"A Novel" (continued 3)

“How much is there?” said Van Heldre, opening the fishy brown paper, and taking therefrom sundry crisp new Bank of England notes.

“Five hundred and fifty,” said Uncle Luke. “Count ’em over.”

This was already being done, Van Heldre having moistened a finger, and begun handling the notes in regular bank-clerk style.

“All right; five fifty,” he said.

“And he said they were shrimps,” said Mrs Van Heldre.

“Eh? I did?” said Uncle Luke with a grim look and a twinkle of the eye. “Nonsense, it must have been you.”

“Look here, Luke Vine,” said Van Heldre; “is it any use to try and teach you at your time of life?”

“Not a bit; so don’t try.”

“But why expose yourself to all this trouble and risk? Why didn’t your broker send you a cheque?”

“Because I wouldn’t let him.”

“Why not have a banking account, and do all your money transactions in an ordinary way?”

“Because I like to do things in my own way. I don’t trust bankers, nor anybody else.”

“Except my husband,” said Mrs Van Heldre, beaming.

“Nonsense, ma’am, I don’t trust him a bit. You do as I tell you, Van. Put those notes in your safe till I ask you for them. I had that bit of money in a company I doubted, so I sold out. I shall put it in something else soon.”

“You’re a queer fellow, Luke.”

“Eh? I’m not the only one of my family, am I? What’s to become of brother George when that young scape-grace has ruined him? What’s to become of Louie, when we’re all dead and buried, and out of all this worry and care? What’s to become of my mad sister, who squandered her money on a French scamp, and made what she calls her heart bankrupt?”

“Nearly done questioning?” said Van Heldre, doubling the notes longwise.

“No, I haven’t, and don’t play with that money as if it was your wife’s curl-papers.”

Van Heldre shrugged his shoulders, and placed the notes in his pocket.

“And as I was saying when your husband interrupted me so rudely, Mrs Van Heldre, what’s to become of that boy by-and-by? Money’s useful sometimes, though I don’t want it myself.”

“Ah! you needn’t look at me, Mr Luke Vine. It’s of no use for you to pretend to be a cynic with me.”

“Never pretend anything, ma’am,” said Uncle Luke rising; “and don’t be rude. I did mean to come in and have some conger-pie to-night; now I won’t.”

“No, you didn’t mean to do anything of the sort, Luke Vine,” said Mrs Van Heldre tartly; “I know you better than that. If I’ve asked you to come and have a bit of dinner with us like a Christian once, I’ve asked you five hundred times, and one might just as well ask the hard rock.”

“Just as well, ma’am; just as well. There, I’m going. Take care of that money, Van. I shall think out a decent investment one of these days.”

“When you want it there it is,” said Van Heldre quietly.

“Hope it will be. And now look here; I want to know a little more about the Count.”

“The Count?” said Mrs Van Heldre.

“My nephew, ma’am. And I hope you feel highly honoured at having so distinguished a personage in your husband’s service.”

“What does he mean, dear?”

“Mean, ma’am? Why you know how his aunt has stuffed his head full of nonsense about French estates.”

“Oh! that, and the old title,” cried Mrs Van Heldre. “There, don’t say any more about it, for if there is anything that worries me, it’s all that talk about French descents.”

“Why, hang it, ma’am, you don’t think your husband is a Frenchman, and that my sister, who has made it all the study of her life, is wrong?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care whether my husband’s a Dutchman or a double Dutchman by birth; all I know is he’s a very good husband to me and a good father to his child; and I thank God, Mr Luke Vine, every night that things are just as they are; so that’s all I’ve got to say.”

“Tut—tut! tut—tut! This is all very dreadful, Van,” said Uncle Luke, fastening his basket, and examining his old straw hat to see which was the best side to wear in front; “I can’t stand any more of this. Here, do you want a bit of advice?”

“Yes, if it’s good.”

“Ah! I was forgetting about the Count. Keep the curb tight and keep him in use.”

“I shall do both, Luke, for George’s sake,” said Van Heldre warmly.

“Good, lad!—I mean, more fool you!” said Uncle Luke, stumping out after ignoring extended hands and giving each a nod. “That’s all.”

He left the room, closing the door after him as loudly as he could without the shock being considered a bang; and directly after the front door was served in the same way, and they saw him pass the window.

“Odd fish, Luke,” said Van Heldre.

“Odd! I sometimes think he’s half mad.”

“Nonsense, my dear; no more mad than Hamlet. Here he is again.”

For the old man had come back, and was tapping the window-frame with his stick.

“What’s the matter?” said Van Heldre, throwing open the window, when Uncle Luke thrust in the basket he carried and his stick, resting his arms on the window-sill.

“Don’t keep that piece of conger in this hot room all the morning,” he said pointing with his stick.

“Why, goodness me, Luke Vine, how can you talk like that?” cried Mrs Van Heldre indignantly.

“Easy enough, ma’am. Forgot my bit of advice,” said Uncle Luke, speaking to his old friend, but talking at Mrs Van Heldre.

“What is it?”

“Send that girl of yours to a boarding school.”

“Bless my heart, Luke Vine, what for?” cried the lady of the house. “Why, she finished two years ago.”

“To keep her out of the way of George Vine’s stupid boy, and because her mother’s spoiling her. Morning.”

Chapter Thirteen.

To Reap the Wind.

Late dinner was nearly over—at least late according to the ideas of the West-Country family, who sat down now directly Harry returned from his office work. Aunt Marguerite, after a week in her bedroom, had come down that day, the trouble with Liza exciting her; and that maiden had rather an unpleasant time as she waited at table, looking red-eyed and tearful, for Aunt Marguerite watched her with painful, basilisk-like stare all through the meal, the consequence being a series of mishaps and blunders, ending with the spilling of a glass dish of clotted cream.

With old-fashioned politeness, Aunt Marguerite tried to take Pradelle’s attention from the accident.

“Are you going for a walk this evening, Mr Pradelle?”

“Yes,” he said; “I daresay we shall smoke a cigar together after the labours of the day.”

Aunt Marguerite sighed and looked pained.

“Tobacco! Yes, Mr Pradelle,” she sighed; and she continued, in a low tone, “Do pray try to use your influence on poor Henri, to coax him from these bad pursuits.”

Harry was talking cynically to his sister and Madelaine, who had been pressed by Vine to stay, a message having been sent down to the Van Heldres to that effect.

“The old story,” he said to himself; and then, as he caught his sister’s eye after she had gazed uneasily in the direction of her aunt; “yes, she’s talking about me. Surely you don’t mind that.”

He, too, glanced now in Aunt Marguerite’s direction, as Pradelle talked to her in a slow, impressive tone.

“Ah! no,” said Aunt Marguerite, in a playful whisper, “nothing of the kind. A little boy and girl badinage in the past. Look for yourself, Mr Pradelle; there is no warmth there! My nephew cannot marry a Dutch doll.”

“Lover’s tiff, perhaps,” said Pradelle.

“No, no,” said Aunt Marguerite, shaking her head confidently. “Harry is a little wild and changeable, but he pays great heed to my words and advice. Still I want your help, Mr Pradelle. Human nature is weak. Harry must win back his French estates.”

“Hear that, Louie?” said Harry, for Aunt Marguerite had slightly raised her voice.

“Yes, I heard,” said Louise quietly.

“Aunt is sick of seeing her nephew engaged in a beggarly trade.”

“For which Mr Henry Vine seems much too good,” said Madelaine to herself, as she darted an indignant glance at the young man. “Oh, Harry, what a weak, foolish boy you are! I don’t love you a bit. It was all a mistake.”

