The Haute Noblesse: A Novel

“As to the final words of your letter – one of my earliest recollections is that of my little hands being held together by one whom you lost too soon in life. Had your mother lived, your career might have been different. What I was taught as my little hands were held together, I still repeat: ‘As we forgive them that trespass against us.’ Yes. Some day I hope to give you in the flesh that which I give you in the spirit now – my hand.”

Six more years had passed before a broad-shouldered, bronzed, and bearded man – partner in the firm of Leslie and Vine, Singapore and Penang – grasped John Van Heldre’s hand, and asked him a question to which the old merchant replied: “Yes, all is forgiven and forgotten now. If you can win her; yes.”

But the days glided on and the question was not asked. Uncle Harry was constantly on the beach or down on the rocks with the two little prattling children of Duncan Leslie and his wife, and Uncle Luke, who seemed much the same, was rather disposed to be jealous of the favour in which the returned wanderer stood; but he indulged in a pleasant smile now and then, when he was not seen, and had taken to a habit of stopping his nephew on the beach at unexpected times, and apparently for no reason whatever.

The question was not asked, for Aunt Marguerite, who had taken to her bed for the past year, was evidently fading fast. As Dr Knatchbull said, she had been dying for months, and it was the state of her health which brought her nephew back to England, to find his old sins forgotten or forgiven, a year sooner than he had intended.

By slow degrees the vitality had passed from the old woman step by step, till the brain alone remained bright and clear. She was as exacting as ever, and insisted upon her bed being draped with flowers and lace and silk, and her one gratification was to be propped up, with a fan in one nerveless hand and a scent-bottle in the other, listening to the reading of some old page of French history, over which she smiled and softly nodded her head.

One day Harry was down near the harbour talking to Poll Perrow, whose society he often affected, to the old woman’s great delight, when Madelaine Van Heldre came to him hastily.

“Is anything wrong?” he asked excitedly.

She bowed her head, and for the moment could not speak.

“Aunt Marguerite?”

“Yes. I was reading to her, and you know her way, Harry; half mockingly she was telling me that I should never gain the pure French accent, when she seemed to change suddenly, and gasped out your name. Louy had not gone home; I was relieving her, as I often do now, and she is with her aunt. Leslie has gone to fetch Mr Vine, who is down on the shore with Uncle Luke.”

A few minutes later Harry was in the old lady’s room, the doctor making way for him to approach the bed, about which the rest of the family were grouped.

“There,” she said sharply, “you need not wait. I want to speak to Harry.”

He bent down to place his arm beneath the feeble neck, and she smiled up at him with the ruling passion still strong even in death, and her words came very faintly; but he heard them all.

“Remember, Harry, the hope of our family rests on you. We are the des Vignes, say what they will. Now marry – soon – some good, true woman, one of the Haute Noblesse.”

“Yes, aunt, I will.”

An hour later she was peacefully asleep.

“Closed in death,” said Harry Vine as he laid his hand reverently across the withered lids; “but her eyes must be open now, father, to the truth.”

There was to be a quiet little dinner at Leslie’s about a fortnight later, and after a walk down through the churchyard, the party were going up the steep cliff path. Leslie and his handsome young wife were on ahead; the old men coming slowly toiling on behind as Harry stopped with Madelaine in the well-known sheltered niche.

They stood gazing out at the sea, stretching as it were into infinity, and as they gazed they went on with their conversation, talking calmly of the quaint old lady’s prejudices and ways.

“Did you hear her last words?” said Harry gravely.

“Yes.”

The look which accompanied the answer was frank and calm. It seemed to lack emotion, but there was a depth of patient truth and trust therein which told of enduring faith.

“She would have me marry soon – some good, true woman, one of the Haute Noblesse.”

“Yes; it would be better so.”

“I have loved one of the Haute Noblesse for seven years as a weak, foolish boy – seven years as a trusting man – and she has not changed. Maddy, is my reward to come at last?”

As Madelaine placed her hands calmly in those extended to her she seemed without emotion still; but there was a joyous light in her brightening eyes, and then a deep flush suffused her cheeks, as two words were spoken by one of the trio of old men who had slowly toiled up toward where they stood.

“Thank God?”

It was George Vine who spoke, and the others seemed to look “Amen.”

The End