The Haute Noblesse: A Novel

Leslie walked steadily back up the hill to his works, and had not been at his office five minutes before Poll Perrow’s basket was creaking outside.

“I know you won’t be so gashly hard on a poor woman, Master Leslie,” she said. “It aren’t true about me getting brandy, sir. Let me have a drop in the bottom of a bottle, sir. You’ll never miss it, and you don’t know what good you’ll do a poor soul as wants it bad.”

“Look here,” said Leslie, “I’ll give you some on one condition; that you do not come here again to beg.”

“Not if I can help it, sir; but a well-off gentleman like you will never miss a drop. A pint will be plenty, sir, in as small a bottle as you can.”

Leslie could not help laughing at the woman’s impudence, but he said nothing, only went into the house and returned with a pint bottle filled with the potent spirit.

“And bless you for it, Master Leslie!” cried Poll Perrow, with her eyes sparkling. “Now, sir, only one little thing more.”

“No,” said Leslie, sternly. “I have given you what you asked; now go.”

“I only want you to put in a word for me to Master Luke, sir. Don’t let him speak to the coastguard.”

“Don’t be alarmed; the old man is too good-hearted to do anything of the kind. But I should advise you to give up all such practices. There, good-day.”

“Good-day, and bless you, my son!” cried Poll eagerly. “I shan’t forget this.”

“I was foolish to give it to her,” said Leslie to himself, as he watched the woman’s slowly retiring figure; and then he turned his eyes in the direction of the Vines’, as it stood peaceful and bright-looking on its shelf by the cliff, across the intervening valley.

“Might venture to-night. Surely they would not think it intrusive? Yes; I will.”

Duncan Leslie felt better after coming to this determination, and went busily about his work at the mine.

Poll Perrow went straight down into the little town and then up the path at the back, trudging steadily along and at a very good pace, till she saw about fifty yards in front a figure going in the same direction.

“Miss Madlin!” she said to herself. “I’d know her walk anywhere. And all in black, too. Ah!”

Poll Perrow stopped short with her mouth open.

“How horrid!” she ejaculated. “It killed him then, after all. Poor Master Van Heldre! Poor Master Harry Vine!”

She rubbed a tear away with her rough brown hand. Then starting up, she made the mussels in her basket rattle.

“What nonsense!” she said. “Why Master Crampton told me last night, and down the street, that Master Van Heldre was much better, and he couldn’t ha’ died and Miss Madlin gone in mourning since last night. They couldn’t ha’ got the gownd made.”

By this time Madelaine had reached the Vines’ gate and gone in.

“Phew!”

Poll Perrow gave vent to a low whistle, something like the cry of a gull.

“Why, I know!” she muttered. “Miss Madlin’s gone into mourning all along o’ Master Harry. Then my Liza’s a great goose. She was fond of him after all. Why I only to think!”

She turned off down a narrow path, so as to get round to the back door, where she was met by Liza, looking very red and angry.

“Now, what have you come for again? I saw you coming as I let Miss Madlin in, and it’s too bad.”

“Oh, Liza, Liza?” said the fish-woman, “what a wicked girl you are to talk to your poor mother like that?”

“I don’t care whether it’s wicked or whether it aren’t wicked, but I just tell you this: if you come begging again, you may just go back, for you’ll get nothing here. It’s disgraceful; you taking to that.”

“No, no, not begging, my dear,” said Poll, staring at her daughter’s red-brown face, as if lost in admiration. “Lor’, Liza, what a hansum gal you do grow!”

“Now, do adone, mother, and don’t talk like that.”

“I can’t help it, Liza. I wonder half the fisher lads in port aren’t half mad after you.”

“Now, mother, be quiet; you’ll have Miss Margreet hear!”

“Nay, she’ll be down-stairs with the company, won’t she? Yes, Liza, you do grow more and more hansum every day.”

“Then you oughtn’t to tell me so, mother. It’ll only make me prouder than I am. Now, what do you want again? This is four times you’ve been here this week.”

“Is it, my dear? Well, you see, I’ve got some of them big mussels as you’re so fond on, and I brought you a few to cook for your supper.”

“It’s very good of you. Well, there; give them to me, and do please go.”

“Yes, my dear, there you are. That’s right. Haven’t got a bit o’ cold meat, and a bit o’ bread you could give me, have you, Liza?”

“No, I haven’t, mother; and you ought to be ashamed to ask.”

“So I am, my dear, almost. But you have got some, or half a chicken and some ham.”