“I hate business,” continued Harry, as he encountered her eyes fixed upon him.

“Yes,” said Louise coldly, as an angry feeling of annoyance shot through her on her friend’s behalf. “Harry has no higher ambition than to lead a lap-dog kind of life in attendance upon Aunt Marguerite, and listening to her stories of middle-aged chivalry.”

“Thank goodness?” said Harry, as they rose from the table. “No, no, aunt, I don’t want any coffee. I should stifle if I stopped here much longer.”

Aunt Marguerite frowned as the young man declined the invitation to come to her side.

“Only be called a lap-dog again. Here Vic, let’s go and have a cigar down by the sea.”

“Certainly,” said Pradelle, smiling at all in turn.

“Yes, the room is warm,” said the host, who had hardly spoken all through the dinner, being deep in thought upon one of his last discoveries.

Harry gave his sister a contemptuous look, which she returned with one half sorrowful, half pitying, from which he turned to glance at Madelaine, who was standing by her friend.

Aunt Marguerite smiled, for there was certainly the germ of an incurable rupture between these two, and she turned away her head to hide her triumph.

“She will never forgive him for speaking as he did about the beggarly trade.” Then crossing with a graceful old-world carriage, she laid her hand on Madelaine’s arm.

“Come into the drawing-room, my dear,” she said, smiling, and to Madelaine it seemed that her bright, malicious-looking eyes were full of triumph. “You and I will have a good hard fight over genealogies, till you confess that I am right, and that your father and you have no claim to Huguenot descent.”

“Oh, no, Miss Vine,” said the girl, laughing, “my father must fight his own battle. As for me, I give up. Perhaps you are right, and I am only a Dutch girl after all.”

“Oh, I wish we were back in London!” cried Harry as they strolled along towards the cliff walk.

“Ah, this is a dead-and-alive place, and no mistake,” said Pradelle.

“Why don’t you leave it then?” said Harry sulkily. “You are free.”

“No, I am not. I don’t like to see a friend going to the bad; and besides I have your aunt’s commission to try and save you from sinking down into a miserable tradesman.”

“Why don’t you save me, then?”

“That’s just like you. Look here, sink all cowardice, and go lip to the old boy like a Trojan. Plenty of money, hasn’t he?”

“I suppose so. I don’t know.”

“He’s sure to have.”

“But he’s such an old porcupine.”

“Never mind. Suppose you do get a few pricks, what of that? Think of the future.”

“But that venture must be all over now.”

“What of that? You get the money and I can find a dozen ways of investing it. Look here, Harry, you profess to by my friend, and to have confidence in my judgment, and yet you won’t trust me.”

“I trusted you over several things, and see how I lost.”

“Come, that’s unkind. A man can’t always win. There, never look back, look forward. Show some fight, and make one good plunge to get out of that miserable shop-boy sort of life.”

“Come along then.”

“You’ll go up and ask him?”

“Yes, if you’ll back me up.”

“Back you up, lad? I should think I will. Lead on, I’ll follow thee.”

“We’ll do it sensibly, then. If you speak before Uncle Luke in that theatrical way we shall come down faster then we go up.”

“I’ll talk to the old man like a young Solomon. And he shall say that never did youth choose more wisely for his friend than Harry Vine, otherwise Henri, Comte des Vignes.”

“Look here,” said Harry, peevishly—“‘otherwise Comte des Vignes.’ Why don’t you say alias at once? Why, if the old man heard that, he’d want to know how long it was since you were in a police-court. Here, you’d better stay down here.”

“All right, my dear fellow. Anything to help you on.”

“No; I’d rather you came too.”

There was a pause in a niche of the rocks, and then, after the scratching of a match, the young men went up the cliff path, smoking furiously, as they prepared themselves for the attack.

Chapter Fourteen.

Diogenes in his Tub.

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 that 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.”

“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 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 a-piece. 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.

Chapter Fifteen.

My Aunt’s Bête Noire.

Duncan Leslie was a sturdy, manly young fellow in his way, but he had arrived at a weak period. He thought over his position, and what life would become had he a wife at home he really loved; and in spite of various displays of reserve, and the sneers, hints, and lastly the plain declaration that Louise was to marry some French gentleman of good family and position, Duncan found himself declaring that his ideas were folly one hour, and the next he was vowing that he would not give up, but that he would win in spite of all the Frenchmen on the face of the earth.

“I must have a walk,” he used to say. “If I stop poring over books now, I shall be quite thick-headed to-morrow. A man must study his health.”

So Duncan Leslie studied his health, and started off that evening in a different direction to the Vines’; and then, in spite of himself, began to make a curve, one which grew smaller and smaller as he walked thoughtfully on.

“I don’t see why I should not call,” he said to himself. “There’s no harm in that. Wish I had found some curious sea-anemone; I could go and ask the old man what it was—and have her sweet clear eyes reading me through and through. I should feel that I had lowered myself in her sight.”

“No,” he said, emphatically; “I’ll be straightforward and manly over it if I can.”

“Hang that old woman! She doesn’t like me. There’s a peculiarly malicious look in her eyes whenever we meet. Sneering fashion, something like her old brother, only he seems honest and she does not. I’d give something to know whether Louise cares for that French fellow. If she doesn’t, why should she be condemned to a life of misery? Could I make her any happier?”

“I’ll go home now.”

“No, I—I will not; I’ll call.”

These questions had been scattered over Duncan Leslie’s walk, and the making up of his mind displayed in the last words was three-quarters of an hour after the first.

“I’m no better than a weak boy,” he said, as he strode along manfully now. “I make mountains of molehills. What can be more natural and neighbourly than for me to drop in, as I am going to do, for a chat with old Vine?”

There was still that peculiar feeling of consciousness, though, to trouble him, as he knocked, and was admitted by Liza, whose eyelids were nearly as red as the ribbon she had bought.

The next minute he was in the pleasant homely drawing-room, feeling a glow of love and pride, and ready to do battle with any de Ligny in France for the possession of the prize whose soft warm hand rested for a few moments in his.

“Ah, Miss Van Heldre,” he said, as he shook hands with her in turn, and his face lit up and a feeling of satisfaction thrilled him, for there was something in matter-of-fact Madelaine that gave him confidence.

Aunt Marguerite’s eyes twinkled with satisfaction, as she saw the cordial greeting, and built up a future of her own materials.

“Miss Marguerite,” said the young man ceremoniously, as he touched the extended hand, manipulated so that he should only grasp the tips; and, as he saluted, Leslie could not help thinking philosophically upon the different sensations following the touch of a hand.

A growing chill was coming over the visit, and Leslie was beginning to feel as awkward as a sturdy well-grown young tree might, if suddenly transplanted from a warm corner to a situation facing an iceberg, when the old naturalist handed a chair for his visitor.

“Glad to see you, Leslie,” he said; “sit down.”

“You will take some tea, Mr Leslie?”

Hah! The moment before the young man had felt ready to beat an ignominious retreat, but as soon as the voice of Louise Vine rang in his ears with that simple homely question, he looked up manfully, declared that he would take some tea, and in spite of himself glanced at Aunt Marguerite’s tightening lips, his eyes seeming to say, “Now, then, march out a brigade of de Lignys if you like.”

“And sugar, Mr Leslie?”

“And sugar,” he said, for he was ready to accept any sweets she would give.

Then he took the cup of tea, looked in the eyes that met his very frankly and pleasantly, and then his own rested upon a quaint-looking cornelian locket, which was evidently French.

