. It’s worse than trying to teach that parrot. It never would learn the words you wanted it to.”“Is it worth the trouble, mamma, dear?”“No, my dear, I don’t think it is; but I seemed to fancy that I should like to have a piping bullfinch. Every body has some fancy, dear; and I’m sure mine’s better than Margaret Vine’s for aristocratic connections. Ah! how cross that woman does make me feel.”“She is rather irritating,” said Madelaine, holding the tip of a white finger between the bars of the cage.“Irritating?” said the plump little woman flushing; “I call her maddening. The life she leads that poor patient man! dictating as she does, and worrying him about the French estates and the family name, while George Vine is so patient that—”“He would succeed in teaching a bullfinch to pipe, mamma.”“Ah, now you’re laughing at me, and thinking me weak; but it’s better to have my weakness than hers. Only fancy: ever since she formed that mad, foolish attachment for that French scoundrel, who coaxed the whole of her money away from her and then threw her over, has George Vine taken her to his home and let her tyrannise over him. A silly woman! Your father always said the man was a scamp. And, 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.”“Ah, 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. Ah! 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, as he asked questions about the bullfinch, laughing slily the while at Madelaine.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, let her hands rest in her lap, and returned his gaze with a frank, calm look of love and trust that made him nod his head in a satisfied way.“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 dear, 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 Vine.”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 during which 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?” cried Van Heldre eagerly.Madelaine was silent.“Then you do not care for him?” said Van Heldre again.“I’m afraid I care for him very much indeed, father,” said Madelaine firmly; “and it grieves me so to see him drifting away that I determined to ask you to come to his help.”“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?”“In brief, that I would never marry a man so wanting in self-respect and independence as he has shown himself to be.”“Hah!”It was a softly-uttered ejaculation, full of content.“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, father.”“You are a strange girl, Madelaine.”“Yes, father.”“Do you know what it means for me to take this wilful young fellow into my office?”“Much trouble and care.”“Yes. Then why should I at my time of life fill my brain with worry and care?”“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 that I should not do anything you did not consider right.”“Hah!” ejaculated Van Heldre again. And there was another long silence.“I feel that I must plead for him, father. It would be the turning-point of his life. 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, I’m afraid that 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, father?”“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 under Crampton’s guidance.” Madelaine’s arms were round her father’s neck.“You have made me feel very happy and satisfied, my dear,” said Van Heldre, pressing her to his breast; “and may heaven speed what is going to be a very arduous task. He will commence in the office next week.”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.”
They kissed, and then stood holding one another’s hands, both wanting to relieve their full hearts, but dreading to begin. Hardly a word had been spoken on their way back, and such words as had been said were upon indifferent subjects.
But now the moment for parting had come, and they gazed wistfully in each other’s eyes.
Louise was the first to break the painful since.
“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 Heldre’s, 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—there was the sound of music, but such music as might be expected from a tiny bird organ, whose handle Mrs Van Heldre was turning as she gazed wistfully up at a bullfinch, whose black cap was set on one side, and little beady eyes gazed down from the first one and then the other side of their owner’s little black stumpy beak, which it every now and then used to ruffle the delicate red feathers of its breast or the soft grey blue of its back.
The notes that came from the little box-like instrument—a very baby of an organ—as Mrs Van Heldre turned, were feeble in the extreme, but there was a method in the machine which piped forth most irregularly and in the most feeble way the quaint old French air “Ma Normandie;” and as Madelaine heard it, her broad white forehead grew perplexed and a thrill of misery and discomfort ran through her.
“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! But do look, dear, at this tiresome bird. He’ll never learn to pipe.”
“Not with patience, mamma? I think so.”
“I don’t, Maddy. It seems to take more patience than I’ve got. It’s worse than trying to teach that parrot. It never would learn the words you wanted it to.”
“Is it worth the trouble, mamma, dear?”
“No, my dear, I don’t think it is; but I seemed to fancy that I should like to have a piping bullfinch. Every body has some fancy, dear; and I’m sure mine’s better than Margaret Vine’s for aristocratic connections. Ah! how cross that woman does make me feel.”
“She is rather irritating,” said Madelaine, holding the tip of a white finger between the bars of the cage.
“Irritating?” said the plump little woman flushing; “I call her maddening. The life she leads that poor patient man! dictating as she does, and worrying him about the French estates and the family name, while George Vine is so patient that—”
“He would succeed in teaching a bullfinch to pipe, mamma.”
“Ah, now you’re laughing at me, and thinking me weak; but it’s better to have my weakness than hers. Only fancy: ever since she formed that mad, foolish attachment for that French scoundrel, who coaxed the whole of her money away from her and then threw her over, has George Vine taken her to his home and let her tyrannise over him. A silly woman! Your father always said the man was a scamp. And, 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.”
“Ah, 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. Ah! 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, as he asked questions about the bullfinch, laughing slily the while at Madelaine.
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, let her hands rest in her lap, and returned his gaze with a frank, calm look of love and trust that made him nod his head in a satisfied way.
“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 dear, 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 Vine.”
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 during which 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?” cried Van Heldre eagerly.
Madelaine was silent.
“Then you do not care for him?” said Van Heldre again.
“I’m afraid I care for him very much indeed, father,” said Madelaine firmly; “and it grieves me so to see him drifting away that I determined to ask you to come to his help.”
“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?”
“In brief, that I would never marry a man so wanting in self-respect and independence as he has shown himself to be.”
“Hah!”
It was a softly-uttered ejaculation, full of content.
“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, father.”
“You are a strange girl, Madelaine.”
“Yes, father.”
“Do you know what it means for me to take this wilful young fellow into my office?”
“Much trouble and care.”
“Yes. Then why should I at my time of life fill my brain with worry and care?”
“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 that I should not do anything you did not consider right.”
“Hah!” ejaculated Van Heldre again. And there was another long silence.
“I feel that I must plead for him, father. It would be the turning-point of his life. 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, I’m afraid that 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, father?”
“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 under Crampton’s guidance.” Madelaine’s arms were round her father’s neck.
“You have made me feel very happy and satisfied, my dear,” said Van Heldre, pressing her to his breast; “and may heaven speed what is going to be a very arduous task. He will commence in the office next week.”
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.”
