Chapter Fifteen.
My Aunt’s Bête Noire.
Duncan Leslie was a sturdy, manly young fellow in his way, but he had arrived at a weak period. He thought over his position, and what life would become had he a wife at home he really loved; and in spite of various displays of reserve, and the sneers, hints, and lastly the plain declaration that Louise was to marry some French gentleman of good family and position, Duncan found himself declaring that his ideas were folly one hour, and the next he was vowing that he would not give up, but that he would win in spite of all the Frenchmen on the face of the earth.
“I must have a walk,” he used to say. “If I stop poring over books now, I shall be quite thick-headed to-morrow. A man must study his health.”
So Duncan Leslie studied his health, and started off that evening in a different direction to the Vines’; and then, in spite of himself, began to make a curve, one which grew smaller and smaller as he walked thoughtfully on.
“I don’t see why I should not call,” he said to himself. “There’s no harm in that. Wish I had found some curious sea-anemone; I could go and ask the old man what it was—and have her sweet clear eyes reading me through and through. I should feel that I had lowered myself in her sight.”
“No,” he said, emphatically; “I’ll be straightforward and manly over it if I can.”
“Hang that old woman! She doesn’t like me. There’s a peculiarly malicious look in her eyes whenever we meet. Sneering fashion, something like her old brother, only he seems honest and she does not. I’d give something to know whether Louise cares for that French fellow. If she doesn’t, why should she be condemned to a life of misery? Could I make her any happier?”
“I’ll go home now.”
“No, I—I will not; I’ll call.”
These questions had been scattered over Duncan Leslie’s walk, and the making up of his mind displayed in the last words was three-quarters of an hour after the first.
“I’m no better than a weak boy,” he said, as he strode along manfully now. “I make mountains of molehills. What can be more natural and neighbourly than for me to drop in, as I am going to do, for a chat with old Vine?”
There was still that peculiar feeling of consciousness, though, to trouble him, as he knocked, and was admitted by Liza, whose eyelids were nearly as red as the ribbon she had bought.
The next minute he was in the pleasant homely drawing-room, feeling a glow of love and pride, and ready to do battle with any de Ligny in France for the possession of the prize whose soft warm hand rested for a few moments in his.
“Ah, Miss Van Heldre,” he said, as he shook hands with her in turn, and his face lit up and a feeling of satisfaction thrilled him, for there was something in matter-of-fact Madelaine that gave him confidence.
Aunt Marguerite’s eyes twinkled with satisfaction, as she saw the cordial greeting, and built up a future of her own materials.
“Miss Marguerite,” said the young man ceremoniously, as he touched the extended hand, manipulated so that he should only grasp the tips; and, as he saluted, Leslie could not help thinking philosophically upon the different sensations following the touch of a hand.
A growing chill was coming over the visit, and Leslie was beginning to feel as awkward as a sturdy well-grown young tree might, if suddenly transplanted from a warm corner to a situation facing an iceberg, when the old naturalist handed a chair for his visitor.
“Glad to see you, Leslie,” he said; “sit down.”
“You will take some tea, Mr Leslie?”
Hah! The moment before the young man had felt ready to beat an ignominious retreat, but as soon as the voice of Louise Vine rang in his ears with that simple homely question, he looked up manfully, declared that he would take some tea, and in spite of himself glanced at Aunt Marguerite’s tightening lips, his eyes seeming to say, “Now, then, march out a brigade of de Lignys if you like.”
“And sugar, Mr Leslie?”
“And sugar,” he said, for he was ready to accept any sweets she would give.
Then he took the cup of tea, looked in the eyes that met his very frankly and pleasantly, and then his own rested upon a quaint-looking cornelian locket, which was evidently French.
There was nothing to an ordinary looker-on in that piece of jewellery, but somehow it troubled Duncan Leslie; and as he turned to speak to Aunt Marguerite, he felt that she had read his thoughts, and her lips had relaxed into a smile.
“Well, George, if you do not mind Mr Leslie hearing, I do not,” said Aunt Marguerite. “I must reiterate that the poor boy is growing every day more despondent and unhappy.”
“Nonsense, Margaret!”
“Ah, you may say nonsense, my good brother, but I understand his nature better that you. Yes, my dear,” she continued, “such a trade as that carried on by Mr Van Heldre is not a suitable avocation for your son.”
