Читать книгу The Haute Noblesse: A Novel - Fenn George Manville - Страница 9

“Now, my dear Mr Crampton, believe me, I am only actuated by a desire to do good.”

“That’s exactly what actuates me, sir, when I make bold, after forty years’ service with you and your father, to tell you that you have made a great mistake.”

“All men make mistakes, Crampton,” said Van Heldre, to his plump, grey, stern-looking head clerk.

“Yes, sir; but if they are then worth their salt they see where they have made a mistake, and try and correct it. We did not want him.”

“As far as actual work to be done, no; but I will tell you plainly why I took on the young man. I wish to help my old friend in a peculiarly troubled period of his life.”

“That’s you all over, Mr Van Heldre,” said the old clerk, pinching his very red nose, and then arranging his thin hair with a pen-holder; “but I can’t feel that it’s right. You see the young man don’t take to his work. He comes and goes in a supercilious manner, and treats me as if I were his servant.”

“Oh, that will soon pass off, Crampton.”

“I hope so, Mr Van Heldre, sir, but his writing’s as bad as a schoolboy’s.”

“That will improve.”

“He’s always late of a morning.”

“I’ll ask him to correct that.”

“And he’s always doing what I hate in a young man, seeing how short is life, sir, and how soon we’re gone – he’s always looking at the clock and yawning.”

“Never mind, Crampton, he’ll soon give up all that sort of thing. The young man is like an ill-trained tree. He has grown rather wild, but now he has been transplanted to an orderly office, to be under your constant supervision, he will gradually imbibe your habits and precision. It will be his making.”

“Now, now, now,” said the old clerk, shaking his head, “that’s flattering, sir. My habits and precision. No, no, sir; I’m a very bad clerk, and I’m growing old as fast as I can.”

“You are the best clerk in the west of England, Crampton, and you are only growing old at the customary rate. And now to oblige me, look over these little blemishes in the young man’s character. There is a good deal of the spoiled boy in him, but I believe his heart’s right; and for more reasons than one I want him to develop into a good man of business – such a one as we can make of him if we try.”

“Don’t say another word, Mr Van Heldre. You know me, and if I say as long as the young man is honest and straightforward I’ll do my best for him, I suppose that’s sufficient.”

“More than sufficient, Crampton.”

“But you know, sir, he ought to have made some little advance in a month.”

“No, no, Crampton,” said Van Heldre, smiling, “he has not grown used to the new suit yet: have patience, and he’ll come right.”

“That’s enough, sir,” said Crampton, climbing on to a high stool in front of a well-polished desk, “now for business. The Saint Aubyn has taken in all her cargo, and will sail to-morrow. We ought soon to have news of the Madelaine. By the way, I hope Miss Madelaine’s quite well, sir. Haven’t seen her for a day and a half.”

“Quite well, Crampton.”

“That’s right, sir,” said the old man, smiling and rubbing his hands. “Bless her! I’ve only one thing against her. Why wasn’t she a boy?”

Van Heldre smiled at his old confidential man, who still rubbed his hands softly, and gazed over his silver-rimmed spectacles at a file of bills of lading hanging from the wall.

“What a boy she would have made, and what a man I could have made of him! Van Heldre and Son once more, as it ought to be. I’d have made just such a man of business of him as I made of you. Going, sir?”

“Yes, I’m going up to Tolzarn. By the way, send Mr Henry Vine up to me about twelve.”

“Yes,” said Crampton, beginning to write away very busily. “I suppose he’ll come?”

“Of course, of course,” said Van Heldre hastily, and leaving the office he went into the house just as Mrs Van Heldre had made her way into the hall to cover up her bullfinch’s cage; and her hand was upon the bird organ when she heard her husband’s step, when, colouring like a girl, she hurried up-stairs.

Van Heldre crossed the hall and entered the morning-room, where Madelaine was busy with her needle.

She looked at him in an inquiring way, to which he had become accustomed during the past month, and in accordance with an unwritten contract.

“No, my dear, not come yet.”

Madelaine’s countenance changed as she saw her father glance at his watch, and she involuntarily darted a quick look at the clock on the chimney-piece.

“I’m going up to the works,” continued Van Heldre. “Back before one. Morning.”

Madelaine resumed her work for a few minutes, and then rose to stand where, unseen, she could watch the road. She saw her father go by up the valley, but her attention was turned toward the sea, from which direction Harry Vine would have to come.

She stood watching for nearly a quarter of an hour before she heard a familiar step, and then the young man passed smoking the end of a cigar, which he threw away before turning in at the way which led to Van Heldre’s offices.

Directly after, as Madelaine sat looking very thoughtful over her work, there was the quick patter of Mrs Van Heldre’s feet.

“Madelaine, my dear,” she said as she entered; “I thought you said that Mr Pradelle had gone away a fortnight ago.”

“I did, mamma.”

“Well, then, he has come back again.”

“Back again?” said Madelaine, letting her work fall in her lap.