Chapter Eight.Uncle Luke Speaks His Mind.“Hallo, Scotchman!”“Hallo, Eng— I mean, French—What am I to call you Mr Luke Vine?”“Englishman, of course.”Uncle Luke was seated, in a very shabby-looking grey aged Norfolk jacket made long, a garment which suited his tastes, from its being an easy comfortable article of attire. He had on an old Panama hat, a good deal stained, and a thick stick armed with a strong iron point useful for walking among the rocks; and upon this staff he rested as he sat outside his cottage door watching the sea and pondering as to the probability of a shoal of fish being off the point.His home with its tiny scrap of rough walled-in garden, which grew nothing but sea holly and tamarisk, was desolate looking in the extreme, but the view therefrom of the half-natural pier sheltering the vessels in the harbour of the twin town, with its busy wharves and warehouses and residences, rising in terrace above terrace, and of the blue, ever-changing sea, was glorious.He had had his breakfast and taken his seat out in the sunshine, when he became aware of the fact that Duncan Leslie was coming down from the mine buildings above, and he hailed him with a snarl and the above words.“Glorious morning.”“Humph! Yes,” said the old man, looking up at the handsome young mine-owner with his face all in lines, “but what’s that got to do with you?”“Everything. Do you suppose I don’t like fine weather?”“I thought you didn’t care for anything but money grubbing.”“Then you were mistaken, because I do.”“Nonsense! You think of nothing but copper, spoiling the face of nature with the broken rubbish your men dig out of the bowels of the earth, poisoning the air with the fumes of those abominable furnaces. Look at that!”The old man raised his stick and made a vicious dig with it in the direction of the mine.“Look at what?”“That shaft. Looks like some huge worm that your men disturbed down below, and sent it crawling along the hill slope till it could rear its abominable head in the air and look which way to go to be at rest.”“What an idea! It isn’t pretty looking. I must say.”“Pretty looking! No. Why do you have it then?”“It was there when I bought the mine, and it answers its purpose.”“Bah! What purpose? To make money?”“Yes; to make money. Very useful thing, Mr Leslie.”“Rubbish! You’re as bad as Van Heldre with his ships and his smelting works. Money! Money! Money! Always money, morning, noon and night. One constant hunt for the accursed stuff. Look at me!”“I was looking at you, old fellow; and studying you.”“Humph! Waste of time, unless you follow my example.”“Then it will be waste of time, sir, for I certainly shall not follow your example.”“Why not, boy? Look at me. I have no troubles. I pay no rent. My wants are few. I am nearly independent of trades-people and tax men. I’ve no slatternly wife to worry me, no young children to be always tumbling down the rocks or catching the measles. I’m free of all these troubles and I’m a happy man.”“Well, then, your appearance belies you, sir, for you do not look it,” said Leslie, laughing.“Never you mind my appearance,” said Uncle Luke sharply. “I am happy; at least, I should be, if you’d do away with that great smoky chimney and stop those rattling stamps.”“Then I’m afraid that I cannot oblige you, neighbour.”“Humph! Neighbour!”“I fancy that an unbiassed person would blame you and not me.”“Of course he would.”“He’d say if a man chooses to turn himself into a sort of modern Diogenes—”“Diogenes be hanged, sir! All a myth. I don’t believe there ever was such a body. And look here, Leslie, I imitate no man—no myth. I prefer to live this way for my own satisfaction, and I shall.”“And welcome for me, old fellow; only don’t scold me for living my way.”“Not going to. Here, stop! I want to talk to you. How’s copper?”“Up a good deal, but you don’t want to know.”“Of course I don’t. But look here. What do you think of my nephew?”“Tall, good-looking young fellow.”“Humph! What’s the good of that? You know all about him, of course?”“I should prefer not to sit in judgment on the gentleman in question.”“So I suppose. Nice boy, though, isn’t he?”Leslie was silent.“I say he’s a nice boy; isn’t he?” cried the old man, raising his voice.“I heard what you said. He is your nephew.”“Worse luck! How is he getting on at Van Heldre’s?”“I have not the least idea, sir.”“More have I. They won’t tell me. How about that friend of his? What do you think of him?”“Really, Mr Vine,” said Leslie laughing, “I do not set up as a judge of young men’s character. It is nothing to me.”“Yes, it is. Do you suppose I’m blind? Do you suppose I can’t tell which way the wind blows? If I were young, do you know what I should do?”“Do away with the chimney shaft and the stamps,” said Leslie, laughing.“No; I should just get hold of that fellow some night, and walk him to where the coach starts.”Leslie’s face looked warm.“And then I should say, ‘Jump up, and when you get to the station, book for London; and if ever you show your face in Hakemouth again I’ll break your neck.’”“You must excuse me, Mr Luke; I’m busy this morning,” said Leslie; and he walked on and began to descend the steep path.“Touched him on the tender place,” said Uncle Luke, with a chuckle. “Humph! wonder whether Louie will come and see me to-day.”Duncan Leslie went on down the zig-zag cliff path leading from the Wheal Germains copper mine to the town. It was a picturesque way, with a fresh view at every turn west and east; and an advanced member of the town board had proposed and carried the suggestion of placing rough granite seats here and there in the best parts for resting those who climbed, and for giving others attractive places for sunning themselves and looking out to sea.The plan was a great success, and these seats were largely patronised by the fishermen in the case of those nearest the shore, where they could follow out their favourite pastime to the full, and also by the towns-people, especially by the invalids and those young folk who had arrived at the billing and cooing stage of life, when there are only two people in the world—themselves.About half way down Leslie passed an invalid, who had taken possession of a seat, and was gazing right away south, and dreaming of lands where the sun always shone—wondering whether the bright maiden Health could be found there.Lower still Leslie was going on thoughtfully, pondering on Uncle Luke’s hints, when the blood suddenly flushed into his cheeks, his heart began to beat rapidly, and he increased his pace. For there unmistakably were two ladies going down the zig-zag, and there were no two others in Hakemouth could be mistaken for them.He hurried on to overtake them. Then he checked himself.“Where had they been?”His sinking heart suggested that they had been on their way to visit Uncle Luke, but that they had caught sight of him, and in consequence returned.His brow grew gloomy, and he walked slowly on, when the blood flushed to his cheeks again, as if he had been surprised in some guilty act, for a sharp voice said—“No, Mr Leslie; you would not be able to overtake them now.”He stopped short, and turned to the warm sheltered nook among the rocks where Aunt Margaret was seated; her grey lavender dress was carefully spread about her, her white hair turned back beneath a black velvet satin-lined hood, and a lace fichu pinned across her breast.“You here, Miss Vine?” said Leslie, hiding his annoyance.“Yes; and I thought I would save you a thankless effort. I know these paths so well, and they are very deceptive as to distance. You could not overtake the girls unless you ran.”“I was not going to try and overtake them, Miss Vine,” said Leslie coldly.“Indeed! I beg your pardon; I thought you were. But would you mind, Mr Leslie—it is a very trifling request, but I set store by these little relics of our early history—MissMargueriteVine, if you would be so kind?”Leslie bowed. “Certainly, Miss Marguerite,” he said quietly.“Thank you,” she said, detaining him. “It is very good of you. Of course you are surprised to see me up here?”“Oh, no,” said Leslie quietly. “It is a delightful place to sit and rest and read.”“Ye-es; but I cannot say that I care much for the rough walking of this part of the world, and my brother seems somehow to have taken quite a dislike to the idea of having a carriage?”“Yes?”