“Hah!” sighed Vine.
“Now, you are a tradesman, Mr Leslie—” continued Aunt Marguerite.
“Eh? I, a tradesman?” said Leslie, looking at her wonderingly. “Yes, of course; I suppose so; I trade in copper and tin.”
“Yes, a tradesman, Mr Leslie; but you have your perceptions, you have seen, and you know my nephew. Now, answer me honestly, is Mr Van Heldre’s business suitable to a young man with such an ancestry as Henri’s?”
Louise watched him wonderingly, and her lips parted as she hung upon his words.
“Well, really, madam,” he began.
“Ah,” she said, “you shrink. His French ancestors would have scorned such a pursuit.”
“Oh, no,” said Leslie, “I do not shrink; and as to that, I think it would have been very stupid of his French ancestors. Trading in tin is a very ancient and honourable business. Let me see, it was the Phoenicians, was it not, who used to come to our ports for the metal in question. They were not above trading in tin and Tyrian dye.”
Aunt Marguerite turned up her eyes.
“And a metal is a metal. For my part, it seems quite as good a pursuit to trade in tin as in silver or gold.”
Aunt Marguerite gave the young man a pitying, contemptuous look, which made Louise bite her lip.
“Aunt, dear,” she said hurriedly, “let me give you some more tea.”
“I was not discussing tea, my dear, but your brother’s future; and pray, my dear child,” she continued, turning suddenly upon Madelaine with an irritating smile, “pray do not think I am disparaging your worthy father and his business affairs.”
“Oh, no, Miss Vine.”
“Miss Marguerite Vine, my child, if you will be so good. Oh, by the way, has your father heard any news of his ship?”
“Not yet, Miss Marguerite,” said Madelaine quietly.
“Dear me, I am very sorry. It would be so serious a loss for him, Mr Leslie, if the ship did not come safe to port.”
“Yes, of course,” said Leslie; “but I should suppose, Miss Van Heldre, that your father is well insured.”
“Yes,” said Madelaine quietly.
“There, never mind about Van Heldre’s ship,” said Vine pleasantly. “Don’t croak like a Cassandra, Margaret; and as to Harry, a year or two in a good solid business will not do him any harm, eh, Leslie?”
“I should say it would do him a world of good.”
“My nephew is not to be judged in the same light as a young man who is to be brought up as a tradesman,” said Aunt Marguerite, with dignify.
“Only a tradesman’s son, my dear.”
“The descendant of a long line of ennobled gentry, George; a fact you always will forget,” said Aunt Marguerite, rising and leaving the room, giving Leslie, who opened the door, a menuet de la cour curtsey on the threshold, and then rustling across the hall.
Her brother took it all as a matter of course. Once that Marguerite had ceased speaking the matter dropped, to make way for something far more important in the naturalist’s eyes—the contents of one of his glass aquaria; but Louise, to remove the cloud her aunt had left behind, hastily kept the ball rolling.
“Don’t think any more about aunt’s remarks, Madelaine. Harry is a good fellow, but he would be discontented anywhere sometimes.”
“I do not think he would be discontented now,” she replied, “if his aunt would leave him alone.”
“It is very foolish of him to think of what she says.”
“Of course it is irksome to him at first,” continued Madelaine; “but my father is not exacting. It is the hours at the desk that trouble your brother most.”
“I wish I could see him contented,” sighed Louise. “I’d give anything to see him settle down.”
A very simple wish, which went right to Duncan Leslie’s heart, and set him thinking so deeply that for the rest of his visit he was silent, and almost constrained—a state which Madelaine noted as she rose.
“Must you go so soon, dear!” said Louise consciously, for a terrible thought crossed her mind, and sent the blood surging to her cheeks—Madelaine was scheming to leave her and the visitor alone.
“Yes; they will be expecting me back,” said Madelaine smiling, as she grasped her friend’s thoughts; and then to herself, “Oh, you stupid fellow!”
For Leslie rose at once.
“And I must be going too. Let’s see, I am walking your way, Miss Van Heldre. May I see you home?”
“I—”
“Yes, do, Mr Leslie,” said Louise quietly.
“Ah! I will,” he said hastily. “I want a chat with your father, too.”
Madelaine would have avoided the escort, but she could only have done this at the expense of making a fuss; so merely said “Very well;” and went off with Louise to put on her hat and mantle, leaving Leslie alone with his host, who was seated by the window with a watchmaker’s glass in his eye, making use of the remaining light for the study of some wonderful marine form.
