Читать книгу Of High Descent - Fenn George Manville - Страница 14

Uncle Luke was in very good spirits. He had rid himself of his incubus, as he called the sum of money, and though he would not own it, he always felt better when he had had a little converse with his fellow-creatures. His lonely life was very miserable, and the more so that he insisted upon its being the highest form of happiness to exist in hermit fashion, as the old saints proved.

The desolate hut in its rocky niche looked miserable when he climbed up back on his return from Van Heldre’s, so he stopped by the granite wall and smiled.

“Finest prospect in all Cornwall,” he said, half aloud; “freshest air. Should like to blow up Leslie’s works, though.”

The door was locked, but it yielded to the heavy key which secured it against visitors, though they were very rare upon that rocky shelf.

He was the more surprised then, after his frugal mid-day meal, by a sharp rapping at the door, and on going he stared angrily at the two sturdy sailor-dressed pedlars, who were resting their packs on the low granite wall.

“Can we sell a bit o’ ’bacco, or a pound o’ tea, master?” said the man who had won over Liza to the purchase of his coloured silk.

“Bang!”

That was Uncle Luke’s answer as the man spoke to him and his fellow swept the interior of the cottage with one quick glance.

“Steal as soon as sell any day,” grumbled Uncle Luke. “Tobacco and tea, indeed!”

Outside one of the men gave his companion a wink and a laugh, as he shouldered his pack, while the other chuckled and followed his example.

Meanwhile Uncle Luke had seated himself at his rough deal table, and written a long business letter to his lawyer in London.

This missive he read over twice, made an addition to the paragraph dealing most particularly with the mortgage on which he had been invited to lend, and then carefully folded the square post-paper he used in old-fashioned letter shape, tucking one end into the other from objects of economy, so as to dispense with envelopes, but necessitating all the same the use of sealing-wax and a light.

However, it pleased him to think that he was saving, and he lit a very thin candle, took the stick of red wax from a drawer, a curious old-fashioned signet gold ring bearing the family crest from a nail where it hung over the fireplace, and then, sitting down as if to some very important piece of business, he burned his wax, laid on a liberal quantity, and then impressed the seal. This done, the ring was hung once more upon its nail, and the old man stood gazing at it and thinking. The next minute he took down the ring, and slipped it on one of his fingers, and worked it up and down, trying it on another finger, and then going back to the first.

“Used to fit too tightly,” he said: “now one’s fingers are little more than bone.”

He held up the ring to the light, his white hand looking very thin and wasted, and the worn gold glistened and the old engraved blood-stone showed its design almost as clearly as when it was first cut.

“‘Roy et Foy!’” muttered the old man, reading the motto beneath the crest. “Bit of vanity. Margaret asked where it was, last time I saw her. Let’s see; I lost you twice, once when I wore you as I was fishing off the pier, and once on the black rock you slipped off my bony finger, and each time the sea washed you into a crack.”

He smiled as he gazed at the ring, and there was a pleasant, handsome trace of what he had been as a young man in his refined features.

“Please the young dog – old family ring,” he muttered. “Might sell it and make a pound. No, he may have it when I’m gone. Can’t be so very long.”

He hung the ring upon the nail once more, and spent the rest of the afternoon gazing out to sea, sometimes running over the past, but more often looking out for the glistening and flashing of the sea beneath where a flock of gulls were hovering over some shoal of fish.

It was quite evening when there was a staid, heavy step and the click of nailed boots as the old fish-woman came toiling up the cliff-path, her basket on her back, and the band which supported it across her brow.

“Any fish to sell, Master Vine?” she said in a sing-song tone. “I looked down the pier, but you weren’t there.”

“How could I be there when I’m up here, Poll Perrow?”

“Ah, to be sure; how could you?” said the old woman, trying to nod her head, but without performing the feat, on account of her basket. “Got any fish to sell?”

“No. Yes,” said the old man. “That’s right. I want some to-night. Will you go and fetch it?”

“Yes. Stop there,” said Uncle Luke sourly, as he saw a chance of making a few pence, and wondered whether he would get enough from his customer.

“Mind my sitting down inside, Master Luke Vine, sir? It’s hot, and I’m tired; and it’s a long way up here.”

“Why do you come, then?”

“Wanted to say a few words to you about my gal when we’ve done our bit o’ trade.”

“Come in and sit down, then,” said the old man gruffly. And his visitor slipped the leather band from her forehead, set her basket on the granite wall, and went into the kitchen-like room, wiping her brow as she seated herself in the old rush-bottomed chair.

“I’ll fetch it here,” said Uncle Luke, and he went round to the back, to return directly with the second half of the conger.

“There,” said the old man eagerly, “how much for that?”

“Oh, I can’t buy half a conger, Mr Luke Vine, sir; and I don’t know as I’d have took it if it had been whole.”

“Then be off, and don’t come bothering me,” grunted the old man snappishly.

“Don’t be cross, master; you’ve no call to be. You never have no gashly troubles to worry you.”

“No, nor don’t mean to have. What’s the matter now?”

“My gal!”

“Serve you right. No business to have married. You never saw me make such a fool of myself.”

“No, master, never; but when you’ve got gals you must do your best for ’em.”

“Humph! what’s the matter?” Poll Perrow looked slowly round the ill-furnished, untidy place.

“You want a woman here, Master Luke Vine, sir,” she said at last. “Don’t talk nonsense!”

“It aren’t nonsense, Master Luke Vine, and you know it. You want your bed made proper, and your washing done, and your place scrubbed. Now why don’t you let my gal come up every morning to do these things?”

“Look here,” said Uncle Luke, “what is it you mean?”

“She’s got into a scrape at Mr Vine’s, sir – something about some money being missing – and I suppose she’ll have to come home, so I want to get her something to do.”

