The Haute Noblesse. George Manville Fenn
flushed by exercise, and more than slightly tanned by the strong air that blows health-laden from the Atlantic.
As often happens in real life as well as in fiction, the companions were dark and fair; and as they came laughing and talking, full of animation, looking a couple of as bonny-looking English maidens as the West Country could produce, their aspect warranted, in reply to the greetings of “Ah, Uncle Luke!” “Ah, Mr. Vine!” something a little more courteous than—
“Well, Nuisance?” addressed with a short nod to the dark girl in white serge, and “Do, Madelaine?” to the fair girl in blue.
The gruffness of the greeting seemed to be taken as a matter of course, for the girls seated themselves directly on convenient masses of rock, and busied themselves in the governance of sundry errant strands of hair which were playing in the breeze.
The elderly fisher watched them furtively, and his sour face seemed a little less grim, and as if there was something after all pleasant to look upon in the bright youthful countenances before him.
“Well, uncle, how many fish?” said the dark girl.
“Bah! and don’t chatter, or I shall get none at all. How’s dad?”
“Quite well. He’s out here somewhere.”
“Dabbling?”
“Yes.”
The girl took off her soft yachting cap, and fanned her face; then ceased and half closing her eyes and throwing back her head, let her red lips part slightly as she breathed in full draughts of the soft western breeze.
“If he ever gives her a moment’s pain,” said the old man to himself as he jerked a look up at the mining works, “I’ll kill him.” Then, turning sharply to the fair girl, he said aloud:—“Well, Madelaine, how’s the bon père?”
“Quite well and very busy seeing to the lading of the Corunna,” said the girl with animation.
“Humph! Old stupid. Worrying himself to death money grubbing. Here, Louie, when’s that boy going back to his place?”
“To-morrow, uncle.”
“Good job too. What did he want with a holiday? Never did a day’s work in his life. Here! Hold her, Louie. She’s going to peck,” he added in mock alarm, and with a cynical sneering laugh, as he saw his niece’s companion colour slightly, and compress her lips.
“Well, it’s too bad of you, uncle. You are always finding fault about Harry.”
“Say Henri, pray, my child, and with a good strong French accent,” cried the old man with mock remonstrance. “What would Aunt Marguerite say?”
“Aunt Margaret isn’t here, uncle,” cried the girl merrily; “and it’s of no use for you to grumble and say sour things, because we know you by heart, and we don’t believe in you a bit.”
“No,” said the fisherman grimly, “only hate me like poison, for a sour old crab. Never gave me a kiss when you came.”
“How could I without getting wet?” said the girl with a glance at the tiny rock island on which the fisher stood.
“Humph! Going back to-morrow, eh? Good job too. Why, he has been a whole half-year in his post.”
“Yes, uncle, a whole half-year!”
“And never stayed two months before at any of the excellent situations your father and I worried ourselves and our friends to death to get for him.”
“Now, uncle—”
“A lazy, thoughtless, good-for-nothing young vag—There, hold her again, Louie. She’s going to peck.”
“And you deserve it, uncle,” cried the girl, with a smile at her companion, in whose eyes the indignant tears were rising.
“What! for speaking the truth, and trying to let that foolish girl see my lord in his right colours?”
“Harry’s a good affectionate brother, and I love him very dearly,” said Louise, firmly; “and he’s your brother’s son, uncle, and in your heart, you love him too, and you’re proud of him, as proud can be.”
“You’re a silly, young goose, and as feather-brained as he is. Proud of him? Bah! I wish he’d enlist for a soldier, and get shot.”
“For shame, uncle!” cried Louise indignantly; and her face flushed too as she caught and held her companion’s hand.
“Yes. For shame! It’s all your aunt’s doing, stuffing the boy’s head full of fantastic foolery about his descent, and the disgrace of trade. And now I am speaking, look here,” he cried, turning sharply on the fair girl, and holding his rod over her as if it were a huge stick which he was about to use. “Do you hear, Madelaine?”
“I’m listening, Mr. Vine,” said the girl, coldly.
“I’ve known you ever since you were two months old, and your silly mother must insist upon my taking hold of you—you miserable little bit of pink putty, as you were then, and fooled me into being godfather. How I could be such an ass, I don’t know—but I am, and I gave you that silver cup, and I’ve wanted it back ever since.”
“Oh, uncle, what a wicked story!” cried Louise, laughing.
“It’s quite true, miss. Dead waste of money. It has never been used, I’ll swear.”
“No, Mr. Vine, never,” said Madelaine, smiling now.
“Ah, you need not show your teeth at me because you’re so proud they’re white. Lots of the fisher-girls have got better. That’s right, shut your lips up, and listen. What I’ve got to say is this; if I see any more of that nonsense there’ll be an explosion.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Madelaine, colouring more deeply.
“Yes, you do, miss. I saw Harry put his arm round your waist, and I won’t have it. What’s your father thinking about? Why, that boy’s no more fit to be your husband than that great, ugly, long brown-bearded Scotchman who poisons the air with his copper mine, is to be Louie’s.”
“Uncle, you are beyond bearing to-day.”
“Am I? Well then be off. But you mind, Miss Maddy, I won’t have it. You’ll be silly enough to marry some day, but when you do, you shall marry a man, not a feather-headed young ass, with no more brains than that bass. Ah, I’ve got you this time, have I?”
He had thrown in again, and this time struck and hooked a large fish, whose struggles he watched with grim satisfaction, till he drew it gasping and quivering on to the rock—a fine bass, whose silver sides glistened like those of a salmon, and whose sharp back fin stood up ready to cut the unwitting hand.
“Bad for him, Louie,” said the old man with a laugh; “but one must have dinners, eh? What a countenance!” he continued, holding up his fish, “puts me in mind of that fellow you have up at the house, what’s his name, Priddle, Fiddle?”
“Pradelle, uncle.”
“Ah, Pradelle. Of course he’s going back too.”
“Yes, uncle.”
“Don’t like him,” continued Uncle Luke, rebaiting quickly and throwing out; “that fellow has got scoundrel written in his face.”
“For shame! Mr. Vine,” said Madelaine, laughing. “Mr. Pradelle is very gentlemanly and pleasant.”
“Good-looking scoundrels always are, my dear. But he don’t want you. I watched him. Going to throw over the Scotchman and take to Miss Louie?”
“Uncle, you’ve got a bite,” said the girl coolly.
“Eh? So I have. Got him, too,” said the old man, striking and playing his