“Yes, I was at the up-stairs window just now, and I saw him pass as I was looking out for Harry Vine. He’s very late this morning, and it does make papa so vexed.”

It was late, for instead of being nine o’clock, the clock in the office was on the stroke of ten as Harry Vine hurriedly entered, and glanced at the yellowy-white faced dial.

“Morning, Mr Crampton. I say that clock’s fast, isn’t it?”

“Eh? fast?” said the old man grimly. “No, Mr Harry Vine; that’s a steady old time-keeper, not a modern young man.”

“Disagreeable old hunks,” said Harry to himself, as he hung up his hat. “Bad headache this morning, Mr Crampton, thought I shouldn’t be able to come.”

“Seidlitz powder,” said the old man, scratching away with his pen, and without looking up.

“Eh?”

“Dissolve the blue in a tumbler of warm water.”

“Bother!” muttered Harry, frowning.

“The white in a wineglassful of cold. Pour one into the other – and – drink – while effervescing.”

The intervals between some of the words were filled up by scratches of the pen.

“Headache, eh? Bad things, sir, bad things.”

He removed himself from his stool and went to the safe in the inner office, where Van Heldre generally sat, and Harry raised his head from his desk and listened, as he heard the rattling of keys and the clang of a small iron door.

“Yes, bad things headaches, Mr Harry,” said the old man returning. “Try early hours for ’em, and look here: Mr Van Heldre says – ”

“Has he been in the office this morning?” cried Harry hastily.

“Yes, sir, he came in as soon as I’d come, nine to the minute, and he wants you to join him at the tin works about twelve.”

“Wigging!” said guilty conscience.

“Do your head good, sir.”

Old Crampton resumed his seat, and for an hour and three-quarters, during which period Harry had several times looked at the clock and yawned, there was a constant scratching of pens.

Then Harry Vine descended from his stool.

“I’d better go now?”

“Yes, sir, you’d better go now. And might have gone before for all the good you’ve done,” grumbled the old man, as Harry passed the window. “Tut – tut – tut! What careless writing. He’s spoiling my books, that he is.”

The old man had hardly spent another half-hour over his work when there was a sharp tapping at the door, such as might be given by the knob on a stick.

“Come in.”

The door was opened, and Pradelle entered and gave a sharp look round.

“Morning,” he said in a cavalier way. “Tell Mr Vine I want to speak to him for a moment.”

Old Crampton looked up from his writing, and fixed his eyes on the visitor’s hat.

“Not at home,” he said shortly.

“How long will he be?”

“Don’t know.”

“Where has he gone?”

“Tin works,” said Crampton, resuming his writing.

“Confounded old bear!” muttered Pradelle as he went out, after frowning severely at the old clerk, who did not see it.

“Idle young puppy!” grumbled Crampton, dotting an I so fiercely that he drove his pen though the paper. “I’d have knocked his hat off if I had had my ruler handy. Now what does he want, I wonder?”

Van Heldre was busy at work with a shovel when Harry Vine reached the tin-smelting works, which the merchant had added to his other ventures. He was beside a heap of what rather resembled wet coarsely ground coffee.

“Ah, Harry,” he said, “you may as well learn all these things. Be useful some day. Take hold of that shovel and turn that over. Tell me what you think of it.”

A strong mind generally acts upon one that is weak, and it was so here.

Harry felt disposed, as he looked at his white hands, the shovel, and the heap, to thrust the said white hands in his pocket and walk away.

But he took the shovel and plunged it in the heap, lifted it full, and then with a look of disgust said: —

“What am I to do with it?”

“Shovel it away and get more out of the centre.”

Harry obeyed, and looked up for fresh orders.

“Now take a couple of handfuls and examine them. Don’t be afraid, man, it’s honest dirt.”

Van Heldre set the example, took a handful and poured it from left to right and back again.

“Now,” he said, “take notice; that’s badly washed.”

“Not soap enough,” said Harry, hiding his annoyance with an attempt at being facetious.

“Not exactly,” said Van Heldre drily; “bad work. Now when that tin is passed through the furnace, there’ll be twice as much slag and refuse as there ought to be. That will do. Leave the shovel, I want you to take account of those slabs of tin. Mark them, number them, and enter them in this book. It will take you an hour. Then bring the account down to me at the office.”

“I can have a man to move the slabs?” said Harry.

“No, they are all busy. If I were doing it, I should work without a man.”

“Hang it all! I’m about sick of this,” said Harry, after he had been alone about half an hour, and feeling more disgusted moment by moment with his task. “How mad Aunt Marguerite would be if she could see me now!”

He looked round at the low dirty sheds on one side, at the row of furnaces on the other, two of which emitted a steady roar as the tin within gradually turned from a brown granulated powder to a golden fluid, whose stony scum was floating on the top.

“It’s enough to make any man kick against his fate. Nice occupation for a gentleman, ’pon my word!”

A low whistle made him look up quickly, and his countenance brightened.

“Why, Vic,” he cried; “I thought you were in town.”

