one of the men gave his companion a wink and a laugh, as he shouldered his pack, while the other chuckled and followed his example.
Meanwhile Uncle Luke had seated himself at his rough deal table, and written a long business letter to his lawyer in London.
This missive he read over twice, made an addition to the paragraph dealing most particularly with the mortgage on which he had been invited to lend, and then carefully folded the square post-paper he used in old-fashioned letter shape, tucking one end into the other from objects of economy, so as to dispense with envelopes, but necessitating all the same the use of sealing-wax and a light.
However, it pleased him to think that he was saving, and he lit a very thin candle, took the stick of red wax from a drawer, a curious old-fashioned signet gold ring bearing the family crest from a nail where it hung over the fireplace, and then, sitting down as if to some very important piece of business, he burned his wax, laid on a liberal quantity, and then impressed the seal. This done, the ring was hung once more upon its nail, and the old man stood gazing at it and thinking. The next minute he took down the ring, and slipped it on one of his fingers, and worked it up and down, trying it on another finger, and then going back to the first.
“Used to fit too tightly,” he said: “now one’s fingers are little more than bone.”
He held up the ring to the light, his white hand looking very thin and wasted, and the worn gold glistened and the old engraved blood-stone showed its design almost as clearly as when it was first cut.
“‘Roy et Foy!’” muttered the old man, reading the motto beneath the crest. “Bit of vanity. Margaret asked where it was, last time I saw her. Let’s see; I lost you twice, once when I wore you as I was fishing off the pier, and once on the black rock you slipped off my bony finger, and each time the sea washed you into a crack.”
He smiled as he gazed at the ring, and there was a pleasant, handsome trace of what he had been as a young man in his refined features.
“Please the young dog – old family ring,” he muttered. “Might sell it and make a pound. No, he may have it when I’m gone. Can’t be so very long.”
He hung the ring upon the nail once more, and spent the rest of the afternoon gazing out to sea, sometimes running over the past, but more often looking out for the glistening and flashing of the sea beneath where a flock of gulls were hovering over some shoal of fish.
It was quite evening when there was a staid, heavy step and the click of nailed boots as the old fish-woman came toiling up the cliff-path, her basket on her back, and the band which supported it across her brow.
“Any fish to sell, Master Vine?” she said in a sing-song tone. “I looked down the pier, but you weren’t there.”
“How could I be there when I’m up here, Poll Perrow?”
“Ah, to be sure; how could you?” said the old woman, trying to nod her head, but without performing the feat, on account of her basket. “Got any fish to sell?”
“No. Yes,” said the old man. “That’s right. I want some to-night. Will you go and fetch it?”
“Yes. Stop there,” said Uncle Luke sourly, as he saw a chance of making a few pence, and wondered whether he would get enough from his customer.
“Mind my sitting down inside, Master Luke Vine, sir? It’s hot, and I’m tired; and it’s a long way up here.”
“Why do you come, then?”
“Wanted to say a few words to you about my gal when we’ve done our bit o’ trade.”
“Come in and sit down, then,” said the old man gruffly. And his visitor slipped the leather band from her forehead, set her basket on the granite wall, and went into the kitchen-like room, wiping her brow as she seated herself in the old rush-bottomed chair.
“I’ll fetch it here,” said Uncle Luke, and he went round to the back, to return directly with the second half of the conger.
“There,” said the old man eagerly, “how much for that?”
“Oh, I can’t buy half a conger, Mr Luke Vine, sir; and I don’t know as I’d have took it if it had been whole.”
“Then be off, and don’t come bothering me,” grunted the old man snappishly.
“Don’t be cross, master; you’ve no call to be. You never have no gashly troubles to worry you.”
“No, nor don’t mean to have. What’s the matter now?”
“My gal!”
“Serve you right. No business to have married. You never saw me make such a fool of myself.”
“No, master, never; but when you’ve got gals you must do your best for ’em.”
“Humph! what’s the matter?” Poll Perrow looked slowly round the ill-furnished, untidy place.
“You want a woman here, Master Luke Vine, sir,” she said at last. “Don’t talk nonsense!”
“It aren’t nonsense, Master Luke Vine, and you know it. You want your bed made proper, and your washing done, and your place scrubbed. Now why don’t you let my gal come up every morning to do these things?”
“Look here,” said Uncle Luke, “what is it you mean?”
“She’s got into a scrape at Mr Vine’s, sir – something about some money being missing – and I suppose she’ll have to come home, so I want to get her something to do.”
“Oh, she isn’t honest enough for my brother’s house, but she’s honest enough for mine.”
“Oh, the gal’s honest enough. It’s all a mistake. But I can’t afford to keep her at home, so, seeing as we’d had dealings together, I thought you’d oblige me and take her here.”
“Seeing as we’d had dealings together!” grumbled Uncle Luke.
“Everything is so untidy-like, sir,” said the old fish-dealer, looking round. “Down at your brother’s there’s everything a gentleman could wish for, but as to your place – why, there: it’s worse than mine.”
“Look here, Poll Perrow,” said the old eccentricity fiercely, “this is my place, and I do in it just as I like. I don’t want your girl to come and tidy my place, and I don’t want you to come and bother me, so be off. There’s a letter; take it down and post it for me: and there’s a penny for your trouble.”
“Thank ye, master. Penny saved is a penny got; but Mr George Vine would have given me sixpence – I’m not sure he wouldn’t have given me a shilling. Miss Louise would.”
Uncle Luke was already pointing at the door, towards which the woman moved unwillingly.
“Let me come up to-morrow and ask you, Mr Luke, sir. Perhaps you’ll be in a better temper then.”
“Better temper!” he cried wrathfully. “I’m always in a better temper. Because I refuse to ruin myself by having your great, idle girl to eat me out of house and home, I’m not in a good temper, eh? There, be off! or I shall say something unpleasant.”
“I’m