There was nothing to an ordinary looker-on in that piece of jewellery, but somehow it troubled Duncan Leslie; and as he turned to speak to Aunt Marguerite, he felt that she had read his thoughts, and her lips had relaxed into a smile.

“Well, George, if you do not mind Mr Leslie hearing, I do not,” said Aunt Marguerite. “I must reiterate that the poor boy is growing every day more despondent and unhappy.”

“Nonsense, Margaret!”

“Ah, you may say nonsense, my good brother, but I understand his nature better that you. Yes, my dear,” she continued, “such a trade as that carried on by Mr Van Heldre is not a suitable avocation for your son.”

“Hah!” sighed Vine.

“Now, you are a tradesman, Mr Leslie—” continued Aunt Marguerite.

“Eh? I, a tradesman?” said Leslie, looking at her wonderingly. “Yes, of course; I suppose so; I trade in copper and tin.”

“Yes, a tradesman, Mr Leslie; but you have your perceptions, you have seen, and you know my nephew. Now, answer me honestly, is Mr Van Heldre’s business suitable to a young man with such an ancestry as Henri’s?”

Louise watched him wonderingly, and her lips parted as she hung upon his words.

“Well, really, madam,” he began.

“Ah,” she said, “you shrink. His French ancestors would have scorned such a pursuit.”

“Oh, no,” said Leslie, “I do not shrink; and as to that, I think it would have been very stupid of his French ancestors. Trading in tin is a very ancient and honourable business. Let me see, it was the Phoenicians, was it not, who used to come to our ports for the metal in question. They were not above trading in tin and Tyrian dye.”

Aunt Marguerite turned up her eyes.

“And a metal is a metal. For my part, it seems quite as good a pursuit to trade in tin as in silver or gold.”

Aunt Marguerite gave the young man a pitying, contemptuous look, which made Louise bite her lip.

“Aunt, dear,” she said hurriedly, “let me give you some more tea.”

“I was not discussing tea, my dear, but your brother’s future; and pray, my dear child,” she continued, turning suddenly upon Madelaine with an irritating smile, “pray do not think I am disparaging your worthy father and his business affairs.”

“Oh, no, Miss Vine.”

“Miss Marguerite Vine, my child, if you will be so good. Oh, by the way, has your father heard any news of his ship?”

“Not yet, Miss Marguerite,” said Madelaine quietly.

“Dear me, I am very sorry. It would be so serious a loss for him, Mr Leslie, if the ship did not come safe to port.”

“Yes, of course,” said Leslie; “but I should suppose, Miss Van Heldre, that your father is well insured.”

“Yes,” said Madelaine quietly.

“There, never mind about Van Heldre’s ship,” said Vine pleasantly. “Don’t croak like a Cassandra, Margaret; and as to Harry, a year or two in a good solid business will not do him any harm, eh, Leslie?”

“I should say it would do him a world of good.”

“My nephew is not to be judged in the same light as a young man who is to be brought up as a tradesman,” said Aunt Marguerite, with dignify.

“Only a tradesman’s son, my dear.”

“The descendant of a long line of ennobled gentry, George; a fact you always will forget,” said Aunt Marguerite, rising and leaving the room, giving Leslie, who opened the door, a menuet de la cour curtsey on the threshold, and then rustling across the hall.

Her brother took it all as a matter of course. Once that Marguerite had ceased speaking the matter dropped, to make way for something far more important in the naturalist’s eyes—the contents of one of his glass aquaria; but Louise, to remove the cloud her aunt had left behind, hastily kept the ball rolling.

“Don’t think any more about aunt’s remarks, Madelaine. Harry is a good fellow, but he would be discontented anywhere sometimes.”

“I do not think he would be discontented now,” she replied, “if his aunt would leave him alone.”

“It is very foolish of him to think of what she says.”

“Of course it is irksome to him at first,” continued Madelaine; “but my father is not exacting. It is the hours at the desk that trouble your brother most.”

“I wish I could see him contented,” sighed Louise. “I’d give anything to see him settle down.”

A very simple wish, which went right to Duncan Leslie’s heart, and set him thinking so deeply that for the rest of his visit he was silent, and almost constrained—a state which Madelaine noted as she rose.

“Must you go so soon, dear!” said Louise consciously, for a terrible thought crossed her mind, and sent the blood surging to her cheeks—Madelaine was scheming to leave her and the visitor alone.

“Yes; they will be expecting me back,” said Madelaine smiling, as she grasped her friend’s thoughts; and then to herself, “Oh, you stupid fellow!”

For Leslie rose at once.

“And I must be going too. Let’s see, I am walking your way, Miss Van Heldre. May I see you home?”

“I—”

“Yes, do, Mr Leslie,” said Louise quietly.

“Ah! I will,” he said hastily. “I want a chat with your father, too.”

Madelaine would have avoided the escort, but she could only have done this at the expense of making a fuss; so merely said “Very well;” and went off with Louise to put on her hat and mantle, leaving Leslie alone with his host, who was seated by the window with a watchmaker’s glass in his eye, making use of the remaining light for the study of some wonderful marine form.

“She would give anything to see her brother settled down,” said Leslie to himself, over and over again. “Well why not?”

Five minutes later he and Madelaine were going along the main street, with Louise watching them from behind her father’s chair, and wondering why she did not feel so happy as she did half an hour before; and Aunt Marguerite gazing from her open window.

“Ah!” said the old lady; “that’s better. Birds of a feather do flock together, after all.”

But the flocking pair had no such thoughts as those with which they were given credit, for directly they were outside, Duncan Leslie set Madelaine’s heart beating by his first words.

“Look here,” he said, “I want to take you into my counsel, Miss Van Heldre, because you have so much sound common sense.”

“Is that meant for a compliment, Mr Leslie?”

“No; I never pay compliments. Look here,” he said bluntly, “you take an interest in Harry Vine.”

Madelaine was silent.

“That means yes,” said Leslie. “Now, to be perfectly plain with you, Miss Van Heldre, so do I; and I want to serve him if I can.”

“Yes?” said Madelaine, growing more deeply interested.

“Yes, it is—as the sailors say. Now it’s very plain that he is not contented where he is.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“What do you say to this—I will not be a sham—I want to serve him for reasons which I dare say you guess; reasons of which I am not in the least ashamed. Now what do you think of this? How would he be with me?”

Madelaine flushed with pleasure.

“I cannot say. Is this a sudden resolve?”

“Quite. I never thought of such a thing till I went there.”

“Then take time to think it over. Mr Leslie.”

“Good advice; but it is a thing that requires very little thought. I cannot say what arrangements I should make—that would require consideration, but I should not tie him to a desk. He would have the overlooking of a lot of men, and I should try to make him as happy as I could.”

“Oh, Mr Leslie!” said Madelaine, rather excitedly.

“Pray do not think I am slighting your father, or looking down upon what he has done, which, speaking as a blunt man, is very self-sacrificing.”

“As it would be on your part.”

“On mine? Oh, no,” said Leslie frankly. “When a man has such an arrière pensée as I have, there is no self-sacrifice. There, you see, I am perfectly plain.”

“And I esteem you all the more for it.”

The conversation extended, and in quite a long discussion everything was forgotten but the subject in hand, till Leslie said:—

“There, you had better sit down and rest for a few minutes. You are quite out of breath.”

Madelaine looked startled, for she had been so intent upon their conversation that she had not heeded their going up the cliff walk.

“Sit down,” said Leslie; and she obeyed. “Get your breath, and we’ll walk back to your house together; but what do you think of it all?”

“I cannot help thinking that it would for many reasons be better.”