“She would give anything to see her brother settled down,” said Leslie to himself, over and over again. “Well why not?”
Five minutes later he and Madelaine were going along the main street, with Louise watching them from behind her father’s chair, and wondering why she did not feel so happy as she did half an hour before; and Aunt Marguerite gazing from her open window.
“Ah!” said the old lady; “that’s better. Birds of a feather do flock together, after all.”
But the flocking pair had no such thoughts as those with which they were given credit, for directly they were outside, Duncan Leslie set Madelaine’s heart beating by his first words.
“Look here,” he said, “I want to take you into my counsel, Miss Van Heldre, because you have so much sound common sense.”
“Is that meant for a compliment, Mr Leslie?”
“No; I never pay compliments. Look here,” he said bluntly, “you take an interest in Harry Vine.”
Madelaine was silent.
“That means yes,” said Leslie. “Now, to be perfectly plain with you, Miss Van Heldre, so do I; and I want to serve him if I can.”
“Yes?” said Madelaine, growing more deeply interested.
“Yes, it is—as the sailors say. Now it’s very plain that he is not contented where he is.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“What do you say to this—I will not be a sham—I want to serve him for reasons which I dare say you guess; reasons of which I am not in the least ashamed. Now what do you think of this? How would he be with me?”
Madelaine flushed with pleasure.
“I cannot say. Is this a sudden resolve?”
“Quite. I never thought of such a thing till I went there.”
“Then take time to think it over. Mr Leslie.”
“Good advice; but it is a thing that requires very little thought. I cannot say what arrangements I should make—that would require consideration, but I should not tie him to a desk. He would have the overlooking of a lot of men, and I should try to make him as happy as I could.”
“Oh, Mr Leslie!” said Madelaine, rather excitedly.
“Pray do not think I am slighting your father, or looking down upon what he has done, which, speaking as a blunt man, is very self-sacrificing.”
“As it would be on your part.”
“On mine? Oh, no,” said Leslie frankly. “When a man has such an arrière pensée as I have, there is no self-sacrifice. There, you see, I am perfectly plain.”
“And I esteem you all the more for it.”
The conversation extended, and in quite a long discussion everything was forgotten but the subject in hand, till Leslie said:—
“There, you had better sit down and rest for a few minutes. You are quite out of breath.”
Madelaine looked startled, for she had been so intent upon their conversation that she had not heeded their going up the cliff walk.
“Sit down,” said Leslie; and she obeyed. “Get your breath, and we’ll walk back to your house together; but what do you think of it all?”
“I cannot help thinking that it would for many reasons be better.”
“So do I,” said Leslie, “in spite of the risk.”
“Risk?”
“Yes. Suppose I get into an imbroglio with Master Harry? He’s as peppery as can be. How then?”
“You will be firm and forbearing,” said Madelaine gravely. “I have no fear.”
“Well, I have. I know myself better than you know me,” said Leslie, placing a foot on the seat and resting his arm on his knee, as he spoke thoughtfully. “I am a very hot-headed kind of Highlander by descent, and there’s no knowing what might happen. Now one more question. Shall I open fire on your father to-night?”
“That requires more consideration,” said Madelaine. “We will talk that over as we go back. Here is Harry,” she said quickly, as that gentleman suddenly burst upon them; and the walk back to Van Heldre’s was accomplished without the discussion.
“I’m afraid I’ve made a very great mistake, Miss Van Heldre,” said Leslie, as they neared the house.
“Don’t say that,” she replied. “It was most unfortunate.”
“But you will soon set that right?” he added, after a pause.
“I don’t know,” said Madelaine quietly. “You will come in?”
“No; not this evening. We had better both have a grand think before anything is said.”
“Yes,” said Madelaine; and they parted at the door—to think.
“Why, John,” said Mrs Van Heldre, turning from the window to gaze in her husband’s face, “did you see that?”
“Yes,” said Van Heldre shortly; “quite plainly.”
“But what does it mean?”
“Human nature.”
“But I thought, dear—”
“So did I, and now I think quite differently.”
“Well, really, I must speak to Madelaine; it is so—”
“Silence!” said Van Heldre sternly. “Madelaine is not a child now. Wait, wife, and she will speak to us.”