The Haute Noblesse: A Novel. Fenn George Manville

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