job too. What did he want with a holiday? Never did a day’s work in his life. Here! Hold her, Louie. She’s going to peck,” he added in mock alarm, and with a cynical sneering laugh, as he saw his niece’s companion colour slightly, and compress her lips.
“Well, it’s too bad of you, uncle. You are always finding fault about Harry.”
“Say Henri, pray, my child, and with a good strong French accent,” cried the old man, with mock remonstrance. “What would Aunt Marguerite say?”
“Aunt Margaret isn’t here, uncle,” cried the girl merrily; “and it’s of no use for you to grumble and say sour things, because we know you by heart, and we don’t believe in you a bit.”
“No,” said the fisherman grimly, “only hate me like poison, for a sour old crab. Never gave me a kiss when you came.”
“How could I, without getting wet?” said the girl, with a glance at the tiny rock island on which the fisher stood.
“Humph! Going back to-morrow, eh? Good job too. Why, he has been a whole half-year in his post.”
“Yes, uncle, a whole half-year!”
“And never stayed two months before at any of the excellent situations your father and I worried ourselves and our friends to death to get for him.”
“Now, uncle – ”
“A lazy, thoughtless, good-for-nothing young vag – There, hold her again, Louie. She’s going to peck.”
“And you deserve it, uncle,” cried the girl, with a smile at her companion, in whose eyes the indignant tears were rising.
“What! for speaking the truth, and trying to let that foolish girl see my lord in his right colours?”
“Harry’s a good affectionate brother, and I love him very dearly,” said Louise, firmly; “and he’s your brother’s son, uncle, and in your heart you love him too, and you’re proud of him as proud can be.”
“You’re a silly young goose, and as feather-brained as he is. Proud of him? Bah! I wish he’d enlist for a soldier, and get shot.”
“For shame, uncle!” cried Louise indignantly; and her face flushed too as she caught and held her companion’s hand.
“Yes. For shame! It’s all your aunt’s doing, stuffing the boy’s head full of fantastic foolery about his descent, and the disgrace of trade. And now I am speaking, look here,” he cried, turning sharply on the fair girl, and holding his rod over her as if it were a huge stick which he was about to use. “Do you hear, Madelaine?”
“I’m listening, Mr Vine,” said the girl, coldly.
“I’ve known you ever since you were two months old, and your silly mother must insist upon my taking hold of you – you miserable little bit of pink putty, as you were then, and fooled me into being godfather. How I could be such an ass, I don’t know – but I am, and I gave you that silver cup, and I’ve wanted it back ever since.”
“Oh, uncle, what a wicked story!” cried Louise, laughing.
“It’s quite true, miss. Dead waste of money. It has never been used, I’ll swear.”
“No, Mr Vine, never,” said Madelaine, smiling now.
“Ah, you need not show your teeth at me because you’re so proud they’re white. Lots of the fisher-girls have got better. That’s right, shut your lips up, and listen. What I’ve got to say is this: if I see any more of that nonsense there’ll be an explosion.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Madelaine, colouring more deeply.
“Yes you do, miss. I saw Harry put his arm round your waist, and I won’t have it. What’s your father thinking about? Why, that boy’s no more fit to be your husband than that great, ugly, long, brown-bearded Scotchman who poisons the air with his copper-mine, is to be Louie’s.”
“Uncle, you are beyond bearing to-day.”
“Am I? Well then, be off. But you mind, Miss Maddy, I won’t have it. You’ll be silly enough to marry some day, but when you do, you shall marry a man, not a feather-headed young ass, with no more brains than that bass. Ah, I’ve got you this time, have I?”
He had thrown in again, and this time struck and hooked a large fish, whose struggles he watched with grim satisfaction, till he drew it gasping and quivering on to the rock – a fine bass, whose silver sides glistened like those of a salmon, and whose sharp back fin stood up ready to cut the unwitting hand.
“Bad for him, Louie,” said the old man with a laugh; “but one must have dinners, eh? What a countenance!” he continued, holding up his fish; “puts me in mind of that fellow you have up at the house – what’s his name, Priddle, Fiddle?”
“Pradelle, uncle.”
“Ah, Pradelle. Of course he’s going back too.”
“Yes, uncle.”
“Don’t like him,” continued Uncle Luke, re-baiting quickly and throwing out; “that fellow has got scoundrel written in his face.”
“For shame! Mr Vine,” said Madelaine, laughing. “Mr Pradelle is very gentlemanly and pleasant.”
“Good-looking scoundrels always are, my dear. But he don’t want you. I watched him. Going to throw over the Scotchman and take to Miss Louie?”
“Uncle, you’ve got a bite,” said the girl coolly.
“Eh? So I have. Got him, too,” said the old man, striking and playing his fish just as if he were angling in fresh water. “Thumper.”
“What pleasure can it give you to say such unpleasant things, uncle?” continued the girl.
“Truths always are unpleasant,” said the old man, laughing. “Don’t bother me, there’s a shoal off the point now, and I shall get some fish.”
“Why, you have all you want now, uncle.”
“Rubbish! Shall get a few shillings’ worth to sell Mother Perrow.”
“Poor Uncle Luke!” said the girl with mock solemnity; “obliged to fish for his living.”
“Better than idling and doing nothing. I like to do it, and – There he is again. Don’t talk.”
He hooked and landed another fine bass from the shoal which had come up with the tide that ran like a millstream off the point, when as he placed the fish in the basket he raised his eyes.
“Yah! Go back and look after your men. I thought that would be it. Maddy, look at her cheeks.”
“Oh, uncle, if I did not know you to be the best and dearest of – ”
“Tchah! Carney!” he cried, screwing up his face. “Look here, I want to catch a few fish and make a little money, so if that long Scot is coming courting, take him somewhere else. Be off!”
“If Mr Duncan Leslie is coming to say good-day, uncle, I see no reason why he should not say it here,” said Louise, calmly
