"A Novel" (continued 10)
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“Yes, there is something,” said Van Heldre quietly. “Look here, my dear Luke Vine.”
“Thought as much,” sneered the old man. “You want to borrow money, my dear Van Heldre.”
“No; I want to pay money, Luke Vine. It seems that you have returned that five hundred pounds to Crampton.”
“What five hundred pounds?”
“The money you—there, we will not dwell upon that old trouble, my dear Luke. Come; you know what I mean.”
“Oh, I see,” said the old man with much surprise. “That five hundred pounds. Well, what about it?”
“How could you be so foolish as to return my cheque?”
“Because you didn’t owe me the money.”
“Nonsense, my dear fellow! We are old friends, but that was entirely a business transaction.”
“Yes, of course it was.”
“Five hundred pounds were stolen.”
“Yes, and I was all right.”
“Exactly. Why should you suppose it was your money?”
“Suppose? Because it was mine—my new Bank of England notes.”
“How do you know that?”
“Never mind how I know it, and never mind talking about the money I didn’t lose.”
“But you did, Luke Vine, and heavily. Of course I am going to refund you the money.”
“You can’t, man.”
“Can’t?”
“No; because I’ve got it safely put away in my pocket-book.”
Van Heldre made an impatient gesticulation.
“I tell you I have. The same notes, same numbers, just as you laid them all together.”
“Nonsense, man! Come, Luke Vine, my dear old friend, let me settle this matter with you in a business-like way; I shall not be happy till I do.”
“Then you’ll have to wait a long time for happiness, John,” said Uncle Luke, smiling, “for you are not going to pay me.”
“But, my dear Luke.”
“But, my dear John! you men who turn over your thousands are as careless as boys over small amounts, as you call them.”
“Oh, come, Mr Luke Vine, sir,” said Crampton sturdily; “there’s no carelessness in this office.”
“Bah! Clerk!” cried Uncle Luke. “Careful, very. Then how was it the money was stolen?”
“Well, sir, nobody can guard against violence,” said Crampton sourly.
“Yes, they can, you pompous old antiquity. I could. I’m not a business man. I don’t have ledgers and iron safes and a big office, but I took care of the money better than you did.”
“My dear Luke Vine, what do you mean?” cried Van Heldre, after giving Crampton a look which seemed to say, “Don’t take any notice.”
“Mean? Why, what I said. You people were so careless that I didn’t trust you. I had no confidence.”
“Well, sir, you had confidence enough to place five hundred pounds in our house,” said Crampton gruffly.
“Yes, and you lost it.”
“Yes, sir, and our house offered you a cheque for the amount, and you sent it back.”
“Of course I did. I didn’t want my money twice over, did I?”
“Is this meant for a riddle, Luke?” said Van Heldre, annoyed, and yet amused.
“Riddle? No. I only want to prick that old bubble Crampton, who is so proud of the way in which he can take care of money, and who has always been these last ten years flourishing that iron safe in my face.”
“Really, Mr Luke Vine!”
“Hold your tongue, sir! Wasn’t my five hundred pounds—new crisp Bank of England notes—in your charge?”
“Yes, sir, in our charge.”
“Then, why didn’t you watch over them, and take care of ’em? Where are they now?”
“Well, sir, it is hard to say. They have never been presented at any bank.”
“Of course they haven’t, when I’ve got ’em safe in my pocket-book.”
“In your pocket-book, sir?”
“Yes. Don’t you believe me? There; look. Bit rubbed at the edges with being squeezed in the old leather, but there are the notes; aren’t they? Look at the numbers.”
As the old man spoke he took a shabby old pocket-book from his breast, opened it, and drew out a bundle of notes held together by an elastic band, and laid them on the office table with a bang.
“Bless my heart!” cried Crampton excitedly, as he hastily put on his spectacles and examined the notes, and compared them with an entry in a book. “Yes, sir,” he said to Van Heldre; “these are the very notes.”
“But how came you by them, Luke Vine?” cried Van Heldre, who looked as much astounded as his clerk.
“How came I by them?” snarled Uncle Luke. “Do you think five hundred pounds are to be picked up in the gutter. I meant that money, and more too, for that unfortunate boy; and the more careless he was the more necessary it became for me to look after his interests.”
“You meant that money for poor Harry?”
“To be sure I did, and by the irony of fate the poor misguided lad sent his companion to steal it.”