“Oh, she isn’t honest enough for my brother’s house, but she’s honest enough for mine.”

“Oh, the gal’s honest enough. It’s all a mistake. But I can’t afford to keep her at home, so, seeing as we’d had dealings together, I thought you’d oblige me and take her here.”

“Seeing as we’d had dealings together!” grumbled Uncle Luke.

“Everything is so untidy-like, sir,” said the old fish-dealer, looking round. “Down at your brother’s there’s everything a gentleman could wish for, but as to your place – why, there: it’s worse than mine.”

“Look here, Poll Perrow,” said the old eccentricity fiercely, “this is my place, and I do in it just as I like. I don’t want your girl to come and tidy my place, and I don’t want you to come and bother me, so be off. There’s a letter; take it down and post it for me: and there’s a penny for your trouble.”

“Thank ye, master. Penny saved is a penny got; but Mr George Vine would have given me sixpence – I’m not sure he wouldn’t have given me a shilling. Miss Louise would.”

Uncle Luke was already pointing at the door, towards which the woman moved unwillingly.

“Let me come up to-morrow and ask you, Mr Luke, sir. Perhaps you’ll be in a better temper then.”

“Better temper!” he cried wrathfully. “I’m always in a better temper. Because I refuse to ruin myself by having your great, idle girl to eat me out of house and home, I’m not in a good temper, eh? There, be off! or I shall say something unpleasant.”

“I’m a-going, sir. It’s all because I wouldn’t buy half a fish, as I should have had thrown on my hands, and been obliged to eat myself. Look here, sir,” cried the woman, as she adjusted the strap of her basket, “if I buy the bit of fish will you take the poor gal then?”

“No!” cried Uncle Luke, slamming the door, as the woman stood with her basket once more upon her back.

“Humph!” exclaimed the old woman, as she thrust the penny in her pocket, and then hesitated as to where she should place the letter.

While she was considering, the little window was opened and Uncle Luke’s head appeared.

“Mind you don’t lose that letter.”

“Never you fear about that,” said the old woman; and as if from a bright inspiration she pitched it over her head into her basket, and then trudged away.

“She’ll lose that letter as sure as fate,” grunted Uncle Luke. “Well, there’s nothing in it to mind. Now I suppose I can have a little peace, and – Who’s this?”

He leaned a little farther out of his window, so as to bring a curve of the cliff-path well into view.

“My beautiful nephew and that parasite. Going up to Leslie, I suppose – to smoke. Waste and debauchery – smoking.”

He shut the window sharply, and settled himself down with his back to it, determined not to see his nephew pass; but five minutes later there was a sharp rapping at the door.

“Uncle Luke! Uncle!”

The old man made no reply.

“Here, Uncle Luke. I know you’re at home; the old woman said so.”

“Hang that old woman!” grumbled Uncle Luke; and in response to a fresh call he rose, and opened his door with a snatch.

“Now then, what is it? I’m just going to bed.”

“Bed at this time of the day?” cried Harry cheerfully. “Why you couldn’t go to sleep if you did go.”

“Why not?” snapped the old man; “you can in the mornings – over the ledger.”

Harry winced, but he turned off the malicious remark with a laugh.

“Uncle loves his joke, Pradelle,” he said. “Come, uncle, I don’t often visit you; ask us in.”

“No, you don’t often visit me, Harry,” said the old man, looking at him searchingly; “and when you do come it’s because you want something.”

Harry winced again, for the old man’s words cut deeply.

“Oh, nonsense, uncle! Pradelle and I were having a stroll, and we thought we’d drop in here and smoke a cigar with you.”

“Very kind,” said the old man, looking meaningly from one to the other. “Missed meeting the girls, or have they snubbed you and sent you about your business?”

“Have a cigar, uncle?” said Harry, holding out his case. “I tell you we came on purpose to see you.”

“Humph!” said Uncle Luke, taking the handsome morocco cigar-case, and turning it over and over with great interest. “How much did that cost?”

“Don’t remember now: fifteen shillings I think.”

“Ah,” said Uncle Luke, pressing the snap and opening it. “One, two, three, four; how much do these cigars cost?”

“Only fourpence, uncle; can’t afford better ones.”

“And a cigar lasts – how long?”

“Oh, I make one last three-quarters of an hour, because I smoke very slowly. Try one one.”

“No, thankye; can’t afford such luxuries, my boy,” said the old man, shutting the case with a snap, and returning it. “That case and the cigars there cost nearly a pound. Your income must be rising fast.”

Harry and Pradelle exchanged glances. The reception did not promise well for a loan. “Cigar does you good sometimes.”

“Harry,” said the old man, laughing and pointing at the case.

“What’s the matter, uncle?” said Harry eagerly; “want one?”

“No, no. Why didn’t you have it put on there?”

“What?”

“Crest and motto, and your title – Comte des Vignes. You might lose it, and then people would know where to take it.”

“Don’t chaff a fellow, uncle,” said Harry, colouring. “Here, we may come and sit down, mayn’t we?”

“Oh, certainly, if your friend will condescend to take a seat in my homely place.”

“Only too happy, Mr Luke Vine.”

“Are you now? Shouldn’t have thought it,” sneered the old man. “No wine to offer you, sir; no brandy and soda; that’s the stuff young men drink now, isn’t it?”

“Don’t name it, my dear sir; don’t name it,” said Pradelle, with an attempt at heartiness that made the old man half close his eyes. “Harry and I only came up for a stroll. Besides, we’ve just dined.”

“Have you? That’s a good job, because I’ve only a bit of conger in the house, and that isn’t cooked. Come in and sit down, sir. You, Harry, you’ll have to sit down on that old oak chest.”