frowned, but Aunt Margaret paid no heed.
“That is a boyish piece of nonsense, unworthy the Comte des Vignes, my dear boy. But tell me—you have been with your father—what does he say now?”
“The old story. I’m to choose what I will do. I must go to work.”
“Poor George!” sighed Aunt Margaret; “always so sordid in his ideas in early life; now that he is wealthy, so utterly wanting in aspirations! Always dallying over some miserable shrimp. He has no more ambition than one of those silly fish over which he sits and dreams. Oh, Henri, my boy, when I look back at what our family has been—right back into the distant ages of French history—valorous knights and noble ladies; and later on, how they graced the court at banquet and at ball, I weep the salt tears of misery to see my brother sink so low, and so careless about the welfare of his boy.”
“Ah! well, it’s of no use, aunt. I must go and turn somebody’s grindstone again.”
“No, Henri, it shall not be,” cried the old lady, with flashing eyes. “We must think; we must plot and plan. You must get money somehow, so as to carry on the war; and we will have back the estate in Auvergne; and a noble future shall be yours; and—”
“If you please, ma’am, I’ve brought your lunch,” said a voice; and Liza, the maid, who bore a strong resemblance to the fish-woman who had accosted Uncle Luke at the mouth of the harbour, set down a delicately-cooked cutlet and bit of fish, and spread on a snowy napkin, with the accompaniments of plate, glass, and a decanter of sherry.
“Ah! yes, my lunch,” said Aunt Margaret, with a sigh. “Go, and think over what I have said, my dear, and we will talk again another time.”
“All right, auntie,” said the young man, rising slowly; “but it seems to me as if the best thing I could do would be to jump into the sea.”
“No, no, Henri,” said Aunt Margaret, taking up a silver spoon and shaking it slowly at her nephew, “a des Vignes was ready with his sword in defence of his honour, and to advance his master’s cause; but he never dreamed of taking his own life. That, my dear, would be the act of one of the low-born canaille. Remember who you are, and wait. I am working for you, and you shall triumph yet. Consult your friend.”
“Sometimes I think it’s all gammon,” said Harry, as he went slowly down-stairs, and out into the garden, “and sometimes it seems as if it would be very jolly. I dare say the old woman is right, and—”
“What are you talking about—muttering aside like the wicked man on the stage?”
“Hullo, Vic! You there?”
“Yes, dear boy. I’m here for want of somewhere better.”
“Consult your friend!” Aunt Margaret’s last words.
“Been having a cigar?”
“I’ve been hanging about here this last hour. How is it she hasn’t been for a walk?”
“Louie? Don’t know. Here, let’s go down under the cliff, and find a snug corner, and have a talk over a pipe.”
“The latter, if you like; never mind the former. Yes, I will: for I want a few words of a sort.”
“What about?” said Harry, as they strolled away.
“Everything. Look here, old fellow; we’ve been the best of chums ever since you shared my desk.”
“Yes, and you shared my allowance.”
“Well, chums always do. Then I came down with you, and it was all as jolly as could be, and I was making way fast, in spite of that confounded red-headed porridge-eating fellow. Then came that upset, and I went away. Then you wrote to me in answer to my letter about having a good thing on, and said ‘Come down.’ ”
“And you came,” said Harry thoughtfully, “and the good thing turned out a bad thing, as every one does that I join in.”
“Well, that was an accident; speculators must have some crust as well as crumb.”
“But I get all crust.”
“No, I seem to be getting all crust now from your people. Your aunt’s right enough, but your father casts his cold shoulder and stale bread at me whenever we meet; and as for a certain lady, she regularly cut me yesterday.”
“Well, I can’t help that, Vic. You know what I said when you told me you were on that. I said that I couldn’t do anything, and that I wouldn’t do anything if I could: but that I wouldn’t stand in your way if you liked to try.”
“Yes, I know what you said,” grumbled Pradelle, as they strolled down to the shore, went round the rocks, and then strolled on over and amongst the shingle and sand, till—a suitable spot presenting itself, about half a mile from the town—they sat down on the soft sand, tilted their hats over their eyes, leaned their backs against a huge stone, and then lit up and began to smoke.
“You see, it’s like this,” said Pradelle; “I know I’m not much of a catch, but I like her, and that ought to make up for a great deal.”
“Yes,” said Harry, whose mind was wandering elsewhere, and he was hesitating as to whether he should take his friend into his counsels or not.
“She don’t know her own mind, that’s about it,” continued Pradelle; “and a word from you might do a deal.”
“Got any money, Vic?”
“Now there’s a mean sort of a question to ask a friend! Have I got any money? As if a man must be made of money before he may look at his old chum’s sister.”
“I wasn’t thinking about her, but of something else,” said Harry hastily.
“Ah, well, I wasn’t. I’ve got a little bit of an income, a modest one I suppose you’d call it, and—but look there!”
“What at?” said Harry, whose eyes were shut, and his thoughts far away.
“Them. They’re going for a walk. Why, Hal, old chap, they saw us come down here.”
Harry started into wakefulness, and realised the fact that his sister and Madelaine Van Heldre were passing before them, but down by the water’s edge, while the young men were close up under the towering cliff.
“Let’s follow them,” said Pradelle eagerly.
“Wait a moment.”
Harry waited to think, and scraps of his aunt’s remarks floated through his brain respecting the fair daughters of France, who would fall at the feet of the young count when he succeeded to his property, and the castle in the air which she reconstructed for him to see mentally.
Harry cogitated. The daughters of France were no doubt very lovely, but they were imaginative; and though Madelaine Van Heldre might, as his aunt said, not be of the pure Huguenot blood, still that fact did not seem to matter to him. For that was not imagination before him, but the bright, natural, clever girl whom he had known from childhood, his old
