Uncle Luke was in very good spirits. He had rid himself of his incubus,
as he called the sum of money, and though he would not own it, he always
felt better when he had had a little converse with his fellow-creatures.
His lonely life was very miserable, and the more so that he insisted
upon its being the highest form of happiness to exist in hermit fashion,
as the old saints proved.
The desolate hut in its rocky niche looked miserable when he climbed up
back on his return from Van Heldre's, so he stopped by the granite wall
and smiled.
"Finest prospect in all Cornwall," he said, half aloud; "freshest air.
Should like to blow up Leslie's works, though."
The door was locked, but it yielded to the heavy key which secured it
against visitors, though they were very rare upon that rocky shelf.
He was the more surprised then, after his frugal mid-day meal, by a
sharp rapping at the door, and on going he stared angrily at the two
sturdy sailor-dressed pedlars, who were resting their packs on the low
granite wall.
"Can we sell a bit o' 'bacco, or a pound o' tea, master?" said the man
who had won over Liza to the purchase of his coloured silk.
"Bang!"
That was Uncle Luke's answer as the man spoke to him and his fellow
swept the interior of the cottage with one quick glance.
"Steal as soon as sell any day," grumbled Uncle Luke. "Tobacco and tea,
indeed!"
Outside one of the men gave his companion a wink and a laugh, as he
shouldered his pack, while the other chuckled and followed his example.
Meanwhile Uncle Luke had seated himself at his rough deal table, and
written a long business letter to his lawyer in London.
This missive he read over twice, made an addition to the paragraph
dealing most particularly with the mortgage on which he had been invited
to lend, and then carefully folded the square post-paper he used in
old-fashioned letter shape, tucking one end into the other from objects
of economy, so as to dispense with envelopes, but necessitating all the
same the use of sealing-wax and a light.
However, it pleased him to think that he was saving, and he lit a very
thin candle, took the stick of red wax from a drawer, a curious
old-fashioned signet gold ring bearing the family crest from a nail
where it hung over the fireplace, and then, sitting down as if to some
very important piece of business, he burned his wax, laid on a liberal
quantity, and then impressed the seal. This done, the ring was hung
once more upon its nail, and the old man stood gazing at it and
thinking. The next minute he took down the ring, and slipped it on one
of his fingers, and worked it up and down, trying it on another finger,
and then going back to the first.
"Used to fit too tightly," he said: "now one's fingers are little more
than bone."
He held up the ring to the light, his white hand looking very thin and
wasted, and the worn gold glistened and the old engraved blood-stone
showed its design almost as clearly as when it was first cut.
"`Roy et Foy!'" muttered the old man, reading the motto beneath the
crest. "Bit of vanity. Margaret asked where it was, last time I saw
her. Let's see; I lost you twice, once when I wore you as I was fishing
off the pier, and once on the black rock you slipped off my bony finger,
and each time the sea washed you into a crack."
He smiled as he gazed at the ring, and there was a pleasant, handsome
trace of what he had been as a young man in his refined features.
"Please the young dog--old family ring," he muttered. "Might sell it
and make a pound. No, he may have it when I'm gone. Can't be so very
long."
He hung the ring upon the nail once more, and spent the rest of the
afternoon gazing out to sea, sometimes running over the past, but more
often looking out for the glistening and flashing of the sea beneath
where a flock of gulls were hovering over some shoal of fish.
It was quite evening when there was a staid, heavy step and the click of
nailed boots as the old fish-woman came toiling up the cliff-path, her
basket on her back, and the band which supported it across her brow.
"Any fish to sell, Master Vine?" she said in a sing-song tone. "I
looked down the pier, but you weren't there."
"How could I be there when I'm up here, Poll Perrow?"
"Ah, to be sure; how could you?" said the old woman, trying to nod her
head, but without performing the feat, on account of her basket. "Got
any fish to sell?"
"No. Yes," said the old man. "That's right. I want some to-night.
Will you go and fetch it?"
"Yes. Stop there," said Uncle Luke sourly, as he saw a chance of making
a few pence, and wondered whether he would get enough from his customer.
