Читать книгу The Haute Noblesse: A Novel - Fenn George Manville - Страница 12

“Late again,” said old Crampton, as Harry Vine entered the office.

“How I do hate the sight of that man’s nose!” said the young man; and he stared hard, as if forced by some attraction.

The old clerk frowned, and felt annoyed. “I beg pardon,” he said. “Granted,” said Harry, coolly. “I said I beg pardon, Mr Harry Vine.”

“I heard you.”

“But I thought you spoke.”

“No,” grumbled Harry. “I didn’t speak.”

“Then I will,” said old Crampton merrily. “Good morning, Mr Harry Vine,” and he rattled the big ruler by his desk.

“Eh? oh, yes, I see. Didn’t say it as I came in. Good morning, Mr Crampton.”

“Lesson for the proud young upstart in good behaviour,” grumbled old Crampton.

“Mother him!” muttered Harry, as he took his place at his desk, opened a big account book Crampton placed before him, with some amounts to transfer from one that was smaller, and began writing.

But as he wrote, the figures seemed to join hands and dance before him; then his pen ceased to form others, and an imaginary picture painted itself on the delicately tinted blue paper with its red lines – a pleasant landscape in fair France with sunny hill-sides on which ranged in rows were carefully cultured vines. To the north and cast were softened bosky woods, and dominating all, one of those antique castellated châteaux with pepperbox towers and gilded vanes, such as he had seen in pictures or read of in some books.

“If I only had the money,” thought Harry, as he entered a sum similar to that which Pradelle had named. “He knows all these things. He has good advice from friends, and if we won, – Hah!”

The château rose before his eyes again, bathed in sunshine. Then he pictured the terrace overlooking the vineyards – a grey old stone terrace, with many seats and sheltering trees, and along that terrace walked just such a maiden as Aunt Marguerite had described.

Scratch! Scratch! Scratch! Scratch! His pen and Crampton’s pen; and he had no money, and Pradelle’s project to borrow as he had suggested was absurd.

Ah, if he only had eighty-one pounds ten shillings and sixpence! the sum he now placed in neat figures in their appropriate columns.

Old Crampton tilted back his tall stool, swung himself round, and lowered himself to the ground. Then crossing the office, he went into Van Heldre’s private room, and there was the rattle of a key, a creaking hinge, as an iron door was swung open; and directly after the old man returned.

Harry Vine could not see his hands, and he did not raise his eyes to watch the old clerk; but in the imagination which so readily pictured the château that was not in Spain, he seemed to see as he heard every movement of the fat white fingers, when a canvas bag was dumped down on the mahogany desk, the string untied, and a little heap of coins were poured out. Then followed the scratching of those coins upon the mahogany, as they were counted, ranged in little piles, and finally, after an entry had been checked, they were replaced in the bag, which the old man bore back into the safe in the private room.

“Fifty or a hundred pounds,” said Harry to himself, as a curious sensation of heat came into his cheeks, to balance which there seemed to be a peculiarly cold thrill running up his spine, to the nape of his neck.

“Anybody at home?”

“Yes, sir; here we are hard at work.”

Harry had looked up sharply to see Uncle Luke standing in the opening, a grim-looking grey figure in his old Norfolk jacket and straw hat, one hand resting on his heavy stick, the other carrying a battered fish-basket. The old man’s face was in shadow, for the sunshine streamed in behind him; but there was plenty of light to display his grim, sardonic features, as, after a short nod to Crampton, he gazed from under his shaggy brows piercingly at his nephew.

“Well, quill-driver,” he said sneeringly; “doing something useful at last?”

“Morning, uncle,” said Harry shortly; and he muttered to himself, “I should like to throw the ledger at him.”

“Hope he’s a good boy, hey?”

“Oh, he’s getting on, Mr Luke Vine – slowly,” said Crampton unwillingly. “He’ll do better by-and-by.”

A sharp remark was on Harry’s lips, but he checked it for a particular reason. Uncle Luke might have the money he wanted.

“Time he did,” said the old man. “Look here, boy,” he continued with galling, sneering tone in his voice. “Go and tell your master I want to see him.”

Harry drew a long breath, and his teeth gritted together.

“I caught a splendid conger this morning,” continued Uncle Luke, giving his basket a swing, “and I’ve brought your master half.”

“My master!” muttered Harry.

“Like conger-pie, boy?”

“No,” said Harry, shortly.

“More nice than wise,” said Uncle Luke. “Always were. There, be quick. I want to see your master.”

“To see my master,” thought Harry, with a strange feeling of exasperation in his breast as he looked up at Crampton.

Crampton was looking up at him with eyes which said very clearly, “Well, why don’t you go?”

“They’ll make me an errand boy next,” said the young man to himself, as after twisting his locket round and round like a firework, he swung himself down, “and want me to clean the knives and boots and shoes.”

“Tell him I’m in a hurry,” said Uncle Luke, as Harry reached the door which led into the private house along a passage built and covered with glass, by one side of what was originally a garden.

“Ah,” said Uncle Luke, going closer to old Crampton’s desk, and taking down from where it rested on two brass hooks the heavy ebony ruler. “Nice bit o’ wood that.”

“Yes, sir,” said the old clerk, in the fidgety way of a workman who objects to have his tools touched.

“Pretty weighty,” continued Uncle Luke, balancing it in his hand. “Give a man a pretty good topper that, eh?”