“So I am obliged to walk when I do come out. There are certain duties one is forced to attend to. For instance, there is my poor brother up yonder. I feel bound to see him from time to time. You see him frequently, of course?”“Every day, necessarily. We are so near.”“Poor fellow! Yes. Very eccentric and peculiar; but you need be under no apprehension, Mr Leslie. He is quite harmless, I am sure.”“Oh, quite harmless, Miss Marguerite. Merely original.”“It is very good of you to call it originality; but as friends, Mr Leslie, there is no harm in our alluding to his poor brain. Softening, a medical man told me.”“Hardening, I should say,” thought Leslie.“Very peculiar! very peculiar! Father and uncle both so different to my dear nephew. So you were going to overtake the girls?”“No, Miss Marguerite; I had no such idea.”“Indeed! They walked with me as far as here; and then I said, ‘My dears, it is impossible for me to go up to Uncle Luke to-day, so I will sit down and rest, and go back alone.’ I believe the air will refresh me.”“I am sure it will. It is so fresh and sweet up here.”“Ye-es,” said Aunt Marguerite. “Have you seen my nephew to-day? No? Poor boy! He is in very bad spirits. Ah! Mr Leslie, I shall be very glad to see him once more as a des Vignes should be. With him placed in the position that should be his, and that engagement carried out regarding my darling Louise’s future, I could leave this world of sorrow without a sigh.”Leslie winced, but it was not perceptible to Aunt Marguerite, who, feeling dissatisfied with the result of her shot, fired again.“Of course it would involve losing my darling: but at my time of life, Mr Leslie, one has learned that it is one’s duty always to study self-sacrifice. The des Vignes were always a self-sacrificing family. When it was not for some one or other of their kindred it was for their king, and then for their faith. You know our old French motto, Mr Leslie?”“I? No. I beg pardon.”“Really? I should have thought you could not fail to see that. It is almost the only trace of our former greatness that my misguided brother—”“Were you alluding to Mr Luke Vine?”“No, no, no, no! To my brother, George des Vignes. Surely, Mr Leslie, you must have noted our arms upon the dining-room windows.”“Oh, yes, of course, of course: and the motto,Roy et Foy.”“Exactly,” said Aunt Marguerite, smiling, “I thought it must have caught your eye.”Something else was catching Duncan Leslie’s eye just then—the last flutter of the scarf Louise wore before it disappeared round the foot of the cliff.“I shall bear it, I daresay, and with fortitude, Mr Leslie, for it will be a grand position that she will take. The de Lignys are a family almost as old as our own; and fate might arrange for me to visit them and make a long stay. She’s a sweet girl, is she not, Mr Leslie?”“Miss Vine? Yes: you must be very proud of her,” said the young man, without moving a muscle.“We are; we are indeed, Mr Leslie; but I am afraid I am detaining you.”“I will not call it detaining me, Miss Marguerite,” said Leslie, mockingly assuming a courtly manner in accord with that of his tormentor. “The Scotch had so much intercourse with the French years ago that they gave us a little polish, and I hope we have some trace of the old politeness left.”He smiled and bowed before passing on, and Aunt Marguerite watched him till he disappeared down the zig-zag path, her own smile remaining so fixed that it seemed to be frozen on her lip, the more so that it was a cold, cruel-looking smile, verging on the malignant as she said softly—“That will be something for you to think about, Mr Duncan Leslie; and you shall find I am not a woman to be despised.”“It is curious,” said the object of her thoughts, as he walked slowly down the cliff path. “Surely there was never a family before whose various members were so different in their ways. De Ligny, de Ligny? Who is de Ligny? Well,” he added with a sigh, “I ought to thank Heaven that the name is not Pradelle.”
“Hallo, Scotchman!”
“Hallo, Eng— I mean, French—What am I to call you Mr Luke Vine?”
“Englishman, of course.”
Uncle Luke was seated, in a very shabby-looking grey aged Norfolk jacket made long, a garment which suited his tastes, from its being an easy comfortable article of attire. He had on an old Panama hat, a good deal stained, and a thick stick armed with a strong iron point useful for walking among the rocks; and upon this staff he rested as he sat outside his cottage door watching the sea and pondering as to the probability of a shoal of fish being off the point.
His home with its tiny scrap of rough walled-in garden, which grew nothing but sea holly and tamarisk, was desolate looking in the extreme, but the view therefrom of the half-natural pier sheltering the vessels in the harbour of the twin town, with its busy wharves and warehouses and residences, rising in terrace above terrace, and of the blue, ever-changing sea, was glorious.
He had had his breakfast and taken his seat out in the sunshine, when he became aware of the fact that Duncan Leslie was coming down from the mine buildings above, and he hailed him with a snarl and the above words.
“Glorious morning.”
“Humph! Yes,” said the old man, looking up at the handsome young mine-owner with his face all in lines, “but what’s that got to do with you?”
“Everything. Do you suppose I don’t like fine weather?”
“I thought you didn’t care for anything but money grubbing.”
“Then you were mistaken, because I do.”
“Nonsense! You think of nothing but copper, spoiling the face of nature with the broken rubbish your men dig out of the bowels of the earth, poisoning the air with the fumes of those abominable furnaces. Look at that!”
The old man raised his stick and made a vicious dig with it in the direction of the mine.
“Look at what?”
“That shaft. Looks like some huge worm that your men disturbed down below, and sent it crawling along the hill slope till it could rear its abominable head in the air and look which way to go to be at rest.”
“What an idea! It isn’t pretty looking. I must say.”
“Pretty looking! No. Why do you have it then?”
“It was there when I bought the mine, and it answers its purpose.”
“Bah! What purpose? To make money?”
“Yes; to make money. Very useful thing, Mr Leslie.”
“Rubbish! You’re as bad as Van Heldre with his ships and his smelting works. Money! Money! Money! Always money, morning, noon and night. One constant hunt for the accursed stuff. Look at me!”
“I was looking at you, old fellow; and studying you.”
“Humph! Waste of time, unless you follow my example.”
“Then it will be waste of time, sir, for I certainly shall not follow your example.”
“Why not, boy? Look at me. I have no troubles. I pay no rent. My wants are few. I am nearly independent of trades-people and tax men. I’ve no slatternly wife to worry me, no young children to be always tumbling down the rocks or catching the measles. I’m free of all these troubles and I’m a happy man.”
“Well, then, your appearance belies you, sir, for you do not look it,” said Leslie, laughing.
“Never you mind my appearance,” said Uncle Luke sharply. “I am happy; at least, I should be, if you’d do away with that great smoky chimney and stop those rattling stamps.”
“Then I’m afraid that I cannot oblige you, neighbour.”
“Humph! Neighbour!”
“I fancy that an unbiassed person would blame you and not me.”
“Of course he would.”
“He’d say if a man chooses to turn himself into a sort of modern Diogenes—”
“Diogenes be hanged, sir! All a myth. I don’t believe there ever was such a body. And look here, Leslie, I imitate no man—no myth. I prefer to live this way for my own satisfaction, and I shall.”
“And welcome for me, old fellow; only don’t scold me for living my way.”
“Not going to. Here, stop! I want to talk to you. How’s copper?”
“Up a good deal, but you don’t want to know.”
“Of course I don’t. But look here. What do you think of my nephew?”
“Tall, good-looking young fellow.”
“Humph! What’s the good of that? You know all about him, of course?”
“I should prefer not to sit in judgment on the gentleman in question.”
“So I suppose. Nice boy, though, isn’t he?”
Leslie was silent.
“I say he’s a nice boy; isn’t he?” cried the old man, raising his voice.
“I heard what you said. He is your nephew.”
“Worse luck! How is he getting on at Van Heldre’s?”
“I have not the least idea, sir.”
“More have I. They won’t tell me. How about that friend of his? What do you think of him?”
“Really, Mr Vine,” said Leslie laughing, “I do not set up as a judge of young men’s character. It is nothing to me.”