“So do I,” said Leslie, “in spite of the risk.”

“Risk?”

“Yes. Suppose I get into an imbroglio with Master Harry? He’s as peppery as can be. How then?”

“You will be firm and forbearing,” said Madelaine gravely. “I have no fear.”

“Well, I have. I know myself better than you know me,” said Leslie, placing a foot on the seat and resting his arm on his knee, as he spoke thoughtfully. “I am a very hot-headed kind of Highlander by descent, and there’s no knowing what might happen. Now one more question. Shall I open fire on your father to-night?”

“That requires more consideration,” said Madelaine. “We will talk that over as we go back. Here is Harry,” she said quickly, as that gentleman suddenly burst upon them; and the walk back to Van Heldre’s was accomplished without the discussion.

“I’m afraid I’ve made a very great mistake, Miss Van Heldre,” said Leslie, as they neared the house.

“Don’t say that,” she replied. “It was most unfortunate.”

“But you will soon set that right?” he added, after a pause.

“I don’t know,” said Madelaine quietly. “You will come in?”

“No; not this evening. We had better both have a grand think before anything is said.”

“Yes,” said Madelaine; and they parted at the door—to think.

“Why, John,” said Mrs Van Heldre, turning from the window to gaze in her husband’s face, “did you see that?”

“Yes,” said Van Heldre shortly; “quite plainly.”

“But what does it mean?”

“Human nature.”

“But I thought, dear—”

“So did I, and now I think quite differently.”

“Well, really, I must speak to Madelaine; it is so—”

“Silence!” said Van Heldre sternly. “Madelaine is not a child now. Wait, wife, and she will speak to us.”

Chapter Sixteen.

In a West Coast Gale.

“That project is knocked over as if it were a card house,” said Duncan Leslie, as he reached home, and sat thinking of Louise and her brother.

He looked out to see that in a very short time the total aspect of the sea had changed. The sky had become overcast, and in the dim light the white horses of the Atlantic were displaying their manes.

“Very awkward run for the harbour to-night,” he said as he returned to his seat. “Can’t be pleasant to be a shipowner. I wonder whether Miss Marguerite Vine would consider that a more honourable way of making money?”

“Yes, a tradesman, I suppose. Well, why not? Better than being a descendant of some feudal gentleman whose sole idea of right was might.”

“My word!” he exclaimed; “what a sudden gale to have sprung up. Heavy consumption of coal in the furnaces to-night. How this wind will make them roar.”

He faced round to the window and sat listening as the wind shrieked, and howled, and beat at the panes, every now and then sending the raindrops pattering almost as loudly as hail. “Hope it will not blow down my chimney on the top yonder. Hah! I ought to be glad that I have no ship to trouble me on a night like this.”

“No,” he said firmly just as the wind had hurled itself with redoubled fury against the house; “no, she does not give me a second thought. But I take heart of grace, for I can feel that she has never had that gentle little heart troubled by such thoughts. The Frenchman has not won her, and he never shall if I can help it. It’s a fair race for both of us, and only one can win.”

“My word! What a night!”

He walked to the window and looked out at the sombre sky, and listened to the roar of the rumbling billows before closing his casement and ringing.

“Is all fastened?” he said to the servant. “You need not sit up. I don’t believe a dog would be out to-night, let alone a human being.”

He was wrong; for just as he spoke a dark figure encased in oilskins was sturdily making its way down the cliff path to the town. It was hard work and in places on the exposed cliff-side even dangerous, for the wind seemed to pounce upon the figure and try to tear it off; but after a few moments’ pause the walk was continued, the town reached, and the wind-swept street traversed without a soul being passed.

The figure passed on by the wharves and warehouses, and sheltered now from the wind made good way till, some distance ahead, a door was opened, a broad patch of light shone out on the wet cobble stones, Crampton’s voice said “Good night,” and the figure drew back into a deep doorway, and waited.

The old clerk had been to the principal inn, where, once a week, he visited his club, and drank one glass of Hollands and water, and smoked one pipe, talking mostly to one friend, to whom if urged he would relate one old story.

This was his one dissipation; and afterwards he performed one regular duty which took him close up to the watching figure, which remained there almost breathless till Crampton had performed his regular duty and gone home.

It was ten minutes or a quarter of an hour before he passed that watching figure, which seemed to have sunk away in the darkness that grew more dense as the gale increased.

Morning at last, a slowly breaking dawn, and with it the various sea-going men slowly leaving their homes, to direct their steps in a long procession towards one point, where the high cliff face formed a shelter from the south-west wind, and the great billows which rolled heavily in beneath the leaden sky. These came on with the regularity of machinery, to charge the cliffs at which they leaped with a hiss and a roar, and a boom like thunder, followed by a peculiar rattling, grumbling sound, as if the peal of thunder had been broken up into heavy pieces which were rolling over each other back toward the sea.

They were not pieces of thunder but huge boulders, which had been rolled over and over for generations to batter the cliffs, and then fall back down an inclined plane.

Quite a crowd had gathered on the broad, glistening patch of rugged granite, soon as the day broke, and this crowd was ever augmenting, till quite a phalanx of oilskin coats and tarpaulin hats presented its face to the thundering sea, while men shouted to each other, and swept the lead-coloured horizon with heavy glasses, or the naked hand-shaded eye, in search of some vessel trying to make the harbour, or in distress.

“She bites this morning,” said one old fisherman, shaking the spray from his dripping face, after looking round the corner of a mass of sheltering rock.

“Ay, mate, and it aren’t in me to tell you how glad I am my boat’s up the harbour with her nose fast to a buoy,” said another.

“There’ll be widders and orphans in some ports ’fore nightfall.”

“And thank the Lord that won’t be in Hakemouth.”

“I dunno so much about that,” growled a heavy-looking man, with a fringe of white hair round his face. “Every boat that sails out of this harbour aren’t in port.”

“That it is. Why, what’s yer thinking about?”

“’Bout Van Heldre’s brig, my lad.”

“Ah,” chorused half-a-dozen voices, “we didn’t think o’ she.”

“Been doo days and days,” said the white-fringed old fisherman; “and if she’s out yonder, I say, Lord ha’ mercy on ’em all, Amen.”

“Not had such a storm this time o’ year since the Cape mail were wrecked off the Long Chain.”

“Ah, and that warn’t so bad as this. Bound to say the brig has put into Mount’s Bay.”

“And not a nice place either with the wind this how. Well, my lads, I say, there’s blessings and blessings, and we ought all to be werry thankful as we aren’t ship-owners with wessels out yonder.”

This was from the first man who had spoken; but his words were not received with much favour, and as in a lull of the wind one of the men had to use a glass, he growled out:

“Well, I dunno ’bout sending one’s ship to sea in such a storm, but I don’t see as it’s such a very great blessing not to have one of your own, speshly if she happened to be a brig like Mast’ Van Heldre’s!”

“Hold your row,” said a man beside him, as he drove his elbow into his ribs, and gave a side jerk of his head.

The man thus adjured turned sharply, and saw close to him a sturdy-looking figure clothed from head to foot in black mackintosh, which glistened as it dripped with the showery spray.

“Ugly day, my lads.”

“Ay, ay, sir; much snugger in port than out yonder.”

Boom! came a heavy blow from a wave, and the offing seemed to be obscured now by the drifting spray.

Van Heldre focussed a heavy binocular, and gazed out to sea long and carefully.

“Any one been up to the look-out?” he said, as he lowered his glass.

“Two on us tried it, sir,” said one of the men, “but the wind’s offle up yonder, and you can’t see nothing.”