“Chicken! Oh, the idea!”

“Yes. There’s a good girl; and if there’s a bit o’ cold pudden, or anything else, let’s have it too. Put it all together in a cloth.”

“Now, mother, I won’t. It’s stealing, and I should feel as if I’d stole it.”

“Oh, what a gal you are, Liza! Why, didn’t I wash, and iron, and bring home that last napkin, looking white as snow?”

“Yes, but – ”

“And so I will this.”

“But you won’t bring back the cold chicken and ham,” retorted Liza.

“Why, how could I, my dear? You know they won’t keep.”

“Well, once for all, mother, I won’t, and there’s an end of it.”

“You’ll break my heart, Liza, ’fore you’ve done,” whimpered the fish-woman. “Think o’ the days and days as I’ve carried you ’bout in this very basket, when I’ve been out gathering mussels or selling fish.”

“Now, don’t talk stuff, mother. You weared out half-a-dozen baskets since then.”

“P’r’aps I have, Liza, but I haven’t weared out the feeling that you’re my gal, as lives here on the fat o’ the land, and hot puddens every day, and refuses to give your poor mother a bit o’ broken wittle to save her from starving. Oh!”

“Mother, don’t?” cried Liza, stamping her foot. “If you cry like that they’ll hear you in the parlour.”

“Then give me a bit o’ something to eat, and let me go.”

“I won’t, and that’s flat, mother.”

“Then I shall sit down on the front door-step, and I’ll wait till Miss Louy comes; and she’ll make you give me something. No, I won’t; I’ll stop till cook comes. Where is she?”

“A cleaning herself.”

“Then I shall wait.”

“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” cried Liza, stamping about, and speaking in a tearful whisper. “I do wish I never hadn’t had no mother, that I do.”

“There’s a ungrateful gal,” said the fish-woman; “and you growed up so beautiful, and me so proud on you.”

“Well, will you promise to go away, mother, and never come and ask no more if I give you something this time?”

“To be sure I will, my dear, of course. There, be quick, before any one comes, and do it up neat in a napkin, there’s a good gal, and I’ll bring you a lobster next time I come.”

“There, now, and you promised you wouldn’t come no more.”

“Ah, well, I won’t then, my dear.”

“Then I’ll get you a bit this time; but mind, never no more.”

“No, never no more, my beauty. Only be quick.”

Liza disappeared, and Poll Perrow took off her basket and sat down on the edge, rubbing her knees and laughing heartily to herself, but smoothing her countenance again directly, as she heard her daughter’s step.

“There, mother,” whispered Liza, “and I feel just as if there was the police after me, same as they was after Master Harry. This is the last time, mind.”

“Yes, my beauty, the last time. What is there?”

“No, no, don’t open it,” cried the girl, laying her hand sharply upon the parcel she had given to her mother. “There’s half a pork pie, and a piece of seed cake, and a bit o’ chicken.”

“Any bread?”

“Yes, lots. Now hide it in your basket, and go.”

“To be sure I will, Liza.” And the white napkin and its contents were soon hidden under a piece of fishing-net. “There, good-bye, my dear. You’ll be glad you’ve helped your poor old mother, that you will, and – Good mornin’, Miss Margreet.”

“Put that basket down,” said the old lady sharply, as she stood gazing imperiously at the detected pair.

“Put the basket down, miss?”

“Yes, directly. I am glad I came down and caught you in the act. Shameful! Disgraceful! Liza, take out that parcel of food stolen from my brother.”

“No, no, Miss Margreet, only broken wittles, as would be thrown away.”

Liza stooped down, sobbing, and pulled the bundle out of the basket.

“I always said you’d be the ruin of me, mother,” she sobbed.

“No, no, my dear,” cried the woman; “Miss Margreet won’t be hard on us. Let me have it, miss, do please.”

“Go away!” cried Aunt Marguerite fiercely.

“Pray, pray do, miss,” cried the woman imploringly.

“Go away, I say!” cried Aunt Marguerite, “and if you set foot on these premises again, you shall leave with the police. Go.”

Poor Liza stood inside the door, sobbing, with the bundle of good things neatly pinned up in her hand, while Aunt Marguerite stood pointing imperiously with her closed fan, as if it were a sceptre, till Poll Perrow, with her basket swung once more upon her back, disappeared out of the gate.

“Now, madam,” said Aunt Marguerite, “the moment that young person in the drawing-room has gone, you shall receive your dismissal, and in disgrace.”