"Mind my sitting down inside, Master Luke Vine, sir? It's hot, and I'm
tired; and it's a long way up here."
"Why do you come, then?"
"Wanted to say a few words to you about my gal when we've done our bit
o' trade."
"Come in and sit down, then," said the old man gruffly. And his visitor
slipped the leather band from her forehead, set her basket on the
granite wall, and went into the kitchen-like room, wiping her brow as
she seated herself in the old rush-bottomed chair.
"I'll fetch it here," said Uncle Luke, and he went round to the back, to
return directly with the second half of the conger.
"There," said the old man eagerly, "how much for that?"
"Oh, I can't buy half a conger, Mr Luke Vine, sir; and I don't know as
I'd have took it if it had been whole."
"Then be off, and don't come bothering me," grunted the old man
snappishly.
"Don't be cross, master; you've no call to be. You never have no gashly
troubles to worry you."
"No, nor don't mean to have. What's the matter now?"
"My gal!"
"Serve you right. No business to have married. You never saw me make
such a fool of myself."
"No, master, never; but when you've got gals you must do your best for
'em."
"Humph! what's the matter?" Poll Perrow looked slowly round the
ill-furnished, untidy place.
"You want a woman here, Master Luke Vine, sir," she said at last.
"Don't talk nonsense!"
"It aren't nonsense, Master Luke Vine, and you know it. You want your
bed made proper, and your washing done, and your place scrubbed. Now
why don't you let my gal come up every morning to do these things?"
"Look here," said Uncle Luke, "what is it you mean?"
"She's got into a scrape at Mr Vine's, sir--something about some money
being missing--and I suppose she'll have to come home, so I want to get
her something to do."
"Oh, she isn't honest enough for my brother's house, but she's honest
enough for mine."
"Oh, the gal's honest enough. It's all a mistake. But I can't afford
to keep her at home, so, seeing as we'd had dealings together, I thought
you'd oblige me and take her here."
"Seeing as we'd had dealings together!" grumbled Uncle Luke.
"Everything is so untidy-like, sir," said the old fish-dealer, looking
round. "Down at your brother's there's everything a gentleman could
wish for, but as to your place--why, there: it's worse than mine."
"Look here, Poll Perrow," said the old eccentricity fiercely, "this is
my place, and I do in it just as I like. I don't want your girl to come
and tidy my place, and I don't want you to come and bother me, so be
off. There's a letter; take it down and post it for me: and there's a
penny for your trouble."
"Thank ye, master. Penny saved is a penny got; but Mr George Vine
would have given me sixpence--I'm not sure he wouldn't have given me a
shilling. Miss Louise would."
Uncle Luke was already pointing at the door, towards which the woman
moved unwillingly.
"Let me come up to-morrow and ask you, Mr Luke, sir. Perhaps you'll be
in a better temper then."
"Better temper!" he cried wrathfully. "I'm always in a better temper.
Because I refuse to ruin myself by having your great, idle girl to eat
me out of house and home, I'm not in a good temper, eh? There, be off!
or I shall say something unpleasant."
"I'm a-going, sir. It's all because I wouldn't buy half a fish, as I
should have had thrown on my hands, and been obliged to eat myself.
Look here, sir," cried the woman, as she adjusted the strap of her
basket, "if I buy the bit of fish will you take the poor gal then?"
"No!" cried Uncle Luke, slamming the door, as the woman stood with her
basket once more upon her back.
"Humph!" exclaimed the old woman, as she thrust the penny in her pocket,
and then hesitated as to where she should place the letter.
While she was considering, the little window was opened and Uncle Luke's
head appeared.
"Mind you don't lose that letter."
"Never you fear about that," said the old woman; and as if from a bright
inspiration she pitched it over her head into her basket, and then
trudged away.
"She'll lose that letter as sure as fate," grunted Uncle Luke. "Well,
there's nothing in it to mind. Now I suppose I can have a little peace,
and--Who's this?"
He leaned a little farther out of his window, so as to bring a curve of
the cliff-path well into view.
"My beautiful nephew and that parasite. Going up to Leslie, I suppose--
to smoke. Waste and debauchery--smoking."