“Going to try it, sir?” said another of the group.

Van Heldre nodded; and he was on his way to a roughly-formed flight of granite steps, which led up to the ruins of the old castle which had once defended the mouth of the harbour, when another mackintosh-clothed figure came up.

“Ah, Mr Leslie,” said Van Heldre, looking at the new-comer searchingly.

“Good morning,” was the reply, “or I should say bad morning. There’ll be some mischief after this.”

Van Heldre nodded, for conversation was painful, and passed on.

“Going up yonder?” shouted Leslie.

There was another nod, and under the circumstances, not pausing to ask permission, Leslie followed the old merchant, climbing the rough stone steps, and holding on tightly by the rail.

“Best look out, master,” shouted one of the group. “Soon as you get atop roosh acrost and kneel down behind the old parry-putt.”

It was a difficult climb and full of risk, for as they went higher they were more exposed, till as they reached the rough top which formed a platform, the wind seemed to rush at them as interlopers which it strove to sweep off and out to sea.

Van Heldre stood, glass in hand, holding on by a block of granite, his mackintosh tightly pressed to his figure in front, and filling out behind till it had a balloon-like aspect that seemed grotesque.

“I daresay I look as bad,” Leslie muttered, as, taking the rough fisherman’s advice, he bent down and crept under the shelter of the ancient parapet, a dwarf breast-work, with traces of the old crude bastions just visible, and here, to some extent, he was screened from the violence of the wind, and signed to Van Heldre to join him.

Leslie placed his hands to his mouth, and shouted through them.

“Hadn’t you better come here, sir?”

For the position seemed terribly insecure. They were on the summit of the rocky headland, with the sides going on three sides sheer down to the shore, on two of which sides the sea kept hurling huge waves of water, which seemed to make the rock quiver to its foundations. One side of the platform was protected by the old breast-work; on the opposite the stones had crumbled away or fallen, and here there was a swift slope of about thirty feet to the cliff edge.

It was at the top of this slope that Van Heldre stood gazing out to sea.

Leslie, as he watched him, felt a curious premonition of danger, and gathered himself together involuntarily, ready for a spring.

The danger he anticipated was not long in making its demand upon him, for all at once there was a tremendous gust, as if an atmospheric wave had risen up to spring at the man standing on high as if daring the fury of the tempest; and in spite of Van Heldre’s sturdy frame he completely lost his balance. He staggered for a moment, and, but for his presence of mind in throwing himself down, he would have been swept headlong down the swift slope to destruction.

As it was he managed to cling to the rocks, as the wind swept furiously over, and chocked his downward progress for the moment. This would have been of little avail, for, buffeted by the wind, he was gliding slowly down, and but for Leslie’s quickly rendered aid, it would only have been a matter of moments before he had been hurled down upon the rocks below.

Even as he staggered, Leslie mastered the peculiar feeling of inertia which attacked him, and, creeping rapidly over the intervening space, made a dash at the fluttering overcoat, caught it, twisted it rapidly, and held on.

Then for a space neither moved, for it was as if the storm was raging with redoubled fury at the chance of its victim being snatched away.

The lull seemed as if it would never come; and when it did Leslie felt afraid to stir lest the fragile material by which he supported his companion should give way. In a few moments, however, he was himself, and shouting so as to make his voice plainly heard—for, close as he was, his words seemed to be swept away as uttered—he uttered a few short clear orders, which were not obeyed.

“Do you hear?” he cried again, “Mr Van Heldre—quick!”

Still there was no reply by voice or action, and it seemed as if the weight upon Leslie’s wrists was growing heavier moment by moment. He yelled to him now, to act; and what seemed to be a terrible time elapsed before Van Heldre said hoarsely—

“One moment; better now. I felt paralysed.”

There was mother terrible pause, during which the storm beat upon them, the waves thundered at the base of the rock, and even at that height there came a rain of spray which had run up the face of the rock and swept over to where they lay.

“Now, quick!” said Van Heldre, as he lay face downward, spread-eagled, as a sailor would term it, against the face of the sloping granite.

What followed seemed to be a struggling scramble, a tremendous effort, and then with the wind shrieking round them, Van Heldre reached the level, and crept slowly to the shelter of the parapet.

“Great heavens!” panted Leslie, as he lay there exhausted, and gazed wildly at his companion. “What an escape!”

There was no reply. Leslie thought that Van Heldre had fainted, for his eyes were nearly closed, and his face seemed to be drawn. Then he realised that his lips were moving slowly, as if in prayer.

“Hah!” the rescued man said at last, his words faintly heard in the tempest’s din. “Thank God! For their sake—for their sake.”

Then, holding out his hand, he pressed Leslie’s in a firm strong grip.

“Leslie,” he said, with his lips close to his companion’s ear, “you have saved my life.”

Neither spoke much after that, but they crouched there—in turn using the glass.

Once Van Heldre grasped his companion’s arm and pointed out to sea.

“A ship?” cried Leslie.

“No. Come down now.”

Waiting till the wind had dropped for the moment, they reached the rough flight of steps, and on returning to the level found that the crowd had greatly increased; and among them Leslie saw Harry Vine and his companion.

“Can’t see un, sir, can you?” shouted one of the men.

Van Heldre shook his head.

“I thought you wouldn’t, sir,” shouted another. “Capt’n Muskerry’s too good a sailor to try and make this port in such a storm.”

“Ay,” shouted another. “She’s safe behind the harbour wall at Penzaunce.”

“I pray she may be,” said Van Heldre. “Come up to my place and have some breakfast, Leslie, but not a word, mind, about the slip. I’ll tell that my way.”

“Then I decline to come,” said Leslie, and after a hearty grip of the hand they parted.

“I thought he meant Vine’s girl,” said Van Heldre, as he walked along the wharves street, “but there is no accounting for these things.”

“I ought to explain to him how it was I came to be walking with Miss Van Heldre,” said Leslie to himself. “Good morning.”

He had suddenly found himself face to face with Harry, who walked by, arm in arm with Pradelle, frowning and without a word, when just as they passed a corner the wind came with a tremendous burst, and but for Leslie’s hand Harry Vine must have gone over into the harbour.

It was but the business of a moment, and Harry seemed to shake off the hand which held him with a tremendous grip and passed on.

“Might have said thank you,” said Leslie smiling. “I seem to be doing quite a business in saving people this morning, only they are of the wrong sex—there is no heroism. Hallo, Mr Luke Vine. Come down to look at the storm?”

“Couldn’t I have seen it better up at home?” shouted the old man. “Ugh! what a wind. Thought I was going to be blown off the cliff. I see your chimney still stands, worse luck. Going home?”

“No, no. One feels so much unsettled at such a time.”

“Don’t go home then; stop with me.”

Leslie looked at the quaint old man in rather an amused way, and then stopped with him to watch the tumbling billows off the point where his companion so often fished.

Chapter Seventeen.

The News.

The day wore on with the storm now lulling slightly, now increasing in violence, till it seemed as if the great rolling banks of green water must end by conquering in their attack, and sweeping away first the rough pier, and then the little twin towns on either side of the estuary. Nothing was visible seawards, but in a maritime place the attention of all is centred upon the expected, and in the full belief that sooner or later there would be a wreck, all masculine Hakemouth gathered in sheltered places to be on the watch.

Van Heldre and Leslie came into contact again that afternoon, and after a long look seaward, the merchant took the young man’s arm.

“Come on to my place,” he said quietly. “You’ll come too, Luke Vine?”