“Yes, it is. Do you suppose I’m blind? Do you suppose I can’t tell which way the wind blows? If I were young, do you know what I should do?”
“Do away with the chimney shaft and the stamps,” said Leslie, laughing.
“No; I should just get hold of that fellow some night, and walk him to where the coach starts.”
Leslie’s face looked warm.
“And then I should say, ‘Jump up, and when you get to the station, book for London; and if ever you show your face in Hakemouth again I’ll break your neck.’”
“You must excuse me, Mr Luke; I’m busy this morning,” said Leslie; and he walked on and began to descend the steep path.
“Touched him on the tender place,” said Uncle Luke, with a chuckle. “Humph! wonder whether Louie will come and see me to-day.”
Duncan Leslie went on down the zig-zag cliff path leading from the Wheal Germains copper mine to the town. It was a picturesque way, with a fresh view at every turn west and east; and an advanced member of the town board had proposed and carried the suggestion of placing rough granite seats here and there in the best parts for resting those who climbed, and for giving others attractive places for sunning themselves and looking out to sea.
The plan was a great success, and these seats were largely patronised by the fishermen in the case of those nearest the shore, where they could follow out their favourite pastime to the full, and also by the towns-people, especially by the invalids and those young folk who had arrived at the billing and cooing stage of life, when there are only two people in the world—themselves.
About half way down Leslie passed an invalid, who had taken possession of a seat, and was gazing right away south, and dreaming of lands where the sun always shone—wondering whether the bright maiden Health could be found there.
Lower still Leslie was going on thoughtfully, pondering on Uncle Luke’s hints, when the blood suddenly flushed into his cheeks, his heart began to beat rapidly, and he increased his pace. For there unmistakably were two ladies going down the zig-zag, and there were no two others in Hakemouth could be mistaken for them.
He hurried on to overtake them. Then he checked himself.
“Where had they been?”
His sinking heart suggested that they had been on their way to visit Uncle Luke, but that they had caught sight of him, and in consequence returned.
His brow grew gloomy, and he walked slowly on, when the blood flushed to his cheeks again, as if he had been surprised in some guilty act, for a sharp voice said—
“No, Mr Leslie; you would not be able to overtake them now.”
He stopped short, and turned to the warm sheltered nook among the rocks where Aunt Margaret was seated; her grey lavender dress was carefully spread about her, her white hair turned back beneath a black velvet satin-lined hood, and a lace fichu pinned across her breast.
“You here, Miss Vine?” said Leslie, hiding his annoyance.
“Yes; and I thought I would save you a thankless effort. I know these paths so well, and they are very deceptive as to distance. You could not overtake the girls unless you ran.”
“I was not going to try and overtake them, Miss Vine,” said Leslie coldly.
“Indeed! I beg your pardon; I thought you were. But would you mind, Mr Leslie—it is a very trifling request, but I set store by these little relics of our early history—MissMargueriteVine, if you would be so kind?”
Leslie bowed. “Certainly, Miss Marguerite,” he said quietly.
“Thank you,” she said, detaining him. “It is very good of you. Of course you are surprised to see me up here?”
“Oh, no,” said Leslie quietly. “It is a delightful place to sit and rest and read.”
“Ye-es; but I cannot say that I care much for the rough walking of this part of the world, and my brother seems somehow to have taken quite a dislike to the idea of having a carriage?”
“Yes?”
“So I am obliged to walk when I do come out. There are certain duties one is forced to attend to. For instance, there is my poor brother up yonder. I feel bound to see him from time to time. You see him frequently, of course?”
“Every day, necessarily. We are so near.”
“Poor fellow! Yes. Very eccentric and peculiar; but you need be under no apprehension, Mr Leslie. He is quite harmless, I am sure.”
“Oh, quite harmless, Miss Marguerite. Merely original.”
“It is very good of you to call it originality; but as friends, Mr Leslie, there is no harm in our alluding to his poor brain. Softening, a medical man told me.”
“Hardening, I should say,” thought Leslie.
“Very peculiar! very peculiar! Father and uncle both so different to my dear nephew. So you were going to overtake the girls?”
“No, Miss Marguerite; I had no such idea.”
“Indeed! They walked with me as far as here; and then I said, ‘My dears, it is impossible for me to go up to Uncle Luke to-day, so I will sit down and rest, and go back alone.’ I believe the air will refresh me.”
“I am sure it will. It is so fresh and sweet up here.”
“Ye-es,” said Aunt Marguerite. “Have you seen my nephew to-day? No? Poor boy! He is in very bad spirits. Ah! Mr Leslie, I shall be very glad to see him once more as a des Vignes should be. With him placed in the position that should be his, and that engagement carried out regarding my darling Louise’s future, I could leave this world of sorrow without a sigh.”
Leslie winced, but it was not perceptible to Aunt Marguerite, who, feeling dissatisfied with the result of her shot, fired again.
“Of course it would involve losing my darling: but at my time of life, Mr Leslie, one has learned that it is one’s duty always to study self-sacrifice. The des Vignes were always a self-sacrificing family. When it was not for some one or other of their kindred it was for their king, and then for their faith. You know our old French motto, Mr Leslie?”
“I? No. I beg pardon.”
“Really? I should have thought you could not fail to see that. It is almost the only trace of our former greatness that my misguided brother—”
“Were you alluding to Mr Luke Vine?”
“No, no, no, no! To my brother, George des Vignes. Surely, Mr Leslie, you must have noted our arms upon the dining-room windows.”
“Oh, yes, of course, of course: and the motto,Roy et Foy.”
“Exactly,” said Aunt Marguerite, smiling, “I thought it must have caught your eye.”
Something else was catching Duncan Leslie’s eye just then—the last flutter of the scarf Louise wore before it disappeared round the foot of the cliff.
“I shall bear it, I daresay, and with fortitude, Mr Leslie, for it will be a grand position that she will take. The de Lignys are a family almost as old as our own; and fate might arrange for me to visit them and make a long stay. She’s a sweet girl, is she not, Mr Leslie?”
“Miss Vine? Yes: you must be very proud of her,” said the young man, without moving a muscle.
“We are; we are indeed, Mr Leslie; but I am afraid I am detaining you.”
“I will not call it detaining me, Miss Marguerite,” said Leslie, mockingly assuming a courtly manner in accord with that of his tormentor. “The Scotch had so much intercourse with the French years ago that they gave us a little polish, and I hope we have some trace of the old politeness left.”
He smiled and bowed before passing on, and Aunt Marguerite watched him till he disappeared down the zig-zag path, her own smile remaining so fixed that it seemed to be frozen on her lip, the more so that it was a cold, cruel-looking smile, verging on the malignant as she said softly—“That will be something for you to think about, Mr Duncan Leslie; and you shall find I am not a woman to be despised.”
“It is curious,” said the object of her thoughts, as he walked slowly down the cliff path. “Surely there was never a family before whose various members were so different in their ways. De Ligny, de Ligny? Who is de Ligny? Well,” he added with a sigh, “I ought to thank Heaven that the name is not Pradelle.”