He shut the window sharply, and settled himself down with his back to
it, determined not to see his nephew pass; but five minutes later there
was a sharp rapping at the door.
"Uncle Luke! Uncle!"
The old man made no reply.
"Here, Uncle Luke. I know you're at home; the old woman said so."
"Hang that old woman!" grumbled Uncle Luke; and in response to a fresh
call he rose, and opened his door with a snatch.
"Now then, what is it? I'm just going to bed."
"Bed at this time of the day?" cried Harry cheerfully. "Why you
couldn't go to sleep if you did go."
"Why not?" snapped the old man; "you can in the mornings--over the
ledger."
Harry winced, but he turned off the malicious remark with a laugh.
"Uncle loves his joke, Pradelle," he said. "Come, uncle, I don't often
visit you; ask us in."
"No, you don't often visit me, Harry," said the old man, looking at him
searchingly; "and when you do come it's because you want something."
Harry winced again, for the old man's words cut deeply.
"Oh, nonsense, uncle! Pradelle and I were having a stroll, and we
thought we'd drop in here and smoke a cigar with you."
"Very kind," said the old man, looking meaningly from one to the other.
"Missed meeting the girls, or have they snubbed you and sent you about
your business?"
"Have a cigar, uncle?" said Harry, holding out his case. "I tell you we
came on purpose to see you."
"Humph!" said Uncle Luke, taking the handsome morocco cigar-case, and
turning it over and over with great interest. "How much did that cost?"
"Don't remember now: fifteen shillings I think."
"Ah," said Uncle Luke, pressing the snap and opening it. "One, two,
three, four; how much do these cigars cost?"
"Only fourpence, uncle; can't afford better ones."
"And a cigar lasts--how long?"
"Oh, I make one last three-quarters of an hour, because I smoke very
slowly. Try one one."
"No, thankye; can't afford such luxuries, my boy," said the old man,
shutting the case with a snap, and returning it. "That case and the
cigars there cost nearly a pound. Your income must be rising fast."
Harry and Pradelle exchanged glances. The reception did not promise
well for a loan. "Cigar does you good sometimes."
"Harry," said the old man, laughing and pointing at the case.
"What's the matter, uncle?" said Harry eagerly; "want one?"
"No, no. Why didn't you have it put on there?"
"What?"
"Crest and motto, and your title--Comte des Vignes. You might lose it,
and then people would know where to take it."
"Don't chaff a fellow, uncle," said Harry, colouring. "Here, we may
come and sit down, mayn't we?"
"Oh, certainly, if your friend will condescend to take a seat in my
homely place."
"Only too happy, Mr Luke Vine."
"Are you now? Shouldn't have thought it," sneered the old man. "No
wine to offer you, sir; no brandy and soda; that's the stuff young men
drink now, isn't it?"
"Don't name it, my dear sir; don't name it," said Pradelle, with an
attempt at heartiness that made the old man half close his eyes. "Harry
and I only came up for a stroll. Besides, we've just dined."
"Have you? That's a good job, because I've only a bit of conger in the
house, and that isn't cooked. Come in and sit down, sir. You, Harry,
you'll have to sit down on that old oak chest."
"Anywhere will do for me, uncle. May we smoke?"
"Oh, yes, as fast as you like; it's too slow a poison for you to die up
here."
"Hope so," said Harry, whose mission and the climb had made him very
warm.
"Now, then," said Uncle Luke, fixing his eyes on Pradelle--like gimlets,
as that gentleman observed on the way back; "what is it?"
"Eh? I beg pardon; the business here is Harry's."
"Be fair, Vic," said Harry, shortly; "the business appertains to both."
"Does it really," said Uncle Luke, with a mock display of interest.
"Yes, uncle," said the nephew, uneasily, as he sat twiddling the gold
locket attached to his chain, and his voice sounded husky; "it relates
to both."
"Really!" said Uncle Luke, with provoking solemnity, as he looked from
one to the other. "Well, I was young myself once. Now, look here; can
I make a shrewd guess at what you want!"
"I'll be bound to say you could, sir," said Pradelle, in despite of an
angry look from Harry, who knew his uncle better, and foresaw a trap.
