The Haute Noblesse: A Novel. Fenn George Manville

I hope you feel highly honoured at having so distinguished a personage in your husband’s service.”

      “What does he mean, dear?”

      “Mean, ma’am? Why you know how his aunt has stuffed his head full of nonsense about French estates.”

      “Oh! that, and the old title,” cried Mrs Van Heldre. “There, don’t say any more about it, for if there is anything that worries me, it’s all that talk about French descents.”

      “Why, hang it, ma’am, you don’t think your husband is a Frenchman, and that my sister, who has made it all the study of her life, is wrong?”

      “I don’t know and I don’t care whether my husband’s a Dutchman or a double Dutchman by birth; all I know is he’s a very good husband to me and a good father to his child; and I thank God, Mr Luke Vine, every night that things are just as they are; so that’s all I’ve got to say.”

      “Tut – tut! tut – tut! This is all very dreadful, Van,” said Uncle Luke, fastening his basket, and examining his old straw hat to see which was the best side to wear in front; “I can’t stand any more of this. Here, do you want a bit of advice?”

      “Yes, if it’s good.”

      “Ah! I was forgetting about the Count. Keep the curb tight and keep him in use.”

      “I shall do both, Luke, for George’s sake,” said Van Heldre warmly.

      “Good, lad! – I mean, more fool you!” said Uncle Luke, stumping out after ignoring extended hands and giving each a nod. “That’s all.”

      He left the room, closing the door after him as loudly as he could without the shock being considered a bang; and directly after the front door was served in the same way, and they saw him pass the window.

      “Odd fish, Luke,” said Van Heldre.

      “Odd! I sometimes think he’s half mad.”

      “Nonsense, my dear; no more mad than Hamlet. Here he is again.”

      For the old man had come back, and was tapping the window-frame with his stick.

      “What’s the matter?” said Van Heldre, throwing open the window, when Uncle Luke thrust in the basket he carried and his stick, resting his arms on the window-sill.

      “Don’t keep that piece of conger in this hot room all the morning,” he said pointing with his stick.

      “Why, goodness me, Luke Vine, how can you talk like that?” cried Mrs Van Heldre indignantly.

      “Easy enough, ma’am. Forgot my bit of advice,” said Uncle Luke, speaking to his old friend, but talking at Mrs Van Heldre.

      “What is it?”

      “Send that girl of yours to a boarding school.”

      “Bless my heart, Luke Vine, what for?” cried the lady of the house. “Why, she finished two years ago.”

      “To keep her out of the way of George Vine’s stupid boy, and because her mother’s spoiling her. Morning.”

      Chapter Thirteen

      To Reap the Wind

      Late dinner was nearly over – at least late according to the ideas of the West-Country family, who sat down now directly Harry returned from his office work. Aunt Marguerite, after a week in her bedroom, had come down that day, the trouble with Liza exciting her; and that maiden had rather an unpleasant time as she waited at table, looking red-eyed and tearful, for Aunt Marguerite watched her with painful, basilisk-like stare all through the meal, the consequence being a series of mishaps and blunders, ending with the spilling of a glass dish of clotted cream.

      With old-fashioned politeness, Aunt Marguerite tried to take Pradelle’s attention from the accident.

      “Are you going for a walk this evening, Mr Pradelle?”

      “Yes,” he said; “I daresay we shall smoke a cigar together after the labours of the day.”

      Aunt Marguerite sighed and looked pained.

      “Tobacco! Yes, Mr Pradelle,” she sighed; and she continued, in a low tone, “Do pray try to use your influence on poor Henri, to coax him from these bad pursuits.”

      Harry was talking cynically to his sister and Madelaine, who had been pressed by Vine to stay, a message having been sent down to the Van Heldres to that effect.

      “The old story,” he said to himself; and then, as he caught his sister’s eye after she had gazed uneasily in the direction of her aunt; “yes, she’s talking about me. Surely you don’t mind that.”

      He, too, glanced now in Aunt Marguerite’s direction, as Pradelle talked to her in a slow, impressive tone.

      “Ah! no,” said Aunt Marguerite, in a playful whisper, “nothing of the kind. A little boy and girl badinage in the past. Look for yourself, Mr Pradelle; there is no warmth there! My nephew cannot marry a Dutch doll.”

      “Lover’s tiff, perhaps,” said Pradelle.

      “No, no,” said Aunt Marguerite, shaking her head confidently. “Harry is a little wild and changeable, but he pays great heed to my words and advice. Still I want your help, Mr Pradelle. Human nature is weak. Harry must win back his French estates.”

      “Hear that, Louie?” said Harry, for Aunt Marguerite had slightly raised her voice.

      “Yes, I heard,” said Louise quietly.

      “Aunt is sick of seeing her nephew engaged in a beggarly trade.”

      “For which Mr Henry Vine seems much too good,” said Madelaine to herself, as she darted an indignant glance at the young man. “Oh, Harry, what a weak, foolish boy you are! I don’t love you a bit. It was all a mistake.”

      “I hate business,” continued Harry, as he encountered her eyes fixed upon him.

      “Yes,” said Louise coldly, as an angry feeling of annoyance shot through her on her friend’s behalf. “Harry has no higher ambition than to lead a lap-dog kind of life in attendance upon Aunt Marguerite, and listening to her stories of middle-aged chivalry.”

      “Thank goodness?” said Harry, as they rose from the table. “No, no, aunt, I don’t want any coffee. I should stifle if I stopped here much longer.”

      Aunt Marguerite frowned as the young man declined the invitation to come to her side.

      “Only be called a lap-dog again. Here Vic, let’s go and have a cigar down by the sea.”

      “Certainly,” said Pradelle, smiling at all in turn.

      “Yes, the room is warm,” said the host, who had hardly spoken all through the dinner, being deep in thought upon one of his last discoveries.

      Harry gave his sister a contemptuous look, which she returned with one half sorrowful, half pitying, from which he turned to glance at Madelaine, who was standing by her friend.

      Aunt Marguerite smiled, for there was certainly the germ of an incurable rupture between these two, and she turned away her head to hide her triumph.

      “She will never forgive him for speaking as he did about the beggarly trade.” Then crossing with a graceful old-world carriage, she laid her hand on Madelaine’s arm.

      “Come into the drawing-room, my dear,” she said, smiling, and to Madelaine it seemed that her bright, malicious-looking eyes were full of triumph. “You and I will have a good hard fight over genealogies, till you confess that I am right, and that your father and you have no claim to Huguenot descent.”

      “Oh, no, Miss Vine,” said the girl, laughing, “my father must fight his own battle. As for me, I give up. Perhaps you are right, and I am only a Dutch girl after all.”

      “Oh, I wish we were back in London!” cried Harry as they strolled along towards the cliff walk.

      “Ah, this is a dead-and-alive place, and no mistake,” said Pradelle.

      “Why