Chapter Nine.In Office Hours.“Now, my dear Mr Crampton, believe me, I am only actuated by a desire to do good.”“That’s exactly what actuates me, sir, when I make bold, after forty years’ service with you and your father, to tell you that you have made a great mistake.”“All men make mistakes, Crampton,” said Van Heldre, to his plump, grey, stern-looking head clerk.“Yes, sir; but if they are then worth their salt they see where they have made a mistake, and try and correct it. We did not want him.”“As far as actual work to be done, no; but I will tell you plainly why I took on the young man. I wish to help my old friend in a peculiarly troubled period of his life.”“That’s you all over, Mr Van Heldre,” said the old clerk, pinching his very red nose, and then arranging his thin hair with a pen-holder; “but I can’t feel that it’s right. You see the young man don’t take to his work. He comes and goes in a supercilious manner, and treats me as if I were his servant.”“Oh, that will soon pass off, Crampton.”“I hope so, Mr Van Heldre, sir, but his writing’s as bad as a schoolboy’s.”“That will improve.”“He’s always late of a morning.”“I’ll ask him to correct that.”“And he’s always doing what I hate in a young man, seeing how short is life, sir, and how soon we’re gone—he’s always looking at the clock and yawning.”“Never mind, Crampton, he’ll soon give up all that sort of thing. The young man is like an ill-trained tree. He has grown rather wild, but now he has been transplanted to an orderly office, to be under your constant supervision, he will gradually imbibe your habits and precision. It will be his making.”“Now, now, now,” said the old clerk, shaking his head, “that’s flattering, sir. My habits and precision. No, no, sir; I’m a very bad clerk, and I’m growing old as fast as I can.”“You are the best clerk in the west of England, Crampton, and you are only growing old at the customary rate. And now to oblige me, look over these little blemishes in the young man’s character. There is a good deal of the spoiled boy in him, but I believe his heart’s right; and for more reasons than one I want him to develop into a good man of business—such a one as we can make of him if we try.”“Don’t say another word, Mr Van Heldre. You know me, and if I say as long as the young man is honest and straightforward I’ll do my best for him, I suppose that’s sufficient.”“More than sufficient, Crampton.”“But you know, sir, he ought to have made some little advance in a month.”“No, no, Crampton,” said Van Heldre, smiling, “he has not grown used to the new suit yet: have patience, and he’ll come right.”“That’s enough, sir,” said Crampton, climbing on to a high stool in front of a well-polished desk, “now for business. TheSaint Aubynhas taken in all her cargo, and will sail to-morrow. We ought soon to have news of theMadelaine. By the way, I hope Miss Madelaine’s quite well, sir. Haven’t seen her for a day and a half.”“Quite well, Crampton.”“That’s right, sir,” said the old man, smiling and rubbing his hands. “Bless her! I’ve only one thing against her. Why wasn’t she a boy?”Van Heldre smiled at his old confidential man, who still rubbed his hands softly, and gazed over his silver-rimmed spectacles at a file of bills of lading hanging from the wall.“What a boy she would have made, and what a man I could have made of him! Van Heldre and Son once more, as it ought to be. I’d have made just such a man of business of him as I made of you. Going, sir?”“Yes, I’m going up to Tolzarn. By the way, send Mr Henry Vine up to me about twelve.”“Yes,” said Crampton, beginning to write away very busily. “I suppose he’ll come?”“Of course, of course,” said Van Heldre hastily, and leaving the office he went into the house just as Mrs Van Heldre had made her way into the hall to cover up her bullfinch’s cage; and her hand was upon the bird organ when she heard her husband’s step, when, colouring like a girl, she hurried up-stairs.Van Heldre crossed the hall and entered the morning-room, where Madelaine was busy with her needle.She looked at him in an inquiring way, to which he had become accustomed during the past month, and in accordance with an unwritten contract.“No, my dear, not come yet.”Madelaine’s countenance changed as she saw her father glance at his watch, and she involuntarily darted a quick look at the clock on the chimney-piece.“I’m going up to the works,” continued Van Heldre. “Back before one. Morning.”Madelaine resumed her work for a few minutes, and then rose to stand where, unseen, she could watch the road. She saw her father go by up the valley, but her attention was turned toward the sea, from which direction Harry Vine would have to come.She stood watching for nearly a quarter of an hour before she heard a familiar step, and then the young man passed smoking the end of a cigar, which he threw away before turning in at the way which led to Van Heldre’s offices.Directly after, as Madelaine sat looking very thoughtful over her work, there was the quick patter of Mrs Van Heldre’s feet.“Madelaine, my dear,” she said as she entered; “I thought you said that Mr Pradelle had gone away a fortnight ago.”“I did, mamma.”“Well, then, he has come back again.”“Back again?” said Madelaine, letting her work fall in her lap.“Yes, I was at the up-stairs window just now, and I saw him pass as I was looking out for Harry Vine. He’s very late this morning, and it does make papa so vexed.”It was late, for instead of being nine o’clock, the clock in the office was on the stroke of ten as Harry Vine hurriedly entered, and glanced at the yellowy-white faced dial.“Morning, Mr Crampton. I say that clock’s fast, isn’t it?”“Eh? fast?” said the old man grimly. “No, Mr Harry Vine; that’s a steady old time-keeper, not a modern young man.”“Disagreeable old hunks,” said Harry to himself, as he hung up his hat. “Bad headache this morning, Mr Crampton, thought I shouldn’t be able to come.”“Seidlitz powder,” said the old man, scratching away with his pen, and without looking up.“Eh?”“Dissolve the blue in a tumbler of warm water.”“Bother!” muttered Harry, frowning.“The white in a wineglassful of cold. Pour one into the other—and—drink—while effervescing.”The intervals between some of the words were filled up by scratches of the pen.“Headache, eh? Bad things, sir, bad things.”He removed himself from his stool and went to the safe in the inner office, where Van Heldre generally sat, and Harry raised his head from his desk and listened, as he heard the rattling of keys and the clang of a small iron door.“Yes, bad things headaches, Mr Harry,” said the old man returning. “Try early hours for ’em, and look here: Mr Van Heldre says—”“Has he been in the office this morning?” cried Harry hastily.“Yes, sir, he came in as soon as I’d come, nine to the minute, and he wants you to join him at the tin works about twelve.”“Wigging!” said guilty conscience.“Do your head good, sir.”Old Crampton resumed his seat, and for an hour and three-quarters, during which period Harry had several times looked at the clock and yawned, there was a constant scratching of pens.Then Harry Vine descended from his stool.“I’d better go now?”“Yes, sir, you’d better go now. And might have gone before for all the good you’ve done,” grumbled the old man, as Harry passed the window. “Tut—tut—tut! What careless writing. He’s spoiling my books, that he is.”The old man had hardly spent another half-hour over his work when there was a sharp tapping at the door, such as might be given by the knob on a stick.“Come in.”The door was opened, and Pradelle entered and gave a sharp look round.“Morning,” he said in a cavalier way. “Tell Mr Vine I want to speak to him for a moment.”Old Crampton looked up from his writing, and fixed his eyes on the visitor’s hat.“Not at home,” he said shortly.“How long will he be?”“Don’t know.”“Where has he gone?”