"Then I'll guess," said the old man, smiling pleasantly; "you want some
money."
"Yes, uncle, you're right," said Harry, as cautiously as a fencer
preparing for a thrust from an expert handler of the foils.
"Hah! I thought I was. Well, young men always were so. Want a little
money to spend, eh?"
"Well, uncle, I--"
"Wait a minute, my boy," said the old man, seriously; "let me see. I
don't want to disappoint you and your friend as you've come all this
way. Your father wouldn't let you have any, I suppose?"
"Haven't asked him, sir."
"That's right, Harry," said the old man, earnestly; "don't, my boy,
don't. George always was close with his money. Well, I'll see what I
can do. How much do you want to spend--a shilling?"
"Hang it all, uncle!" cried Harry angrily, and nearly tearing off his
locket, "don't talk to me as if I were a little boy. I want a hundred
pounds."
"Yes, sir, a hundred pounds," said Pradelle.
"A hundred, eh? A hundred pounds. Do you, now?" said Uncle Luke,
without seeming in the slightest degree surprised.
"The fact is, uncle, my friend Pradelle here is always hearing of
openings for making a little money by speculations, and we have a chance
now that would make large returns for our venture."
"Hum! hah!" ejaculated Uncle Luke, as he looked at Pradelle in a quiet,
almost appealing way. "Let me see, Mr Pradelle. You are a man of
property, are you not!"
"Well, sir, hardly that," said Pradelle nonchalantly; and he rose,
placed his elbows on the rough chimney-piece, and leaned back with his
legs crossed as he looked down at Uncle Luke. "My little bit of an
estate brings me in a very small income."
"Estate here?"
"No, no; in France, near Marseilles."
"That's awkward; a long way off."
"Go on," said Pradelle with his eyes, as he glanced at Harry.
"No good. Making fun of us," said Harry's return look; and the old
man's eyes glistened.
"Hundred pounds. Speculation, of course?"
"Hardly fair to call it speculation, it is so safe," said Pradelle, in
face of a frown from his friend.
"Hum! A hundred pounds--a hundred pounds," said Uncle Luke
thoughtfully. "It's a good deal of money."
"Oh, dear me, no, sir," said Pradelle. "In business matters a mere
trifle."
"Ah! you see I'm not a business man. Why don't you lend it to my
nephew, Mr Pradelle?"
"I--I'm--well--er--really, I--The fact is, sir, every shilling I have is
locked up."
"Then I should advise you to lose the key, Mr Pradelle," chuckled the
old man, "or you may be tempted to spend it."
"You're playing with us, uncle," cried Harry. "Look here, will you lend
me a hundred? I promise you faithfully I'll pay it to you back."
"Oh! of course, of course, my dear boy."
"Then you'll lend it to me?"
"Lend you a hundred? My dear boy, I haven't a hundred pounds to lend
you. And see how happy I am without!"
"Well, then, fifty, uncle. I'll make that do."
"Come, I like that, Harry," cried the old man, fixing Pradelle with his
eye. "There's something frank and generous about it. It's brave, too;
isn't it, sir?"
"Yes, sir. Harry's as frank and good-hearted a lad as ever stepped."
"Thank you, Mr Pradelle. It's very good of you to say so."
"Come along, Vic," said Harry.
"Don't hurry, my dear boy. So you have an estate in France, have you,
Mr Pradelle?"
"Yes, sir."
"Humph; so has Harry--at least he will have some day, I suppose. Yes,
he is going to get it out of the usurper's hands--usurper is the word,
isn't it, Harry?"
Harry gave a kick out with one leg.
"Yes, usurper is the word. He's going to get the estate some day, Mr
Pradelle; and then he is going to be a Count. Of course he will have to
give up being Mr Van Heldre's clerk then."
"Look here, uncle," cried the young man hotly; "if you will not lend me
the money, you needn't insult me before my friend."
"Insult you, my dear boy? Not I. What a peppery fellow you are! Now
your aunt will tell you that this is your fine old French aristocratic
blood effervescing; but it can't be good for you."
"Come along, Vic," said Harry.
