The Haute Noblesse. George Manville Fenn
too, shall be very glad,” he said quietly.
“That’s right, that’s right,” said Mr. Vine, laying one of his long thin white hands on the young man’s arm: and then changing its position, so that he could take hold of one of the buttons on his breast. Then turning quickly: “Madelaine’s coming, of course.”
“Louie says so,” said the girl quietly.
“To be sure; that’s right, my dear; that’s right,” said the old man, beaming upon her as he took one of her hands to hold and pat it in his. “You’ll come too, Van?”
“I? No, no. I’ve some bills of lading to look over.”
“Yah!” ejaculated Uncle Luke with a snarl.
“Yes; bills of lading, you idle old cynic. I can’t spend my time fishing.”
“Pity you can’t,” said Uncle Luke. “Money, money, always money.”
“Hear him, Mr. Leslie?” said Van Heldre smiling. “Are you disposed to follow his teachings?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Leslie.
“Not he,” snarled Uncle Luke.
“But you will come, Van?” said Mr. Vine.
“My dear fellow, I wish you would not tempt me. There’s work to do. Then there’s my wife.”
“Bring Mrs. Van Heldre too,” said Louise, laying her hand on his.
“Ah, you temptress,” he cried merrily.
“It’s Harry’s last evening,” said Mr. Vine.
“Look here,” said Van Heldre, “will you sing me my old favourite if I come, Louie?”
“Yes; and you shall have a duet too.”
“Ah, never mind the duet,” said Van Heldre laughingly; “I can always hear Maddy at home. There, out of pocket again by listening to temptation. I’ll come.”
“Come and join us too, Luke,” said Mr. Vine.
“No!” snapped the old fisher.
“Do, uncle,” said Louise.
“Shan’t,” he snarled, stooping to pick up his heavy basket.
“But it’s Harry’s last—”
“Good job too,” snarled the old man.
“I’m going your way, Mr. Luke Vine,” said Leslie. “Let me carry the basket?”
“Thank ye; I’m not above carrying my own fish,” said the old man sharply; and he raised and gave the basket a swing to get it upon his back, but tottered with the weight, and nearly fell on the uneven rocks.
“There, it is too heavy for you,” said Leslie, taking possession of the basket firmly; and Louise Vine’s eyes brightened.
“Be too heavy for you when you get as old as I am,” snarled the old man.
“I daresay,” said Leslie quietly; and they went off together.
“Luke’s in fine form this afternoon,” said Van Heldre, nodding and smiling.
“Yes,” said the brother, looking after him wistfully. “We shall wait till you come, Mr. Leslie,” he shouted, giving vent to an afterthought.
The young man turned and waved his hand.
“Rather like Leslie,” said Van Heldre. “Maddy, you’ll have to set your cap at him.”
Madelaine looked up at him and laughed.
“Yes, poor Luke!” said Mr. Vine thoughtfully, as he stooped and picked up a small net and a tin can, containing the treasures he had found in sundry rock pools. “I’m afraid we are a very strange family, Van,” he added, as they walked back towards the little town.
“Very, old fellow,” said his friend smiling. “I’ll be with you before Leslie gets back, wife and the necessary change of dress permitting.”
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 escutcheon in the middle, a ribbon with triple curve and fold bearing the words Roy 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 dear, 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,