“How are you, my Trojan?” cried the visitor boisterously. “I was in town, but I’ve come back. I say, cheerful work this for Monsieur le Comte Henri des Vignes!”

“Don’t chaff a fellow,” said Harry angrily. “What brought you down?”

“Two things.”

“Now, look here, Vic. Don’t say any more about that. Perhaps after a time I may get her to think differently, but now – ”

“I was not going to say anything about your sister, my dear boy. I can wait and bear anything. But I suppose I may say something about you?”

“About me?”

“Yes. I’ve got a splendid thing on. Safe to make money – heaps of it.”

“Yes; but your schemes always want money first.”

“Well, hang it all, lad! you can’t expect a crop of potatoes without planting a few bits first. It wouldn’t want much. Only about fifty pounds. A hundred would be better, but we could make fifty do.”

Harry shook his head.

“Come, come; you haven’t heard half yet. I’ve the genuine information. It would be worth a pile of money. It’s our chance now – such a chance as may never occur again.”

“No, no; don’t tempt me, Vic,” said Harry, after a long whimpered conversation.

“Tempt? I feel disposed to force you, lad. It makes me half wild to see you degraded to such work as this. Why, if we do as I propose you will be in a position to follow out your aunt’s instructions, engage lawyers to push on your case, and while you obtain your rights, I shall be in a position to ask your sister’s hand without the chance of a refusal. I tell you the thing’s safe.”

“No, no,” said Harry, shaking his head; “it’s too risky. We should lose and be worse off than ever.”

“With a horse like that, and me with safe private information about him!”

“No,” said Harry, “I won’t. I’m going to keep steadily on here, and, as the governor calls it, plod.”

“That you’re not, if I know it,” cried Pradelle indignantly. “I won’t stand it. It’s disgraceful. You shan’t throw yourself away.”

“But I’ve got no money, old fellow.”

“Nonsense! Get some of the old man.”

“No; I’ve done it too often. He won’t stand it now.”

“Well, of your aunt.”

“She hasn’t a penny but what my father lets her have.”

“Your sister. Come, she would let you have some.”

Harry shook his head.

“No, I’m not going to ask her. It’s no good, Vic; I won’t.”

“Well,” said Pradelle, apostrophising an ingot of tin as it lay at his feet glistening with iridescent hues, “if any one had told me, I wouldn’t have believed it. Why, Harry, lad, you’ve only been a month at this mill-horse life, and you’re quite changed. What have they been doing to you, man?”

“Breaking my spirit, I suppose, they’d call it,” said the young man bitterly.

“Nonsense! yours isn’t a spirit to be broken in to a beggarly trade. Think of what your aunt has said to you, as well as to me. Your estates, your title, the woman you are to marry. Why, Harry, lad, you don’t think I’m going to sit still and see you break down without a word?”

Harry shook his head.

“Get out! I won’t have it. You want waking up,” said Pradelle in a low, earnest voice. “Think, lad, a few pounds placed as I could place ’em, and there’s fortune for in both, without reckoning on what you could do in France. As your aunt say, there’s money and a title waiting for you if you’ll only stretch out your hand to take ’em. Come, rouse yourself. Harry Vine isn’t the lad to settle down to this drudgery. Why, I thought it was one of the workmen when I came up.”

“It’s of no use,” said Harry gloomily, as he seated himself on the ingots of tin. “A man must submit to his fate.”

“Bah! a man’s fate is what he makes it. Look here; fifty or a hundred borrowed for a few days, and then repaid.”

“But suppose – ”

“Suppose!” cried Pradelle mockingly; “a business man has no time to suppose, he strikes while the iron’s hot. You’re going to strike iron, not tin.”

“How? Where’s the money?”

“Where’s the money?” said Pradelle mockingly. “You want fifty or a hundred for a few days, when you would return it fifty times over; and you say, where’s the money?”

“Don’t I tell you I have no one I could borrow from?” said Harry angrily.

“Yes, you have,” said Pradelle, sinking his voice. “It’s easy as easy. Only for a few days. A temporary loan. Look here.”

He bent down, and whispered a few words in the young man’s ear, words which turned him crimson, and then deadly pale.

“Pradelle!” he cried, in a hoarse whisper; “are you mad?”

“No. I was thinking of coming over to Auvergne to spend a month with my friend, the Count. By-and-by, dear lad – by-and-by.”

“No, no; it is impossible,” said Harry hoarsely, and he gave a hasty glance round.

“No,” whispered Pradelle, “no; it is not impossible, but as simple as A B C.”

“But,” faltered Harry, who was trembling now.

“Hush! some one coming. No; you need not mind,” said Pradelle with a sneer; “only two ladies walking up the road. Now, I wonder whom they’ve come to see.”

“No, no,” said Harry in a husky whisper, as his companion’s last words seemed unheeded; “I couldn’t do that.”

“You could,” said Pradelle, and then to himself: “and, if I know you, Harry Vine, you shall.”