“I? No, no,” said the old fellow, shaking his head. “I want to stop and watch the sea go down.”

His refusal was loud and demonstrative, but somehow there was a suggestion in it of a request to be asked again.

“Nonsense!” said Van Heldre. “You may as well come and take shelter for a while. You will not refuse, Leslie?”

“Thanks all the same, but I hope you will excuse me too,” replied Leslie with his lips, but with an intense desire to go, for there was a possibility of Louise being at the house with Madelaine.

“I shall feel vexed if you refuse,” said Van Heldre quietly. “Come along, Luke, and dine with us. I’m depressed and worried to-day; be a bit neighbourly if you can.”

“Oh, I’ll come,” said the old man; “but it serves you right. Why can’t you be content as I am, instead of venturing hundreds and hundreds of pounds in ships on the sea? Here, come along, Leslie, and let’s eat and drink all we can to help him, the extravagant spendthrift.”

Van Heldre smiled, and they went along to the house together.

“The boy in yonder at work?” said Uncle Luke, giving a wag of his head toward the office.

“Yes,” said Van Heldre, and ushered his visitors in, the closed door seeming directly after to shut out the din and confusion of the wind-swept street.

“There, throw your mackintoshes on that chair,” said Van Heldre; and hardly had Leslie got rid of his than Mrs Van Heldre was in the hall, her short plump arms were round Leslie’s neck, and she kissed him heartily.

“God bless you!” she whispered with a sob; and before Leslie had well recovered from his surprise and confusion, Madelaine was holding one of his hands in both of hers, and looking tearfully in his face in a way which spoke volumes.

“Ah, it’s nice to be young and good-looking, and well off,” said Uncle Luke. “Nobody gives me such a welcome.”

“How can you say that,” said Madelaine, with a laugh. “Come, Uncle Luke, and we’re very glad to see you.”

As she spoke she put her hands on his shoulders, and kissed his wrinkled cheek.

“Hah! that’s like old times, Maddy,” said the grim-looking visitor, softening a little. “Why didn’t you keep a nice plump little girl, same as you used to be?”

Madelaine gave him a smile and nod, but left the old man with her father, and followed her mother and Leslie into the dining-room.

“So that’s to be it, is it, Van, eh?”

“I don’t know,” was the reply. “It’s all very sudden and a surprise to me.”

“Angled for it, haven’t you?”

“Angled? No.”

“She has then. My dear boy, son of my heart, the very man for my darling, eh?” chuckled Uncle Luke.

“Be quiet, you sham cynic,” said Van Heldre dreamily. “Don’t banter me, Luke, I’m sorely ill at case.”

“About money, eh?” cried Uncle Luke eagerly.

“Money? No! I was thinking about those poor fellows out at sea.”

“In your brig, eh? Ah, ’tis sad. But that money—quite safe, eh?”

“Oh, yes, safe enough.”

“Oh, do come, papa dear,” said Madelaine, reappearing at the door. “Dinner is waiting.”

“Yes, yes, we’re coming, my dear,” said Van Heldre, laying his hand affectionately on Uncle Luke’s shoulder, and they were soon after seated round the table, with the elder visitor showing at times quite another side of his character.

No allusion was made to the adventure of the morning, but Leslie felt in the gentle tenderness displayed towards him by mother and daughter that much had been said, and that he had won a very warm place in their regard. In fact, in word and look, Mrs Van Heldre seemed to be giving him a home in her motherly heart, which was rather embarrassing, and would have been more so, but for Madelaine’s frank, pleasant way of meeting his gaze, every action seemed to be sisterly and affectionate, but nothing more.

So Leslie read them, but so did not the elders at the table.

By mutual consent no allusion was made to the missing brig, and it seemed to Leslie that the thoughts of mother and daughter were directed principally to one point, that of diverting Van Heldre from his troublesome thoughts. “Ah, I was hungry,” said Uncle Luke, when the repast was about half over. “Very pleasant meal, only wanted one thing to make it perfect.”

“Why, my dear Luke Vine, why didn’t you speak? What is it? oh, pray say.”

“Society,” said Uncle Luke, after pausing for a moment to turn towards the window, a gust having giving it a tremendous shake. “I say if I find my place blown away, can you find me a dry shed or a dog kennel, or something, Leslie?”

“Don’t talk such stuff, Luke Vine,” cried Mrs Van Heldre. “Don’t take any notice of him, Mr Leslie, he’s a rich old miser and nothing else. Now Luke Vine, what do you mean?”

“Said what I meant, society. Why didn’t you ask my sister to dinner? She’d have set us all right, eh, Madelaine?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Madelaine, smiling.

“But I do,” cried her mother; “she’d have set us all by the ears with her nonsense. You are a strange pair.”

“We are—we are. Nice sherry this, Van.”

“Glad you like it,” said Van Heldre, with his eyes turned towards the window, as if he expected news.

“How a woman can be so full of pride and so useless puzzles me.”

“Mamma!” whispered Madelaine, with an imploring look.

“Let her talk, my dear,” said Uncle Luke, “it doesn’t hurt any one. Don’t talk nonsense, Van’s wife. What use could you make of her? She is like the thistle that grows up behind my place, a good-looking prickly plant, with a ball of down for a head. Let her be; you always get the worst of it. The more you excite her the more that head of hers sends out floating downy seeds to settle here and there, and do mischief. She has spoiled my nephew Harry, and nearly spoiled my niece.”

“Don’t you believe it, Mr Leslie,” cried Madelaine, with a long earnest look in her eyes.

“Quite true. Miss Impudence,” continued Uncle Luke. “Always was a war between me and the useless plants.”

“Well, I can’t sit here silent and listen to such heresy,” cried Mrs Van Heldre, shaking her head. “Surely, Luke Vine, you don’t call yourself a useful plant.”

“Bless my soul, ma’am, then I suppose I’m a weed?”

“Not you,” said Van Heldre, forcing a show of interest in the conversation.

“Yes, old fellow, I am,” said Uncle Luke, holding his sherry up to the light, and sipping it as if he found real enjoyment therein. “I suppose I am only a weed, not a thistle, like Margaret up yonder, but a tough-rooted, stringy, matter-of-fact old nettle, who comes up quietly in his own corner and injures no one so long as people let him alone.”

“No, no, no, no!” said Madelaine emphatically.

“Quite right. Miss Van Heldre,” said Leslie.

“Hear, hear?” cried Van Heldre.

“Stir me up, then, and see,” cried the old man grimly. “More than one person has found out before now how I can sting, and—hallo! what’s wrong? You here?”

There had been a quick step in the long passage, and, without ceremony, the door was thrown open, Harry Vine entering, to stand in the gathering gloom hatless and excited.

He was about to speak, Van Heldre having sprung to his feet, when the young man’s eyes alighted on Leslie and Madelaine seated side by side at the table, and the flash of anger which mounted to his brain drove everything else away.

“What is it?” cried Van Heldre hoarsely. “Do you hear?—speak?”

“There is a brig on the Conger Rock,” said Harry quickly, as if roused to a recollection of that which he had come to say.

“Yes, sir,” cried another voice, as old Crampton suddenly appeared. “And the man has just run up to the office with the news, for—”

“Well, man, speak out,” said Van Heldre whose florid face was mottled with patches of ghastly white.

“They think it’s ours.”

“I felt it coming,” groaned Van Heldre, as he rushed into the hall, Leslie following quickly.

As he hurriedly threw on his waterproof a hand caught his, and turning, it was to see Madelaine looking up imploringly in his eyes.

“My father, Mr Leslie. Keep him out of danger, pray!”