“Tin works,” said Crampton, resuming his writing.“Confounded old bear!” muttered Pradelle as he went out, after frowning severely at the old clerk, who did not see it.“Idle young puppy!” grumbled Crampton, dotting an I so fiercely that he drove his pen though the paper. “I’d have knocked his hat off if I had had my ruler handy. Now what does he want, I wonder?”Van Heldre was busy at work with a shovel when Harry Vine reached the tin-smelting works, which the merchant had added to his other ventures. He was beside a heap of what rather resembled wet coarsely ground coffee.“Ah, Harry,” he said, “you may as well learn all these things. Be useful some day. Take hold of that shovel and turn that over. Tell me what you think of it.”A strong mind generally acts upon one that is weak, and it was so here.Harry felt disposed, as he looked at his white hands, the shovel, and the heap, to thrust the said white hands in his pocket and walk away.But he took the shovel and plunged it in the heap, lifted it full, and then with a look of disgust said:—“What am I to do with it?”“Shovel it away and get more out of the centre.”Harry obeyed, and looked up for fresh orders.“Now take a couple of handfuls and examine them. Don’t be afraid, man, it’s honest dirt.”Van Heldre set the example, took a handful and poured it from left to right and back again.“Now,” he said, “take notice; that’s badly washed.”“Not soap enough,” said Harry, hiding his annoyance with an attempt at being facetious.“Not exactly,” said Van Heldre drily; “bad work. Now when that tin is passed through the furnace, there’ll be twice as much slag and refuse as there ought to be. That will do. Leave the shovel, I want you to take account of those slabs of tin. Mark them, number them, and enter them in this book. It will take you an hour. Then bring the account down to me at the office.”“I can have a man to move the slabs?” said Harry.“No, they are all busy. If I were doing it, I should work without a man.”“Hang it all! I’m about sick of this,” said Harry, after he had been alone about half an hour, and feeling more disgusted moment by moment with his task. “How mad Aunt Marguerite would be if she could see me now!”He looked round at the low dirty sheds on one side, at the row of furnaces on the other, two of which emitted a steady roar as the tin within gradually turned from a brown granulated powder to a golden fluid, whose stony scum was floating on the top.“It’s enough to make any man kick against his fate. Nice occupation for a gentleman, ’pon my word!”A low whistle made him look up quickly, and his countenance brightened.“Why, Vic,” he cried; “I thought you were in town.”“How are you, my Trojan?” cried the visitor boisterously. “I was in town, but I’ve come back. I say, cheerful work this for Monsieur le Comte Henri des Vignes!”“Don’t chaff a fellow,” said Harry angrily. “What brought you down?”“Two things.”“Now, look here, Vic. Don’t say any more about that. Perhaps after a time I may get her to think differently, but now—”“I was not going to say anything about your sister, my dear boy. I can wait and bear anything. But I suppose I may say something about you?”“About me?”“Yes. I’ve got a splendid thing on. Safe to make money—heaps of it.”“Yes; but your schemes always want money first.”“Well, hang it all, lad! you can’t expect a crop of potatoes without planting a few bits first. It wouldn’t want much. Only about fifty pounds. A hundred would be better, but we could make fifty do.”Harry shook his head.“Come, come; you haven’t heard half yet. I’ve the genuine information. It would be worth a pile of money. It’s our chance now—such a chance as may never occur again.”“No, no; don’t tempt me, Vic,” said Harry, after a long whimpered conversation.“Tempt? I feel disposed to force you, lad. It makes me half wild to see you degraded to such work as this. Why, if we do as I propose you will be in a position to follow out your aunt’s instructions, engage lawyers to push on your case, and while you obtain your rights, I shall be in a position to ask your sister’s hand without the chance of a refusal. I tell you the thing’s safe.”“No, no,” said Harry, shaking his head; “it’s too risky. We should lose and be worse off than ever.”“With a horse like that, and me with safe private information about him!”“No,” said Harry, “I won’t. I’m going to keep steadily on here, and, as the governor calls it, plod.”“That you’re not, if I know it,” cried Pradelle indignantly. “I won’t stand it. It’s disgraceful. You shan’t throw yourself away.”“But I’ve got no money, old fellow.”“Nonsense! Get some of the old man.”“No; I’ve done it too often. He won’t stand it now.”“Well, of your aunt.”“She hasn’t a penny but what my father lets her have.”“Your sister. Come, she would let you have some.”Harry shook his head.“No, I’m not going to ask her. It’s no good, Vic; I won’t.”“Well,” said Pradelle, apostrophising an ingot of tin as it lay at his feet glistening with iridescent hues, “if any one had told me, I wouldn’t have believed it. Why, Harry, lad, you’ve only been a month at this mill-horse life, and you’re quite changed. What have they been doing to you, man?”“Breaking my spirit, I suppose, they’d call it,” said the young man bitterly.“Nonsense! yours isn’t a spirit to be broken in to a beggarly trade. Think of what your aunt has said to you, as well as to me. Your estates, your title, the woman you are to marry. Why, Harry, lad, you don’t think I’m going to sit still and see you break down without a word?”Harry shook his head.“Get out! I won’t have it. You want waking up,” said Pradelle in a low, earnest voice. “Think, lad, a few pounds placed as I could place ’em, and there’s fortune for in both, without reckoning on what you could do in France. As your aunt say, there’s money and a title waiting for you if you’ll only stretch out your hand to take ’em. Come, rouse yourself. Harry Vine isn’t the lad to settle down to this drudgery. Why, I thought it was one of the workmen when I came up.”“It’s of no use,” said Harry gloomily, as he seated himself on the ingots of tin. “A man must submit to his fate.”“Bah! a man’s fate is what he makes it. Look here; fifty or a hundred borrowed for a few days, and then repaid.”“But suppose—”“Suppose!” cried Pradelle mockingly; “a business man has no time to suppose, he strikes while the iron’s hot. You’re going to strike iron, not tin.”“How? Where’s the money?”“Where’s the money?” said Pradelle mockingly. “You want fifty or a hundred for a few days, when you would return it fifty times over; and you say, where’s the money?”“Don’t I tell you I have no one I could borrow from?” said Harry angrily.“Yes, you have,” said Pradelle, sinking his voice. “It’s easy as easy. Only for a few days. A temporary loan. Look here.”He bent down, and whispered a few words in the young man’s ear, words which turned him crimson, and then deadly pale.“Pradelle!” he cried, in a hoarse whisper; “are you mad?”“No. I was thinking of coming over to Auvergne to spend a month with my friend, the Count. By-and-by, dear lad—by-and-by.”“No, no; it is impossible,” said Harry hoarsely, and he gave a hasty glance round.“No,” whispered Pradelle, “no; it is not impossible, but as simple as A B C.”“But,” faltered Harry, who was trembling now.“Hush! some one coming. No; you need not mind,” said Pradelle with a sneer; “only two ladies walking up the road. Now, I wonder whom they’ve come to see.”“No, no,” said Harry in a husky whisper, as his companion’s last words seemed unheeded; “I couldn’t do that.”“You could,” said Pradelle, and then to himself: “and, if I know you, Harry Vine, you shall.”
“Now, my dear Mr Crampton, believe me, I am only actuated by a desire to do good.”
“That’s exactly what actuates me, sir, when I make bold, after forty years’ service with you and your father, to tell you that you have made a great mistake.”
