The Haute Noblesse. George Manville Fenn
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.”