“Good heavens!” ejaculated Van Heldre, while Crampton nodded his head so sharply that his spectacles dropped off, and were only saved from breaking by a quick interposition of the hands.
“And did the foolish fellow restore the money to you?” said Van Heldre.
“Bah! no! He never had it.”
“Then how—”
“How? Don’t I tell you I watched—hung about the place, not feeling satisfied about my property, and I came upon my gentleman just as he was escaping with the plunder.”
“And—” exclaimed Crampton excitedly.
“I knocked him down—with that ruler, and got my money out of his breast. Narrow escape, but I got it.”
“Why did you not mention this before, Luke Vine?”
“Because I had got my money safe—because I wanted to give clever people a lesson—because I did not want to see my nephew in gaol—because I did not choose—because—Here, you Crampton, give me back those notes. Thankye, I’ll take care of them in future myself.”
He replaced the notes in the case, and buttoned it carefully in his breast.
“Luke, you astonish me,” cried Van Heldre.
“Eccentric, my dear sir, eccentric. Now, then, you see why I returned you the cheque. Morning.”
Crampton took out his silk pocket-handkerchief, and began to polish his glasses as he gazed hard at his employer after following Uncle Luke to the door, which was closed sharply.
“Poor Harry Vine!” said Van Heldre sadly. “Combining with another to rob himself. Surely the ways of sin are devious, Crampton?”
“Yes,” said the old man thoughtfully. “I wish I had waited till you got well.”
“Too late to think of that, Crampton,” said Van Heldre sadly. “When do you go to Pradelle’s trial?”
“There, sir, you’ve been an invalid, and you’re not well yet. Suppose we keep that trouble buried, and let other people dig it up, and I’ll go when I’m obliged. I suppose you don’t want to screen him?”
“I screen him?”
“Hah!” ejaculated the old clerk, who began rubbing his hands, “Then I’m all right there. I should like to see that fellow almost hung—not quite.”
“Poor wretch!”
“Know anything about—eh?”
“Harry Vine? Not yet. Only that he has escaped somewhere, I hope for good.”
“Yes, sir, I hope so too—for good.”
Chapter Sixty Six.
Tried in the Fire.
After, as it were, a race for life, the breathless competitors seemed to welcome the restful change, and the sleep that came almost unalloyed by the mental pangs which had left their marks upon the brows of young and old. And swift tides came and went with the calms and storms of the western coast, but somehow all seemed to tell of rest and peace.
It was a year after Victor Pradelle had been placed in what Sergeant Parkins facetiously termed one of her Majesty’s boarding schools, under a good master, that John Van Heldre wrote the following brief letter in answer to one that was very long, dated a month previous to the response, and bearing the post-mark of the Straits Settlements:—
“Harry Vine,—I quite appreciate what you say regarding your long silence. I am too old a man to believe in a hasty repentance forced on by circumstances. Hence, I say, you have done wisely in waiting a year before writing as fully as you have. George and Luke Vine have always been to me as brothers. You know how I felt toward their son. I say to him now you are acting wisely, and I am glad that you have met such a friend as Richard Leslie.
“Certainly; stay where you are, though there is nothing to fear now from the law, I guarantee that. The years soon roll by. I say this for all our sakes.
“As to the final words of your letter—one of my earliest recollections is that of my little hands being held together by one whom you lost too soon in life. Had your mother lived, your career might have been different. What I was taught as my little hands were held together, I still repeat: ‘As we forgive them that trespass against us.’ Yes. Some day I hope to give you in the flesh that which I give you in the spirit now—my hand.”
Six more years had passed before a broad-shouldered, bronzed, and bearded man—partner in the firm of Leslie and Vine, Singapore and Penang—grasped John Van Heldre’s hand, and asked him a question to which the old merchant replied: “Yes, all is forgiven and forgotten now. If you can win her; yes.”
But the days glided on and the question was not asked. Uncle Harry was constantly on the beach or down on the rocks with the two little prattling children of Duncan Leslie and his wife, and Uncle Luke, who seemed much the same, was rather disposed to be jealous of the favour in which the returned wanderer stood; but he indulged in a pleasant smile now and then, when he was not seen, and had taken to a habit of stopping his nephew on the beach at unexpected times, and apparently for no reason whatever.
The question was not asked, for Aunt Marguerite, who had taken to her bed for the past year, was evidently fading fast. As Dr Knatchbull said, she had been dying for months, and it was the state of her health which brought her nephew back to England, to find his old sins forgotten or forgiven, a year sooner than he had intended.