“Yes, Mr Luke Vine – I should like to give him one with it,” thought Crampton.

“Do for a constable’s staff, or to kill burglars, eh?”

“Capitally, sir.”

“Hah! You don’t get burglars here, though, do you?”

“No, sir; never had any yet.”

“Good job, too,” said Uncle Luke, putting the ruler back in its place, greatly to Crampton’s relief. “Rather an awkward cub to lick into shape, my nephew, eh?”

“Rather, sir.”

“Well, you must lick away, Crampton, not with that ruler though,” he chuckled. “Time something was made of him – not a bad sort of boy; but spoiled.”

“I shall do my best, Mr Luke Vine,” said Crampton dryly; “but I must tell you candidly, sir, he’s too much of the gentleman for us, and he feels it.”

“Bah!”

“Not at all the sort of young man I should have selected for a clerk.”

“Never mind; make the best of him.”

“Mr Van Heldre is coming, sir,” said Harry coldly, as he re-entered the office.

“Bah! I didn’t tell you to bring him here. I want to go in there.”

As Luke Vine spoke, he rose and moved to the door.

“Be a good boy,” he said, turning with a peculiar smile at his nephew. “I daresay you’ll get on.”

“Oh!” muttered Harry, as he retook his place at his desk; “how I should like to tell you, Uncle Luke, just what I think.”

The door closed behind the old man, who had nearly reached the end of the long passage, when he met Van Heldre.

“Ah, Luke Vine, I was just coming.”

“Go back,” said the visitor, making a stab at the merchant with his stick. “Brought you something. Where’s Mrs Van Heldre?”

“In the breakfast-room. Come along.”

Van Heldre clapped the old man on the shoulder, and led him into the room where Mrs Van Heldre was seated at work.

“Ah, Mr Luke Vine,” she cried, “who’d have thought of seeing you?”

“Not you. How are you? Where’s the girl?”

“Gone up to your brother’s.”

“Humph! to gad about and idle with Louie. I suppose. Here, I’ve brought you some fish. Caught it at daylight this morning. Ring for a dish.”

“It’s very kind and thoughtful of you, Luke Vine,” said Mrs Van Heldre, with her pink face dimpling as she rang the bell, and then trotted to the door which she opened, and cried, “Bring in a large dish, Esther! I always like to save the servant’s legs if I can,” she continued as she returned to her seat, while Van Heldre stood with his hands in his pockets, waiting. He knew his visitor.

Just then a neat-looking maid-servant entered with a large blue dish, and stood holding it by the door, gazing at the quaint-looking old man, sitting with the basket between his legs, and his heavy stick resting across his knees.

“Put it down and go.”

The girl placed the dish on the table hurriedly, and left the room.

“See if she has gone.”

“No fear,” said Van Heldre, obeying, to humour his visitor. “I don’t think my servants listen at doors.”

“Don’t trust ’em, or anybody else,” said Uncle Luke with a grim look, as he opened his basket wide. “Going to trust her?”

“Well, I’m sure, Mr Luke Vine!” cried Mrs Van Heldre, “I believe you learn up rude things to say.”

“He can’t help it,” said Van Heldre laughing. “Yes,” he continued, with a droll look at his wife, which took her frown away, “I think we’ll trust her, Luke, my lad – as far as the fish is concerned.”

“Eh! What?” said Uncle Luke, snatching his hands from his basket. “What do you mean?”

“That the dish is waiting for the bit of conger.”

“Let it wait,” said the old man snappishly. “You’re too, clever Van – too clever. Look here; how are you getting on with that boy?”

“Oh, slowly. Rome was not built in a day.”

“No,” chuckled the old man, “no. Work away, and make him a useful member of society – like his aunt, eh Mrs Van.”

“Useful!” cried Mrs Van. “Ah!”

Then old Luke chuckled and drew the fish from the basket.

“Fine one, ain’t it?” he said.

“A beauty,” cried Mrs Van Heldre ecstatically.

“Pshah!” ejaculated Uncle Luke. “Ma’am you don’t care for it a bit; but there’s more than I want, and it will help keep your servants.”

“It would, Luke,” said Van Heldre laughing as the fish was laid in the dish, “but they will not touch it. Well?”

“Eh? What do you mean by well?” snorted the old man with a suspicious look. “Out with it.”

“Out with what?”

“What you have brought.”

The two men gazed in each other’s faces, the merchant looking half amused, the visitor annoyed; but his dry countenance softened into a smile and he turned to Mrs Van Heldre. “Artful!” he said dryly. “Don’t you find him too cunning to get on with?”

“I should think not indeed,” said Mrs Van Heldre indignantly.

“Might have known you’d say that,” sneered Uncle Luke. “What a weak, foolish woman you are!”

“Yes, I am, thank goodness! I wish you’d have a little more of my foolishness in you, Mr Luke Vine. There, I beg your pardon. What have you got there, shrimps?”

“Yes,” said Uncle Luke grimly, as he brought a brown paper parcel from the bottom of his basket, where it had lain under the wet piece of conger, whose stain was on the cover, “some nice crisp fresh shrimps. Here, Van – catch.”

He threw the packet to his brother’s old friend and comrade, by whom it was deftly caught, while Mrs Van Heldre looked on in a puzzled way.

“Put ’em in your safe till I find another investment for ’em. Came down by post this morning, and I don’t like having ’em at home. Out fishing so much.”

“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.”