a nocturne or a diurne– probably the latter from its tints of red and yellow – upon his plate, which flowed with jam and cream, when Aunt Marguerite, who had eaten all she wished, began to stir her tea with courtly grace, and raised her voice in continuation of something she had been saying, but it was twenty-four hours before.
“Yes, Mr Pradelle,” she said, so that every one should hear; “my memories of the past are painful, and yet a delight. We old Huguenots are proud of our past.”
“You must be, madam.”
“And you too,” said the lady. “I feel sure that if you will take the trouble you will find that I am right. The Pradelles must have been of our people.”
“I’ll look into it as soon as I get back to town,” said the young man.
Harry gave him a very vulgar wink.
“Do,” said Aunt Marguerite. “By the way, I don’t think I told you that though my brother persists in calling himself Vine, our name is Des Vignes, and we belong to one of the oldest families in Auvergne.”
“Yes, that’s right, Mr Pradelle,” said the host, nodding pleasantly; “but when a cruel persecution drove us over here, and old England held out her arms to us, and we found a kindly welcome – ”
“My dear George!” interposed Aunt Marguerite.
“Let me finish, my dear,” said Mr Vine, good-temperedly. “It’s Mr Pradelle’s last evening here.”
“For the present, George, for the present.”
“Ah, yes, of course, for the present, and I should like him to hear my version too.”
Aunt Marguerite tapped the back of her left hand with her fan impatiently.
“We found here a hearty welcome and a home,” continued Mr Vine, “and we said we can never – we will never – return to the land of fire and the sword; and then we, some of us poor, some of us well-to-do, settled down among our English brothers, and thanked God that in this new Land of Canaan we had found rest.”
“And my dear Mr Pradelle,” began Aunt Marguerite, hastily; but Mr Vine was started, and he talked on.
“In time we determined to be, in spite of our French descent, English of the English, for our children’s sake, and we worked with them, and traded with them; and, to show our faith in them, and to avoid all further connection and military service in the country we had left, we even anglicised our names. My people became Vines; the D’Aubigneys, Daubney or Dobbs; the Boileaus, Drinkwater; the Guipets, Guppy. Vulgarising our names, some people say; but never mind, we found rest, prosperity, and peace.”
“Quite right, Mr Pradelle,” said Van Heldre, “and in spite of my name and my Huguenot descent, I say, thank Heaven I am now an Englishman.”
“No, no, no, no, Mr Van Heldre,” said Aunt Marguerite, throwing herself back, and looking at him with a pitying smile. “You cannot prove your Huguenot descent.”
“Won’t contradict you, ma’am,” said Van Heldre. “Capital jam this, Louise.”
“You must be of Dutch descent,” said Aunt Marguerite.
“I went carefully over my father’s pedigree, Miss Marguerite,” said Madelaine quietly.
“Indeed, my child?” said the lady, raising her brows.
“And I found without doubt that the Venelttes fled during the persecutions to Holland, where they stayed for half a century, and changed their names to Van Heldre before coming to England.”
“Quite right,” said Van Heldre in a low voice. “Capital cream.”
“Ah, yes,” said Aunt Margaret; “but, my dear child, such papers are often deceptive.”
“Yes,” said Van Heldre, smiling, “often enough: so are traditions and many of our beliefs about ancestry; but I hope I have enough of what you call the haute noblesse in me to give way, and not attempt to argue the point.”
“No, Mr Van Heldre,” said Aunt Margaret, with a smile of pity and good-humoured contempt; “we have often argued together upon this question, but I cannot sit in silence and hear you persist in that which is not true. No; you have not any Huguenot blood in your veins.”
“My clear madam, I feel at times plethoric enough to wish that the old-fashioned idea of being blooded in the spring were still in vogue. I have so much Huguenot blood in my veins, that I should be glad to have less.”
Aunt Margaret shook her head, and tightened her lips.
“Low Dutch,” she said to herself, “Low Dutch.”
Van Heldre read her thoughts in the movement of her lips.
“Don’t much matter,” he said. “Vine, old fellow, think I shall turn over a new leaf.”
“Eh? New leaf?”
“Yes; get a good piece of marsh, make a dam to keep out the sea, and take to keeping cows. What capital cream!”
“Yes, Mr Pradelle,” continued Aunt Margaret; “we are Huguenots of the Huguenots, and it is the dream of my life that Henri should assert his right to the title his father repudiates, and become Comte des Vignes.”
“Ah!” said Pradelle.
“Vigorous steps have only to be taken to wrest the family estates in Auvergne from the usurpers who hold them. I have long fought for this, but so far, I grieve to say, vainly. My brother here has mistaken notions about the respectability of trade, and is content to vegetate.”
“Oh, you miserable old vegetable!” said Van Heldre to himself, as he gave his friend a droll look, and shook his head.
“To vegetate in this out-of-the-way place when he should be watching over the welfare of his country, and as a nobleman of that land, striving to stem the tide of democracy. He will not do it; but if I live my nephew Henri shall, as soon as he can be rescued from the degrading influence of trade, and the clerk’s stool in an office. Ah, my poor boy, I pity you, and I say out boldly that I am not surprised that you should have thrown up post after post in disgust, and refused to settle down to such sordid wretchedness.”
“My dear Marguerite! our visitors.”
“I must speak, George. Mr Van Heldre loves trade.”
“I do, ma’am.”
“Therefore he cannot feel with me.”
“Well, never mind, my dear. Let some one else be Count des Vignes, only let me be in peace, and don’t fill poor Harry’s head with that stuff just before he’s leaving home to go up to the great city, where he will, I am sure, redeem the follies of the past, and prove himself a true man. Harry, my dear boy, we’ll respect Aunt Margaret’s opinions; but we will not follow them out. Van, old fellow, Leslie, Mr Pradelle, a glass of wine. We’ll drink Harry’s health. All filled? That’s right. Harry, my boy, a true honest man is nature’s nobleman. God speed you, my boy; and His blessing be upon all your works. Health and happiness to you, my son!”
“Amen,” said Van Heldre; and the simple old-fashioned health was drunk.
“Eh,