“Trust me. I’ll do my best,” said the young man quickly; and then he awoke to the fact that Harry Vine was beside him, white with anger, an anger which seemed to make him dumb.

The next minute the whole party were struggling down the street against the hurricane-like wind, to learn from a dozen voices, eager to tender the bad news, that the mist of spray had been so thick that in the early gloom of evening the vessel had approached quite unseen till she was close in, and directly after she had struck on the dangerous rock, in a wild attempt to reach the harbour, a task next to impossible in such a storm.

Chapter Eighteen.

Harry Vine Shows His Bright Side.

The wreck of a ship, on the threshold of the home where every occupant is known, is a scene of excitement beyond the reach of pen to adequately describe; and as the two young men reached the mouth of the harbour, following closely upon Van Heldre, their own petty animosity was forgotten in the face of the terrible disaster.

The night was coming fast, and a light had been hoisted in the rigging of the vessel, now hard on the dangerous rock—the long arc of a circle described by the dim star, showing plainly to those on shore the precarious position of the unfortunate crew.

The sides of the harbour were crowded, in spite of the tremendous storm of wind and spray; and, as Leslie followed the shipowner, he noted the horror and despair in many a spray-wet face.

As Van Heldre approached and was recognised, there was a cheer given by those who seemed to take it for granted that the owner would at once devise a way to save the vessel from her perilous position, and rescue the crew whose lives were dear to many gathered in agony around, to see, as it were, their dear ones die.

Steps had already been taken, however, and as the little party from Van Heldre’s reached the harbour, it was to see the lifeboat launched, and a crew of sturdy fellows in their places ready to do battle with the waves.

It seemed to be a terrible task to row right out from the comparatively calm harbour, whose long rocky point acted as a breakwater, to where the great billows came rolling in, each looking as if it would engulf a score of such frail craft as that which, after a little of the hesitation of preparation, and amidst a tremendous burst of cheering, was rowed out into the middle of the estuary, and then straight away for the mouth.

But they were not all cheers which followed the boat. Close by where Leslie stood, with a choking sensation of emotion in his breast, a woman uttered a wild shriek as the boat went off, and her hands were outstretched towards one of the oilskin-cased men, who sat in his place tugging stolidly at his oar.

That one cry, heard above the roaring of the wind, the hiss of the spray, and the heavy thunder of the waves, acted like a signal to let loose the pent-up agony of a score of hearts; and wives, mothers, sisters, all joined in that one wild cry, “Come back!”

The answer was a hoarse “Give way!” from the coxswain; and the crew turned their eyes determinedly from the harbour wall and tugged at their oars.

The progress of the boat was followed as far as was possible by the crowd; and when they could go no farther, every sheltered spot was seized upon as a coign of vantage from which to watch the saving of the doomed crew.

Leslie was standing close to the harbour wall, sheltering his face with his hands as he watched the lifeboat fast nearing the mouth of the harbour, where the tug of war would commence, when he felt a hand laid upon his arm.

He turned sharply, to find Madelaine at his elbow, her hood drawn over her head and tightly secured beneath her chin.

He hardly saw her face, though, for close beside her stood another closely-hooded figure, whose face was streaming with the spray, while strand after strand of her dark hair had been torn from its place by the wind, and refused to be controlled.

“Miss Van Heldre! Miss Vine!”

“Yes. Where is my father?”

“Here; talking to this coastguardsman.”

“And I thought we had lost him,” murmured Madelaine.

“But is it wise of you two ladies?” said Leslie, as he grasped Louise’s hand for a moment. “The storm is too terrible.”

“We could not rest indoors,” said Louise. “My father is down here, is he not?”

“I have not seen him. You want some better shelter.”

“No, no; don’t think of us,” said Louise excitedly; “but if you can help in any way—”

“You know I will,” said Leslie earnestly.

“Here, what are you two girls doing?” said a quick, angry voice. “Louie, I’m sure this is no place for you.”

Harry spoke to his sister, but his eyes were fixed upon those of Leslie, who, however, declined his challenge, as it seemed, to quarrel, and glanced at the young man’s companion.

At that moment the brothers Vine came up, and there was no farther excuse for Harry’s fault-finding objections.

“Can’t you young fellows do anything to help?” said Uncle Luke.

“I wish you would tell us what to do, Mr Vine,” said Leslie coldly.

Just then Van Heldre turned to, and joined them.

“He is afraid the distance is too far,” he said dreamily, as if in answer to a question.

“For the boat, Mr Van Heldre?” cried Louise.

“No, no; for the rocket apparatus. Ah! Vine,” he continued, as he saw his old friend, “how helpless we are in such a storm!”

No more was said. It was no time for words. The members of the two families stood together in a group watching the progress of the boat, and even Aunt Marguerite’s cold and sluggish blood was moved enough to draw her to the window, through whose spray and salt-blurred panes she could dimly see the tossing light of the brig.

It was indeed no time for words, and even the very breath was held, to be allowed to escape in a low hiss of exultation as the lifeboat was seen to rise suddenly and swiftly up a great bank of water, stand out upon its summit for a few moments, and then plunge down out of sight as the wave came on, deluged the point, and roared and tumbled over in the mouth of the harbour.

It was plain enough now, the lifeboat was beyond the protection of the point; and its progress was watched as it rose and fell, slowly growing more distant, and at times invisible for minutes together.

At such times the excitement seemed beyond bearing. The boat, all felt, must have been swamped, and those on board left tossing in the boiling sea. The catastrophe of the wreck of the brig seemed to be swallowed up now in one that was greater; and as Leslie glanced round once, it was to see Louise and Madelaine clinging together, wild-eyed and pale.

“There she is!” shouted a voice; and the lifeboat was seen to slowly rise again, as a hoarse cheer arose—the pent-up excitement of the moment.

It seemed an interminable length of time before the life-saving vessel reached the brig, and what followed during the next half-hour could only be guessed at. So dark had it become, that now only the tossing light on board the doomed merchantman could be seen, rising and falling slowly with rhythmical regularity, as if those on board were waving to those they loved a sad farewell.

Then at last a faint spark was seen for a few moments before it disappeared. Again it shone for a while and again disappeared.

“One of the lanthorns in the lifeboat.”

“Coming back,” said Van Heldre hoarsely.

“With the crew, sir?” cried Leslie.

“Hah!” exclaimed Van Heldre slowly; “that we must see.”

Another long time of suspense and horror. A dozen times over that boat’s light seemed to have gone for ever, but only to reappear; and at last, in the darkness it was seen, after a few minutes’ tremendous tossing, to become steady.

The lifeboat was in the harbour once again, and a ringing burst of cheers, that seemed smothered directly after by the roar of the storm, greeted the crew as they rowed up to the landing-place, utterly exhausted, but bringing with them two half-dead members of the brig’s crew.

“All we could get to stir,” said the sturdy coxswain, “and we could not get aboard.”

“How many are there?”

“Seven, sir—in main-top. Half-dead.”

“You should have stayed and brought them off,” cried Leslie frantically, for he did not realise the difficulties of the task the men had had to fulfil.

“Who goes next?” cried Van Heldre, as the half-drowned men were borne, under the direction of the doctor, to the nearest inn.

“No one can’t go again, sir,” said the old coxswain sternly. “It aren’t to be done.”

“A crew must go again,” cried Van Heldre. “We cannot stand here and let them perish before our eyes. Here, my lads!” he roared. “Volunteers!”

“Mr Leslie! My father,” whispered Madelaine; but the young mine-owner was already on his way to where Van Heldre stood.

