Of High Descent. Fenn George Manville
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-born canaille. 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