Chapter Thirty Nine

A Meeting in Pain

George Vine sat in his easy chair in front of the fireplace, gazing at the cut paper ornaments and willow shavings, and seeing in them the career of his son, and the dismal scene in the churchyard, with the rain falling and making little pearls on the black coffin cloth.

He had not spoken for hours, but from time to time, as Louise laid her hand upon his arm, he had slowly taken and pressed it between his own before raising it with a sigh to his lips.

“Don’t speak to me, my darling,” he had pleaded to her when he first took his place there that morning. “I want to think.”

She had respected his prayer, and in her endeavours to take her thoughts from the horrors which oppressed her she had stolen into her father’s study, as an idea struck her, but only to come away sadly. Her visit had been too late; the cherished collection of marine objects were one and all dead.

Her father looked up as she returned. He had not seemed to notice her, but he knew where she had been, and as he gave her a questioning look Liza entered the room.

“Miss Van Heldre, miss.”

Vine caught his child’s hand, as if too weak for the encounter; but, as the closely-veiled figure in black crossed the room quickly, and both realised the meaning of those mourning garments, Louise burst into a wild fit of sobbing, and turned away for a moment, but only to be clasped in Madelaine’s arms.

There was an earnest, loving embrace, and then Madelaine turned to Vine, laying her hands upon his breast, and kissing him as a child would its parent.

“So much better,” she said, in answer to the wistful, inquiring look directed at her. “I have come to fetch you both.”

“To fetch us?” faltered Vine with a horrified look.

“My father begs you will come to him. I am his ambassador. You will not refuse?”

“I cannot meet him,” said Vine in a faint voice full of despair; “and,” he added to himself, “I could not bear it.”

“He would come to you, but he is weak and suffering,” said Madelaine as she laid her hand upon the stricken man’s arm. “Tell him ‘I beg he will come to me,’ he said,” she whispered. “You will not refuse, Mr Vine?”

“No, I will not refuse. Louise, dear?”

“Yes, father, I will go with you,” she said slowly; and in a few minutes she returned, ready for the walk, and crossed to where her father sat holding Madelaine’s hand.

As she entered he rose and met her.

“Louise, my child, must we go?” he said feebly. “I feel as if it where almost more than I can bear. Must we go?”

“Yes,” she replied gravely; “we must go.”

Vine bowed his head.

“Come, my child,” he said, turning to Madelaine, and he was half way to the door when Aunt Marguerite entered.

“Going out?” she said, shrinking from the sombre figure in black.

“Yes, aunt.”

“You must attend first to what I have to say, Louise. Miss Van Heldre can, I daresay, wait.”

Madelaine bent her head and drew back.

“I have business with Mr Van Heldre, Marguerite,” said Vine more sternly than he had ever spoken to her before. “You must wait till our return.”

Aunt Marguerite’s eyes flashed an indignant look at Madelaine, as the cause of this rebuff, and she drew back with a stiff curtsey and walked slowly before them out of the room.

George Vine gazed wildly round him as he walked slowly down the steep way toward the town. It seemed terrible to him that in such a time of suffering and mourning, sea, sky, and earth should be painted in such lovely colours. The heavy rain of the previous days seemed to have given a brilliancy to leaf and flower that before was wanting; and as, from time to time, he glanced wildly at the rocky point, the scene of the tragedy of his life, the waves were curling over, and breaking in iridescent foam upon the rocks, to roll back in silvery cataracts to the sea.

He turned away his eyes with a shudder, fighting hard to keep his thoughts from the horrors of that night; but he was doomed to have them emphasised, for, just before reaching the foot of the steep way, the little party came suddenly upon the great burly fisherman, who had undertaken to sail across to Saint Malo with the fugitive that night.

“Mornin’, master,” he said.

Vine turned ghastly pale, and his brain reeled; but he soon recovered himself.

“Louise, Madelaine, my children, go on, and I will follow.”

Louise looked at him appealingly; but he was perfectly firm, and she went on with her friend.

“I fear, in the midst of my trouble, Perrow, that I had forgotten my engagement with you.”

“Like enough, master, no wonder. There was no hurry.”

“Yes, but there is,” said Vine slowly. “Will you come to my house to-night or to-morrow morning? and I’ll give you my cheque to take to the bank.”

“For how much?” said the man eagerly.

“One hundred pounds; the amount I promised you.”

“Ay, but that was for taking the poor boy across. No, Master Vine, we’ve been talking it over, the five on us, and there’s the boat, and one night’s fishing gone as might have been a good one or it mightn’t been nothing; so we’re going to ask you to pay us a pound a-piece.”