“Do you hear?” roared the latter. “Do as you would be done by. Volunteers!”

Not a man stirred, the peril was too great.

“It’s no good, master,” said the old coxswain; “they’re gone, poor lads, by now.”

“No,” cried Leslie excitedly; “the light is there still.”

“Ay,” said the coxswain, “a lamp’ll burn some time longer than a man’s life. Here, master, I’ll go again, if you can get a crew.”

“Volunteers!” shouted Van Heldre; but there was only a confused babble of voices, as women clung to their men, and held back these who would have yielded.

“Are you men!” roared Leslie excitedly: and Madelaine felt her arm grasped tightly.

“I say, are you men, to stand there and see those poor fellows perish before your eyes!”

“It’s throwing lives away,” cried a shrill woman’s voice.

“Ay, go yoursen,” shouted a man angrily.

“I’m going,” roared Leslie. “Only a landsman. Now then, is there never a sailor who will come?”

There was a panting, spasmodic cry at Madelaine’s ear, one which she echoed, as Harry Vine stepped up to Leslie’s side.

“Here’s another landsman,” he cried excitedly. “Now, Pradelle, come on!”

There was no response from his companion, who drew back.

“No, no,” panted Madelaine. “Louy—help me—they must not go.”

Her words were drowned in a tremendous cheer, for Van Heldre, without a word, had stepped into the lifeboat, followed by the two young men.

Example is said to be better than precept. It was so here, for, with a rush, twenty of the sturdy Hakemouth fishers made for the boat, and the crew was not only made up, but a dozen men begged Van Heldre and the two young men to come out and let others take their places.

“No,” said Leslie through his set teeth; “not if I never see shore again, Henry Vine.”

“Is that brag to Hector over me, or British pluck?” said Harry.

“Don’t know, my lad. Are you going ashore?”

“Let’s wait and see,” muttered Harry, as he tied on the life preserver handed to him.

“Harry, my boy!”

The young man looked up and saw his father on the harbour wall.

“Hallo! Father!” he said sadly.

“You are too young and weak. Let some strong man go.”

“I can pull an oar as well as most of them, father,” he shouted; and then to himself: “And if I don’t get back—well—I suppose I’m not much good.”

“Let him go,” said Uncle Luke, as he held back his brother. “Hang the boy, he has stuff in him after all.”

A busy scene of confusion for a few minutes, and then once more a cheer arose, as the lifeboat, well-manned, parted the waters of the harbour, and the lanthorns forward and astern shone with a dull glare as that first great wave was reached, up which the boat glided, and then plunged down and disappeared.

One long hour of intense agony, but not for those in the boat. The energy called forth, the tremendous struggle, the excitement to which every spirit was wrought, kept off agony or fear. It was like being in the supreme moments of a battle-charge, when in the wild whirl there is no room for dread, and a man’s spirit carries him through to the end.

The agony was on shore, where women clung together no longer weeping, but straining their eyes seaward for the dancing lights which dimly crept up each billow, and then disappeared, as if never to appear again.

“Madelaine!”

“Louise!”

All that was said as the two girls clasped each other and watched the dim lanthorns far at sea. “Ah!”

Then a loud groan.

“I knowed it couldn’t be long.”

Then another deep murmur, whose strange intensity had made it dominate the shrieks, roars, and thunder of the storm.

The light, which had been slowly waving up and down in the rigging of the brig, had disappeared, and it told to all the sad tale—that the mast had gone, and with it those who had been clinging in the top.

But the two dim lanthorns in the lifeboat went on and on, the thunder of the surf on the wreck guiding them. As the crew toiled away, the landsmen sufficiently accustomed to the use of the oar could pretty well hold their own, till, in utter despair and hopelessness, after hovering hours about the place where the wreck should have been, the lifeboat’s head was laid for the harbour-lights; and after a fierce battle to avoid being driven beyond, the gallant little crew reached the shelter given by the long low point, but several had almost to be lifted to the wharf.

A few jagged and torn timbers, and a couple of bodies cast up among the rocks, a couple of miles to the east, were all the traces of Van Heldre’s handsome brig, which had gone to pieces in the darkness before the lifeboat, on its second journey, was half way there.

Chapter Nineteen.

A Bad Night’s Work.

“Oh, yes, you’re a very brave fellow, no doubt,” said Pradelle. “Everybody says so. Perhaps if I could have handled an oar as well as you did I should have come too. But, look here, Harry Vine; all these fine words butter no parsnips. You are no better off than you were before, and you gave me your promise.”

It was quite true: fine words buttered no parsnips. Aunt Marguerite had called him her gallant young hero; Louise had kissed him affectionately; his father had shaken hands very warmly; Uncle Luke had given him a nod, and Van Heldre had said a few kindly words, while there was always a smile for him among the fishermen who hung about the harbour. But that was all; he was still Van Heldre’s clerk, and with a dislike to his position, which had become intensified since Madelaine had grown cold, and her intimacy with Leslie had seemed to increase. “Look here,” said Pradelle; “it’s time I was off.”

“Why? What for?” said Harry, as they sat among the rocks.

“Because I feel as if I were being made a fool.”

“Why, every one is as civil to you as can be. My father—”

“Oh, yes; the old man’s right enough.”

“My aunt.”

“Yes, wish she wasn’t so old, Harry, and had some money; I’d marry her.”

“Don’t be a fool.”

“Not going to be; so I tell you I’m off.”

“No, no, don’t go. This place will be unbearable when you are gone.”

“Can’t help it, dear boy. I must do something to increase my income, and if you will not join in and make a fortune, why I must go and find some one who will.”

“But I dare not, Vic.”

“You gave me your word—the word of a gentleman. I ask you to borrow the money for a week or two, and then we would replace it, and nobody be a bit the wiser, while we shall be on the high-road to fortune and Fair France.”

“I tell you I dare not.”

“Then I shall do it myself.”

“No, that you shall not.”

“Then you shall.”

“I daren’t.”

“Bah! what a milksop you are; you have nothing to care for here. Miss Van Heldre has pitched you over because you are now her father’s clerk.”

“Let that be, please.”

“And taken up with Mr Bagpipes.”

“Do you want to quarrel, Pradelle?”

“Not I, dear boy; I’m dumb.”

He said no more on that subject, but he had said enough. That was the truth then. Madelaine had given him up on that account, and the sting rankled in Harry’s breast.

“Money goes to the bank every day, you say?” said Pradelle.

“Yes. Crampton takes it!”

“But that sum of money in notes? How much is there of that?”

“Five hundred.”

“Why don’t that go to the bank?”

“I don’t know. A deposit, I think; likely to be called for.”

“May be; but that’s our game, Harry. The other could not be managed without being missed; this, you see, is not in use.”

“Pradelle, it’s madness.”

“Say Vic, dear boy.”

“Well, Vic, I say it’s madness.”

“Nothing of the kind. It’s making use of a little coin that you can get at easily. Why, hang it, old fellow, you talk as if I were asking you to steal the money.”

“Hush! Don’t talk like that.”

“Well, you aggravate me so. Now, am I trying to serve you, or am I not?”

“To serve me, of course.”

“Yes, and you behave like a child.”

“I want to behave like an honourable man to my father’s friend.”

“Oh, if you are going to preach I’m off.”

“I’m not going to preach.”

“Then do act like a man. Here is your opportunity. You know what the old chap said about the tide in the affairs of men?”

Harry nodded.

“Well, your tide is at its height. You are going to seize your opportunity, and then you can do as you like. Why you might turn the tables on Miss Madelaine.”