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, rebaiting 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 enough now, and with the slight flush which had suffused her cheeks fading out.
“Good-day. A great tall sheepish noodle who don’t know when he’s well off,” grumbled the fisher, throwing out once more as a tall gentlemanly-looking young fellow of about eight-and-twenty stepped actively from rock to rock till he had joined the group, raising his soft tweed hat to the ladies and shaking hands.
“What a lovely morning!” he said eagerly. “I saw you come down. Much sport, Mr. Vine?” he added, as he held out his hand.
“No,” said Uncle Luke, nodding and holding tightly on to his rod. “Hands full. Can’t you see?”
“Oh, yes, I see. One at you now.”
“Thankye. Think I couldn’t see?” said the old man, striking and missing his fish. “Very kind of you to come and see how I was getting on.”
“But I didn’t,” said the new-comer, smiling. “I knew you didn’t want me.”
“Here, Louie, make a note of that,” said Uncle Luke, sharply. “The Scotch are not so dense as they pretend they are.”
“Uncle!”
“Oh, pray, don’t interpose, Miss Vine. Your uncle and I often have a passage of arms together.”
“Well, say what you’ve got to say, and then go back to your men. Has the vein failed?”
“No, sir; it grows richer every day.”
“Sorry for it. I suppose you’ll be burrowing under my cottage and burying me one of these days before my time?”
“Don’t be alarmed, sir.”
“I’m not,” growled Uncle Luke.
“Uncle is cross, because he is catching more fish than he wants this morning,” said Louise quietly.
“Hear that, Maddy, my dear?” said the old man, sharply. “Here’s a problem for you:—If my niece’s tongue is as keen-edged as that before she is twenty, what will it be at forty?”
The girl addressed laughed and shook her head.
“Any one would think it would be a warning to any sensible man to keep his distance.”
“Uncle! Pray!” whispered the niece, looking troubled; but the old man only chuckled and hooked another fish.
“Going to make a fortune out of the old mine, Leslie?” he said.
“Fortune? No, sir. A fair income, I hope.”
“Which with prudence and economy—Scottish prudence and economy,” he added, meaningly, “would keep you when you got to be an old man like me. Bah!”
He snatched out his line and gave an impatient stamp with his foot.
“What is the matter, uncle?”
“What’s