“But – ”

“Good-day, Master Vine, busy now. I’ll come on in a day or two.”

The man turned away abruptly, and, with his brow heavily wrinkled, as he felt moved by the man’s generosity, Vine walked slowly on, and overtook Louise and Madelaine.

Mrs Van Heldre was waiting in the hall as the little party entered, and she hurried forward with extended hands, and her lips parted to speak, but no words would came. She could only press her old friend’s hand before leading him up to where Van Heldre lay, his face ghastly pale beneath his bandaged head.

As they entered he held out his hand to Vine, who stood gazing at him without an attempt to accept the friendly grip.

“Louise, my child,” said Van Heldre, turning to her; and she stepped quickly across to take the extended hand. “Now leave us,” he said quietly; and, in obedience to his wish, the rest quitted the room.

“You did not take my hand, George Vine,” said Van Heldre, as soon as they were alone.

“How can I, after the wrong you have received at mine?”

“Hah! that is why I sent for you,” said Van Heldre. “I have lain here insensible and ignorant of what was done, else those proceedings would never have been taken. You have much to forgive me, Vine.”

“You have much to forgive me,” said the latter slowly.

“Then take my hand, and let us forgive, if there is any call for such a proceeding on either side. Vine, old friend, how you must have suffered, and I not there to say one kindly word!”

“Van Heldre,” said Vine slowly, as, holding his friend’s hand, he slowly seated himself by the bed’s head, “did you ever know what it was to pray for death?”

“Thank Heaven, no,” replied Van Heldre with a slight shudder, for there was something weird and strange about his old friend’s manner. “Since I have regained my senses I have prayed to live. There seems so much to be done at times like this. But, Vine, old friend, what can I say to you? For pity’s sake don’t look at me like that!”

“Look at you – like that?” said Vine slowly.

“Yes; your eyes seem so full of reproach. I tell you, my dear old fellow, that I would rather have died than that poor boy should have been prosecuted for my sake.”

“I know everything,” said Vine slowly. “I do not reproach you, John. I reproach myself, and at times it seems more than I can bear.”

“Louise,” said Van Heldre softly.

“Louise? Ah, Louise!” said Vine eagerly. “Without her I must have died.”

The two old friends sat, hand clasped in hand, in perfect silence for quite an hour before there was a gentle tap at the door, and Madelaine entered.

“He is so weak yet, Mr Vine,” she said, taking and separating their hands.

“Madelaine – my child!”

“Mr Vine may come again in the evening for a little while,” said Madelaine, smiling, as she bent down, and kissed her father’s brow.

“So stern and tyrannical,” protested Van Heldre.

“Only to make you well, father,” replied Madelaine smiling; and she led their old friend from the room.

“He spoke as if he wanted my forgiveness,” said Vine as he walked slowly back, noting as they went the kindly deference paid to them by those they met.

“Mr Van Heldre, father?” said Louise gently.

“Did I speak aloud, my child?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Ah, these thoughts are too keen, and will not be crushed down. Yes, child, yes. My forgiveness, when it is I who should plead, for all the honours of the past, plead for his forgiveness, Louise. He must have suffered terribly to be brought down to this.”

Louise looked wistfully in her father’s face, whose sunken cheeks and hollow eyes told of mental suffering greater far than that which their friend had been called upon to bear.

“Will time heal all this agony and pain?” she asked herself; and it was with a sigh of relief that she reached the gate, and her father went straight to his chair, to sit down and stare straight before him at the unlit grate, as if seeing in the burning glow scene after scene of the past, till he started excitedly, for there was a ring at the gate bell.

Louise rose to lay her hand upon his shoulder.

“Only some visitors, or a letter,” she said tenderly.

“I thought – I thought it might be news,” he said wearily. “But no, no, no. There can be no news now.”

“Mr Leslie, miss,” said Liza from the door.

“To see me, Liza? Say that – ”

“No, sir. In the drawing-room, sir. ’Tis to see Miss Louise, if she will give him an interview, he said.”

Louise looked wildly at her father.

“Must I see him, father?” she said, with her face now ghastly pale.

He did not answer for some moments, and then slowly said the one word: —

“Yes.”

She bent down and kissed him, and then summoning up all her courage, slowly left the room.