“All men make mistakes, Crampton,” said Van Heldre, to his plump, grey, stern-looking head clerk.
“Yes, sir; but if they are then worth their salt they see where they have made a mistake, and try and correct it. We did not want him.”
“As far as actual work to be done, no; but I will tell you plainly why I took on the young man. I wish to help my old friend in a peculiarly troubled period of his life.”
“That’s you all over, Mr Van Heldre,” said the old clerk, pinching his very red nose, and then arranging his thin hair with a pen-holder; “but I can’t feel that it’s right. You see the young man don’t take to his work. He comes and goes in a supercilious manner, and treats me as if I were his servant.”
“Oh, that will soon pass off, Crampton.”
“I hope so, Mr Van Heldre, sir, but his writing’s as bad as a schoolboy’s.”
“That will improve.”
“He’s always late of a morning.”
“I’ll ask him to correct that.”
“And he’s always doing what I hate in a young man, seeing how short is life, sir, and how soon we’re gone—he’s always looking at the clock and yawning.”
“Never mind, Crampton, he’ll soon give up all that sort of thing. The young man is like an ill-trained tree. He has grown rather wild, but now he has been transplanted to an orderly office, to be under your constant supervision, he will gradually imbibe your habits and precision. It will be his making.”
“Now, now, now,” said the old clerk, shaking his head, “that’s flattering, sir. My habits and precision. No, no, sir; I’m a very bad clerk, and I’m growing old as fast as I can.”
“You are the best clerk in the west of England, Crampton, and you are only growing old at the customary rate. And now to oblige me, look over these little blemishes in the young man’s character. There is a good deal of the spoiled boy in him, but I believe his heart’s right; and for more reasons than one I want him to develop into a good man of business—such a one as we can make of him if we try.”
“Don’t say another word, Mr Van Heldre. You know me, and if I say as long as the young man is honest and straightforward I’ll do my best for him, I suppose that’s sufficient.”
“More than sufficient, Crampton.”
“But you know, sir, he ought to have made some little advance in a month.”
“No, no, Crampton,” said Van Heldre, smiling, “he has not grown used to the new suit yet: have patience, and he’ll come right.”
“That’s enough, sir,” said Crampton, climbing on to a high stool in front of a well-polished desk, “now for business. TheSaint Aubynhas taken in all her cargo, and will sail to-morrow. We ought soon to have news of theMadelaine. By the way, I hope Miss Madelaine’s quite well, sir. Haven’t seen her for a day and a half.”
“Quite well, Crampton.”
“That’s right, sir,” said the old man, smiling and rubbing his hands. “Bless her! I’ve only one thing against her. Why wasn’t she a boy?”
Van Heldre smiled at his old confidential man, who still rubbed his hands softly, and gazed over his silver-rimmed spectacles at a file of bills of lading hanging from the wall.
“What a boy she would have made, and what a man I could have made of him! Van Heldre and Son once more, as it ought to be. I’d have made just such a man of business of him as I made of you. Going, sir?”
“Yes, I’m going up to Tolzarn. By the way, send Mr Henry Vine up to me about twelve.”
“Yes,” said Crampton, beginning to write away very busily. “I suppose he’ll come?”
“Of course, of course,” said Van Heldre hastily, and leaving the office he went into the house just as Mrs Van Heldre had made her way into the hall to cover up her bullfinch’s cage; and her hand was upon the bird organ when she heard her husband’s step, when, colouring like a girl, she hurried up-stairs.
Van Heldre crossed the hall and entered the morning-room, where Madelaine was busy with her needle.
She looked at him in an inquiring way, to which he had become accustomed during the past month, and in accordance with an unwritten contract.
“No, my dear, not come yet.”
Madelaine’s countenance changed as she saw her father glance at his watch, and she involuntarily darted a quick look at the clock on the chimney-piece.
“I’m going up to the works,” continued Van Heldre. “Back before one. Morning.”
Madelaine resumed her work for a few minutes, and then rose to stand where, unseen, she could watch the road. She saw her father go by up the valley, but her attention was turned toward the sea, from which direction Harry Vine would have to come.
She stood watching for nearly a quarter of an hour before she heard a familiar step, and then the young man passed smoking the end of a cigar, which he threw away before turning in at the way which led to Van Heldre’s offices.
Directly after, as Madelaine sat looking very thoughtful over her work, there was the quick patter of Mrs Van Heldre’s feet.
“Madelaine, my dear,” she said as she entered; “I thought you said that Mr Pradelle had gone away a fortnight ago.”
“I did, mamma.”
“Well, then, he has come back again.”
“Back again?” said Madelaine, letting her work fall in her lap.
“Yes, I was at the up-stairs window just now, and I saw him pass as I was looking out for Harry Vine. He’s very late this morning, and it does make papa so vexed.”
It was late, for instead of being nine o’clock, the clock in the office was on the stroke of ten as Harry Vine hurriedly entered, and glanced at the yellowy-white faced dial.
“Morning, Mr Crampton. I say that clock’s fast, isn’t it?”
“Eh? fast?” said the old man grimly. “No, Mr Harry Vine; that’s a steady old time-keeper, not a modern young man.”
“Disagreeable old hunks,” said Harry to himself, as he hung up his hat. “Bad headache this morning, Mr Crampton, thought I shouldn’t be able to come.”
“Seidlitz powder,” said the old man, scratching away with his pen, and without looking up.
“Eh?”
“Dissolve the blue in a tumbler of warm water.”
“Bother!” muttered Harry, frowning.
“The white in a wineglassful of cold. Pour one into the other—and—drink—while effervescing.”
The intervals between some of the words were filled up by scratches of the pen.
“Headache, eh? Bad things, sir, bad things.”
He removed himself from his stool and went to the safe in the inner office, where Van Heldre generally sat, and Harry raised his head from his desk and listened, as he heard the rattling of keys and the clang of a small iron door.
“Yes, bad things headaches, Mr Harry,” said the old man returning. “Try early hours for ’em, and look here: Mr Van Heldre says—”
“Has he been in the office this morning?” cried Harry hastily.
“Yes, sir, he came in as soon as I’d come, nine to the minute, and he wants you to join him at the tin works about twelve.”
“Wigging!” said guilty conscience.
“Do your head good, sir.”
Old Crampton resumed his seat, and for an hour and three-quarters, during which period Harry had several times looked at the clock and yawned, there was a constant scratching of pens.
Then Harry Vine descended from his stool.
“I’d better go now?”
“Yes, sir, you’d better go now. And might have gone before for all the good you’ve done,” grumbled the old man, as Harry passed the window. “Tut—tut—tut! What careless writing. He’s spoiling my books, that he is.”
The old man had hardly spent another half-hour over his work when there was a sharp tapping at the door, such as might be given by the knob on a stick.
“Come in.”
The door was opened, and Pradelle entered and gave a sharp look round.
“Morning,” he said in a cavalier way. “Tell Mr Vine I want to speak to him for a moment.”
Old Crampton looked up from his writing, and fixed his eyes on the visitor’s hat.
“Not at home,” he said shortly.
“How long will he be?”
“Don’t know.”
“Where has he gone?”
“Tin works,” said Crampton, resuming his writing.