By slow degrees the vitality had passed from the old woman step by step, till the brain alone remained bright and clear. She was as exacting as ever, and insisted upon her bed being draped with flowers and lace and silk, and her one gratification was to be propped up, with a fan in one nerveless hand and a scent-bottle in the other, listening to the reading of some old page of French history, over which she smiled and softly nodded her head.
One day Harry was down near the harbour talking to Poll Perrow, whose society he often affected, to the old woman’s great delight, when Madelaine Van Heldre came to him hastily.
“Is anything wrong?” he asked excitedly.
She bowed her head, and for the moment could not speak.
“Aunt Marguerite?”
“Yes. I was reading to her, and you know her way, Harry; half mockingly she was telling me that I should never gain the pure French accent, when she seemed to change suddenly, and gasped out your name. Louy had not gone home; I was relieving her, as I often do now, and she is with her aunt. Leslie has gone to fetch Mr Vine, who is down on the shore with Uncle Luke.”
A few minutes later Harry was in the old lady’s room, the doctor making way for him to approach the bed, about which the rest of the family were grouped.
“There,” she said sharply, “you need not wait. I want to speak to Harry.”
He bent down to place his arm beneath the feeble neck, and she smiled up at him with the ruling passion still strong even in death, and her words came very faintly; but he heard them all.
“Remember, Harry, the hope of our family rests on you. We are the des Vignes, say what they will. Now marry—soon—some good, true woman, one of the Haute Noblesse.”
“Yes, aunt, I will.”
An hour later she was peacefully asleep.
“Closed in death,” said Harry Vine as he laid his hand reverently across the withered lids; “but her eyes must be open now, father, to the truth.”
There was to be a quiet little dinner at Leslie’s about a fortnight later, and after a walk down through the churchyard, the party were going up the steep cliff path. Leslie and his handsome young wife were on ahead; the old men coming slowly toiling on behind as Harry stopped with Madelaine in the well-known sheltered niche.
They stood gazing out at the sea, stretching as it were into infinity, and as they gazed they went on with their conversation, talking calmly of the quaint old lady’s prejudices and ways.
“Did you hear her last words?” said Harry gravely.
“Yes.”
The look which accompanied the answer was frank and calm. It seemed to lack emotion, but there was a depth of patient truth and trust therein which told of enduring faith.
“She would have me marry soon—some good, true woman, one of the Haute Noblesse.”
“Yes; it would be better so.”
“I have loved one of the Haute Noblesse for seven years as a weak, foolish boy—seven years as a trusting man—and she has not changed. Maddy, is my reward to come at last?”
As Madelaine placed her hands calmly in those extended to her she seemed without emotion still; but there was a joyous light in her brightening eyes, and then a deep flush suffused her cheeks, as two words were spoken by one of the trio of old men who had slowly toiled up toward where they stood.
“Thank God?”
It was George Vine who spoke, and the others seemed to look “Amen.”
The End.
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Chapter 1
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Chapter 2
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Chapter 3
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Chapter 4
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Chapter 5
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Chapter 6
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Chapter 7
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Chapter 8
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Chapter 9
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Chapter 10
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Chapter 11
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Chapter 12
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Chapter 13
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Chapter 14
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Chapter 15
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Chapter 16
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Chapter 17
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Chapter 18
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Chapter 19
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Chapter 20
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Chapter 21
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Chapter 22
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Chapter 23
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Chapter 24
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Chapter 25
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Chapter 26
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Chapter 27
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Chapter 28
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Chapter 29
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Chapter 30
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Chapter 31
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Chapter 32
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Chapter 33
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Chapter 34
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Chapter 35
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Chapter 36
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Chapter 37
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Chapter 38
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Chapter 39
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Chapter 40
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Chapter 41
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Chapter 42
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Chapter 43
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Chapter 44
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Chapter 45
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Chapter 46
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Chapter 47
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Chapter 48
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Chapter 49
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Chapter 50
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Chapter 51
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Chapter 52
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Chapter 53
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Chapter 54
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Chapter 55
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Chapter 56
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Chapter 57
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Chapter 58
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Chapter 59
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Chapter 60
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Chapter 61
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Chapter 62
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Chapter 63
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Chapter 64
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Chapter 65
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Chapter 66
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