Chapter Forty

Duncan Leslie Speaks Out

Duncan Leslie was standing at a table on which was a photograph of Louise, as she entered the room silently; and as, after a long contemplation of the counterfeit, he drew a long breath, and looked up to see the object of his thoughts standing just inside the doorway, too much agitated to give notice of her presence, he coloured like a boy caught in some act of which he was ashamed.

“Miss Vine,” he cried, advancing quickly with extended hands.

Louise did not speak, but slowly raised one hand for him to take, and suffered him to lead her to a chair.

He remained standing before her as she looked up at him in a wild, frightened manner, as if imploring him not to speak, and for a few moments silence reigned.

“You will forgive me,” said Leslie, at last, “if my visit is ill-timed, for I am a busy man, ill-versed in the etiquette of such matters. I was in a dilemma. I wished to try and show my sympathy, and I was afraid to stay away for fear of seeming neglectful.”

“Mr Leslie need have been under no apprehension,” said Louise slowly, and speaking as if sorrow had exhausted itself, and there was nothing left but resignation. “My father and I have thought very deeply, and can never be sufficiently grateful for all that has been done.”

“You have suffered so,” he said in a low voice, “that I am going to beg of you not to refer to the past. Of course, I know,” he added quickly, “how easy it is to speak platitudes – how hard to express what one feels at a time like this.”

“Mr Leslie need not speak,” said Louise quietly. “He has shown his sympathy in a way that no words can express.”

Leslie gazed down at the piteous, sorrow-stricken face before him; and, as if wrenching himself away, he walked to the window, and stood gazing out for a few moments while Louise sat watching him, and fighting hard with her emotions. She felt weakened by all that had gone by, and as if, had he extended his arms to her, she could have flown to him, nestled in his breast, and begged him to help her in this terrible strait. And yet all the time her sorrow had strengthened, as well as enfeebled, for she was able to master her weakness and follow out the course she had planned.

Leslie returned to her side.

“I must speak,” he said hoarsely. “It is not cruelty at a time like this; it is the desire to help, to console, to be near you in distress, Miss Vine – Louise – you – forgive me for saying it – you must have known that for months past I have loved you.”

She looked up at him wistfully, and there was a look of such pain and sorrow in her eyes that he paused, and took the hand which she resigned to him without shrinking, but only to send a thrill of pain through him, for the act was not that of one accepting the offer of his love.

“Yes,” she said after a painful pause, “I did think that you must care for me.”

“As I do,” he whispered earnestly, “and is this my excuse for speaking now? No; don’t shrink from me. I only ask you to think of me as one whose sole thought is of you, and of how he may help and serve you.”

“You have helped us in every way,” she said sadly.

“I have tried so hard,” he said huskily; “but everything has seemed little compared to what I wished; and now – it is all I ask: you will let this formal barrier between us be cast away, so that in everything I may be your help and counsellor. Louise, it is no time to talk of love,” he cried earnestly, “and my wooing is that of a rough, blunt man; and – don’t shrink from me – only tell me that some day, when all this pain and suffering has been softened by time, I may ask you to listen to me; and now that I may go away feeling you believe in my love and sympathy. You will tell me this?”

She softly drew away her hand, giving him a look so full of pity and sorrow that a feeling akin to despair made his heart swell within his breast. He had read of those who resigned the world with all its hopes and pleasures from a feeling that their time was short here, and of death bed farewells, and there was so much of this in Louise’s manner that he became stricken and chilled.

It was only by a tremendous effort over self that he was able to summon up the strength to speak; and, in place of the halting, hesitating words of a few minutes before, he now spoke out earnestly and well.

“Forgive me,” he said; and she trembled as she shrank away to cover her eyes with her hand. “It was folly on my part to speak to you at such a time, but my love is stronger than worldly forms, and though I grieve to have given you pain, I cannot feel sorry that I have spoken the simple, honest truth. You are too sweet and true to deal lightly with a man’s frank, earnest love. Forgive me – say good-bye. I am going away patiently – to wait.”

His manner changed as he took her disengaged hand and kissed it tenderly and respectfully.

“I will not ask to see your father to-day. He is, I know, suffering and ill; but tell him from me he has only to send a messenger to bring me here at once. I want to help him in every way. Good-bye.”

“Stop!”

He was half way to the door when that one word arrested him, and with a sense of delicious joy flooding his breast, he turned quickly to listen to the words which would give him a life’s happiness. The flash of joy died out as quickly as that of lightning, and in the same way seemed to have the hope that had arisen scathed and dead. For here was no mistaking that look, nor the tone of the voice which spoke what seemed to him the death warrant of his love.