“Confounded old bear!” muttered Pradelle as he went out, after frowning severely at the old clerk, who did not see it.
“Idle young puppy!” grumbled Crampton, dotting an I so fiercely that he drove his pen though the paper. “I’d have knocked his hat off if I had had my ruler handy. Now what does he want, I wonder?”
Van Heldre was busy at work with a shovel when Harry Vine reached the tin-smelting works, which the merchant had added to his other ventures. He was beside a heap of what rather resembled wet coarsely ground coffee.
“Ah, Harry,” he said, “you may as well learn all these things. Be useful some day. Take hold of that shovel and turn that over. Tell me what you think of it.”
A strong mind generally acts upon one that is weak, and it was so here.
Harry felt disposed, as he looked at his white hands, the shovel, and the heap, to thrust the said white hands in his pocket and walk away.
But he took the shovel and plunged it in the heap, lifted it full, and then with a look of disgust said:—
“What am I to do with it?”
“Shovel it away and get more out of the centre.”
Harry obeyed, and looked up for fresh orders.
“Now take a couple of handfuls and examine them. Don’t be afraid, man, it’s honest dirt.”
Van Heldre set the example, took a handful and poured it from left to right and back again.
“Now,” he said, “take notice; that’s badly washed.”
“Not soap enough,” said Harry, hiding his annoyance with an attempt at being facetious.
“Not exactly,” said Van Heldre drily; “bad work. Now when that tin is passed through the furnace, there’ll be twice as much slag and refuse as there ought to be. That will do. Leave the shovel, I want you to take account of those slabs of tin. Mark them, number them, and enter them in this book. It will take you an hour. Then bring the account down to me at the office.”
“I can have a man to move the slabs?” said Harry.
“No, they are all busy. If I were doing it, I should work without a man.”
“Hang it all! I’m about sick of this,” said Harry, after he had been alone about half an hour, and feeling more disgusted moment by moment with his task. “How mad Aunt Marguerite would be if she could see me now!”
He looked round at the low dirty sheds on one side, at the row of furnaces on the other, two of which emitted a steady roar as the tin within gradually turned from a brown granulated powder to a golden fluid, whose stony scum was floating on the top.
“It’s enough to make any man kick against his fate. Nice occupation for a gentleman, ’pon my word!”
A low whistle made him look up quickly, and his countenance brightened.
“Why, Vic,” he cried; “I thought you were in town.”
“How are you, my Trojan?” cried the visitor boisterously. “I was in town, but I’ve come back. I say, cheerful work this for Monsieur le Comte Henri des Vignes!”
“Don’t chaff a fellow,” said Harry angrily. “What brought you down?”
“Two things.”
“Now, look here, Vic. Don’t say any more about that. Perhaps after a time I may get her to think differently, but now—”
“I was not going to say anything about your sister, my dear boy. I can wait and bear anything. But I suppose I may say something about you?”
“About me?”
“Yes. I’ve got a splendid thing on. Safe to make money—heaps of it.”
“Yes; but your schemes always want money first.”
“Well, hang it all, lad! you can’t expect a crop of potatoes without planting a few bits first. It wouldn’t want much. Only about fifty pounds. A hundred would be better, but we could make fifty do.”
Harry shook his head.
“Come, come; you haven’t heard half yet. I’ve the genuine information. It would be worth a pile of money. It’s our chance now—such a chance as may never occur again.”
“No, no; don’t tempt me, Vic,” said Harry, after a long whimpered conversation.
“Tempt? I feel disposed to force you, lad. It makes me half wild to see you degraded to such work as this. Why, if we do as I propose you will be in a position to follow out your aunt’s instructions, engage lawyers to push on your case, and while you obtain your rights, I shall be in a position to ask your sister’s hand without the chance of a refusal. I tell you the thing’s safe.”
“No, no,” said Harry, shaking his head; “it’s too risky. We should lose and be worse off than ever.”
“With a horse like that, and me with safe private information about him!”
“No,” said Harry, “I won’t. I’m going to keep steadily on here, and, as the governor calls it, plod.”
“That you’re not, if I know it,” cried Pradelle indignantly. “I won’t stand it. It’s disgraceful. You shan’t throw yourself away.”
“But I’ve got no money, old fellow.”
“Nonsense! Get some of the old man.”
“No; I’ve done it too often. He won’t stand it now.”
“Well, of your aunt.”
“She hasn’t a penny but what my father lets her have.”
“Your sister. Come, she would let you have some.”
Harry shook his head.
“No, I’m not going to ask her. It’s no good, Vic; I won’t.”
“Well,” said Pradelle, apostrophising an ingot of tin as it lay at his feet glistening with iridescent hues, “if any one had told me, I wouldn’t have believed it. Why, Harry, lad, you’ve only been a month at this mill-horse life, and you’re quite changed. What have they been doing to you, man?”
“Breaking my spirit, I suppose, they’d call it,” said the young man bitterly.
“Nonsense! yours isn’t a spirit to be broken in to a beggarly trade. Think of what your aunt has said to you, as well as to me. Your estates, your title, the woman you are to marry. Why, Harry, lad, you don’t think I’m going to sit still and see you break down without a word?”
Harry shook his head.
“Get out! I won’t have it. You want waking up,” said Pradelle in a low, earnest voice. “Think, lad, a few pounds placed as I could place ’em, and there’s fortune for in both, without reckoning on what you could do in France. As your aunt say, there’s money and a title waiting for you if you’ll only stretch out your hand to take ’em. Come, rouse yourself. Harry Vine isn’t the lad to settle down to this drudgery. Why, I thought it was one of the workmen when I came up.”
“It’s of no use,” said Harry gloomily, as he seated himself on the ingots of tin. “A man must submit to his fate.”
“Bah! a man’s fate is what he makes it. Look here; fifty or a hundred borrowed for a few days, and then repaid.”
“But suppose—”
“Suppose!” cried Pradelle mockingly; “a business man has no time to suppose, he strikes while the iron’s hot. You’re going to strike iron, not tin.”
“How? Where’s the money?”
“Where’s the money?” said Pradelle mockingly. “You want fifty or a hundred for a few days, when you would return it fifty times over; and you say, where’s the money?”
“Don’t I tell you I have no one I could borrow from?” said Harry angrily.
“Yes, you have,” said Pradelle, sinking his voice. “It’s easy as easy. Only for a few days. A temporary loan. Look here.”
He bent down, and whispered a few words in the young man’s ear, words which turned him crimson, and then deadly pale.
“Pradelle!” he cried, in a hoarse whisper; “are you mad?”
“No. I was thinking of coming over to Auvergne to spend a month with my friend, the Count. By-and-by, dear lad—by-and-by.”
“No, no; it is impossible,” said Harry hoarsely, and he gave a hasty glance round.
“No,” whispered Pradelle, “no; it is not impossible, but as simple as A B C.”
“But,” faltered Harry, who was trembling now.
“Hush! some one coming. No; you need not mind,” said Pradelle with a sneer; “only two ladies walking up the road. Now, I wonder whom they’ve come to see.”
“No, no,” said Harry in a husky whisper, as his companion’s last words seemed unheeded; “I couldn’t do that.”
“You could,” said Pradelle, and then to himself: “and, if I know you, Harry Vine, you shall.”