Chapter Nineteen.
A Bad Night’s Work.
“Oh, yes, you’re a very brave fellow, no doubt,” said Pradelle. “Everybody says so. Perhaps if I could have handled an oar as well as you did I should have come too. But, look here, Harry Vine; all these fine words butter no parsnips. You are no better off than you were before, and you gave me your promise.”
It was quite true: fine words buttered no parsnips. Aunt Marguerite had called him her gallant young hero; Louise had kissed him affectionately; his father had shaken hands very warmly; Uncle Luke had given him a nod, and Van Heldre had said a few kindly words, while there was always a smile for him among the fishermen who hung about the harbour. But that was all; he was still Van Heldre’s clerk, and with a dislike to his position, which had become intensified since Madelaine had grown cold, and her intimacy with Leslie had seemed to increase. “Look here,” said Pradelle; “it’s time I was off.”
“Why? What for?” said Harry, as they sat among the rocks.
“Because I feel as if I were being made a fool.”
“Why, every one is as civil to you as can be. My father—”
“Oh, yes; the old man’s right enough.”
“My aunt.”
“Yes, wish she wasn’t so old, Harry, and had some money; I’d marry her.”