"Oh, of course," said Pradelle. "I'm sorry, though. Fifty pounds isn't
much, sir; perhaps you'll think it over."
"Eh? think it over. Of course I shall. Sorry I can't oblige you,
gentlemen. Good evening."
"Grinning at us all the time--a miserable old miser!" said Harry, as
they began to walk back. "He'd have done it if you hadn't made such a
mess of it, Vic, with your free-and-easy way."
"It's precious vexatious, Harry; but take care, or you'll sling that
locket out to sea," said Pradelle, after they had been walking for about
ten minutes. "You'll have to think about my proposal. You can't go on
like this."
"No," said Harry fiercely; "I can't go on like this, and I'll have the
money somehow."
"Bravo! That's spoken like a man who means business. Harry, if you
keep to that tone, we shall make a huge fortune apiece. How will you
get the money?"
"I'll ask Duncan Leslie for it. He can't refuse me. I should like to
see him say `No.' He must and he shall."
"Then have a hundred, dear lad. Don't be content with fifty."
"I will not, you may depend upon that," cried Harry, "and--"
He stopped short, and turned white, then red, and took half-a-dozen
strides forward towards where Madelaine Van Heldre was seated upon one
of the stone resting-places in a niche in the cliff--the very one where
Duncan Leslie had had his unpleasant conversation with Aunt Marguerite.
The presence of his sister's companion, in spite of their being slightly
at odds, might have been considered pleasant to Harry Vine; and at any
other time it would have been, but in this instance she was bending
slightly forward, and listening to Duncan Leslie, who was standing with
his back to the young men.
Only a minute before, and Harry Vine had determined that with the power
given by Leslie's evident attachment to his sister, he would make that
gentleman open his cash-box or write a cheque on the Penzance bank for a
hundred pounds.
The scene before him altered Harry Vine's ideas, and sent the blood
surging up to his brain.
He stepped right up to Madelaine, giving Leslie a furious glance as that
gentleman turned, and without the slightest preface, exclaimed--
"Look here, Madelaine, it's time you were at home. Come along with me."
Madelaine flushed as she rose; and her lips parted as if to speak, but
Leslie interposed.
"Excuse me, Miss Van Heldre, I do not think you need reply to such a
remark as that."
"Who are you?" roared Harry, bursting into a fit of passion that was
schoolboy-like in its heat and folly. "Say another word, sir, and I'll
pitch you off the cliff into the sea."
"Here, steady, old fellow, steady!" whispered Pradelle; and he laid his
hand on his companion's arm.
"You mind your own business, Vic; and as for you--"
He stopped, for he could say no more. Leslie had quite ignored his
presence, turning his back and offering his arm to Madelaine.
"Shall I walk home with you, Miss Van Heldre?" he said.
For answer, and without so much as looking at Harry Vine, Madelaine took
the offered arm, and Pradelle tightened his hold as the couple walked
away.
The grasp was needless, for Harry's rage was evaporating fast, and
giving place to a desolate sensation of despair.
"Look here," said Pradelle; "you've kicked that over. You can't ask him
now."
"No," said Harry, gazing at the departing figures, and trying to call up
something about the fair daughters of France; "no, I can't ask him now."
"Then look here, old fellow, I can't stand by and see you thrown over by
everybody like this. You know what your prospects are on your own
relative's showing, not mine; and you know what can be done if we have
the money. You are not fit for this place, and I say you shall get out
of it. Now then, you know how it can be done. Just a loan for a few
weeks. Will you, or will you not?" Harry turned upon him a face that
was ghastly pale. "But if," he whispered hoarsely, "if we should fail?"
"Fail? You shan't fail."
"One hundred," said Harry, hoarsely. "Well, I suppose so. We'll make
that do. Now then, I'm not going to waste time. Is it yes or no?"
Harry Vine felt a peculiar humming in the head, his mouth was hot and
dry, and his lips felt parched. He looked Pradelle in the face, as if
pleading to be let off, but there was only a cunning, insistent smile to
meet him there, and once more the question came in a sharp whisper,
"Yes or no?"
"Yes," said Harry; and as soon as he had said that word, it was as if a
black cloud had gathered about his life.
Volume 1, Chapter XV.