a boy she would have made, and what a man I could have made of him! Van Heldre and Son once more, as it ought to be. I’d have made just such a man of business of him as I made of you. Going, sir?”
“Yes, I’m going up to Tolzarn. By the way, send Mr Henry Vine up to me about twelve.”
“Yes,” said Crampton, beginning to write away very busily. “I suppose he’ll come?”
“Of course, of course,” said Van Heldre hastily, and leaving the office he went into the house just as Mrs Van Heldre had made her way into the hall to cover up her bullfinch’s cage; and her hand was upon the bird organ when she heard her husband’s step, when, colouring like a girl, she hurried up-stairs.
Van Heldre crossed the hall and entered the morning-room, where Madelaine was busy with her needle.
She looked at him in an inquiring way, to which he had become accustomed during the past month, and in accordance with an unwritten contract.
“No, my dear, not come yet.”
Madelaine’s countenance changed as she saw her father glance at his watch, and she involuntarily darted a quick look at the clock on the chimney-piece.
“I’m going up to the works,” continued Van Heldre. “Back before one. Morning.”
Madelaine resumed her work for a few minutes, and then rose to stand where, unseen, she could watch the road. She saw her father go by up the valley, but her attention was turned toward the sea, from which direction Harry Vine would have to come.
She stood watching for nearly a quarter of an hour before she heard a familiar step, and then the young man passed smoking the end of a cigar, which he threw away before turning in at the way which led to Van Heldre’s offices.
Directly after, as Madelaine sat looking very thoughtful over her work, there was the quick patter of Mrs Van Heldre’s feet.
“Madelaine, my dear,” she said as she entered; “I thought you said that Mr Pradelle had gone away a fortnight ago.”
“I did, mamma.”
“Well, then, he has come back again.”
“Back again?” said Madelaine, letting her work fall in her lap.
“Yes, I was at the up-stairs window just now, and I saw him pass as I was looking out for Harry Vine. He’s very late this morning, and it does make papa so vexed.”
It was late, for instead of being nine o’clock, the clock in the office was on the stroke of ten as Harry Vine hurriedly entered, and glanced at the yellowy-white faced dial.
“Morning, Mr Crampton. I say that clock’s fast, isn’t it?”
“Eh? fast?” said the old man grimly. “No, Mr Harry Vine; that’s a steady old time-keeper, not a modern young man.”
“Disagreeable old hunks,” said Harry to himself, as he hung up his hat. “Bad headache this morning, Mr Crampton, thought I shouldn’t be able to come.”
“Seidlitz powder,” said the old man, scratching away with his pen, and without looking up.
“Eh?”
“Dissolve the blue in a tumbler of warm water.”
“Bother!” muttered Harry, frowning.
“The white in a wineglassful of cold. Pour one into the other – and – drink – while effervescing.”
The intervals between some of the words were filled up by scratches of the pen.
“Headache, eh? Bad things, sir, bad things.”
He removed himself from his stool and went to the safe in the inner office, where Van Heldre generally sat, and Harry raised his head from his desk and listened, as he heard the rattling of keys and the clang of a small iron door.
“Yes, bad things headaches, Mr Harry,” said the old man returning. “Try early hours for ’em, and look here: Mr Van Heldre says – ”
“Has he been in the office this morning?” cried Harry hastily.
“Yes, sir, he came in as soon as I’d come, nine to the minute, and he wants you to join him at the tin works about twelve.”
“Wigging!” said guilty conscience.
“Do your head good, sir.”
Old Crampton resumed his seat, and for an hour and three-quarters, during which period Harry had several times looked at 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
