The Haute Noblesse: A Novel
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She drew back sharply from the window, for just then a closely-veiled figure came hurriedly into view, her goal being evidently the old granite house.
Aunt Marguerite’s eyes sparkled with vindictive malice.
“Yes,” she said, half aloud; “and you too, madam – you had your share in the poor boy’s death. Oh! how I do hate your wretched Dutch race.”
She crossed to the door, and opened it slightly, to stand listening, to hear voices a few minutes later, and then steps on the stairs, which stopped, after a good deal of whispering, at her niece’s door, after which there was a low tapping, and Liza’s voice arose:
“Miss Louise! Miss Louise!”
“Yes, knock again. She will not answer. One of them has some pride left.”
“Miss Louise, Miss Louise, you’re wanted, please.”
There was no reply to the repeated knocks. There was a smile of satisfaction on Aunt Marguerite’s face as she drew herself up, and opened her fan as if at some presentation, or about to dismiss an intruder; but her countenance changed directly, and, forgetting her dignity, she craned forward, for all at once a pleading voice arose.
“Louise, Louise, for pity’s sake let me in.”
There was a short pause, and then the sharp sound of the shooting back of a bolt and the creaking of a door. Then it was closed again, and as the listener threw her own open there came the faint sound of a passionate cry and a low sobbing.
Aunt Marguerite stepped out into the passage, her head erect, and her stiff silk training noisily behind her, to go to her own room, but the way was barred by the presence of Liza, who was down on the floor crouched in a heap, sobbing passionately, with her apron up to her eyes.
“Get up!” said Aunt Marguerite imperiously, as she struck at the girl’s hand with her fan.
Liza leaped to her feet, looked aghast at the figure before her, and fled, while Aunt Marguerite strode into her room, and loudly closed the door. As she passed her niece’s chamber, Louise was clasped tightly in Madelaine’s arms, and it was long before the two girls were seated, hand in hand, gazing wonderingly at the inroads made so soon by grief.
“It is so horrible – all so horrible,” whispered Madelaine at last, for the silence was for long unbroken, save by an occasional sob.
Louise looked at her wildly, and then burst into a passion of tears.
“Maddy!” she cried at last, “is it all true?”
They could say no more, but sat gathering comfort from the sympathetic grasp of each other’s hands.
At last, in a dull heavy way, the words came, each sounding as if the speaker were in despair, but willing to suffer so that her companion might be spared, and by degrees Louise learned that Van Heldre still lay in the same insensible state, the awaking from which Madelaine shrank from with horror, lest it should mean the return for a brief time of sense before the great final change.
“I could not come to you,” said Louise, after a long silence, as she gazed wistfully in her friend’s face, “and thought we should never meet again as friends.”
“You should have known me better,” replied Madelaine. “It is very terrible, such a – such a – oh Louy, dearest, there must have been some mistake. Harry – Harry could not have been so base.”
Louise was silent for a time. At last she spoke.
“There must be times,” she said gently, “when even the best of us are not answerable for our actions. He must have been mad. It was when, too – he had – promised – he had told me – that in the future – oh,” she cried, shuddering, as she covered her face with her hands, “it can’t be true – it cannot be true.”
Again there was a long silence in the room, whose drawn-down blind turned the light of a sickly yellow hue. But the window was open, and from time to time the soft sea breeze wafted the blind inward, and a bright ray of sunny light streamed in like hope across the two bent forms.
“I must not stay long,” said Madelaine. “I shiver whenever I am away, lest – ”
“No, no,” cried Louise, passionately, as she strained her friend to her breast, “we will not despond yet. All this comes across our lives like a dense black cloud, and there must be a great change in the future. Your father will recover.”
“I pray that he may,” said Madelaine.
“And I will not believe that Harry is – dead.”
“I pray that he may be alive, Louy, to come some time in the future to ask forgiveness of my father. For I did love him, Louy; at first as a sister might the brother with whom she had played from childhood, and of late in sorrow and anguish, as the woman whom he had always said he loved. I fought with it, oh, so hard, but the love was there, and even when I was most hard and cold – ”
“And he believed you cared for Mr Leslie.”
The words slipped from Louise Vine’s lips like an escaped thought, and the moment they were spoken, she shrank away with her pale cheeks crimsoning, and she gazed guiltily at her companion.
“It was a foolish fancy on his part,” said Madelaine gravely. “I cannot blame myself for anything I ever said or did to your brother. If I had been wrong, my lapse would have come upon me now like the lash of a whip; but in the long hours of my watches by my poor father’s bed, I have gone over it again and again, and I cannot feel that I have been wrong.”
Louise drew her more closely to her breast.
“Maddy,” she whispered, “years will have to pass, and we must separate. The pleasant old days must end, but some day, when all these horrors have been softened by time, we may call each other sister again, and in the long dark interval you will not forget.”
“Forget!” said Madelaine, with a smile full of sadness. “You know that we shall always be unchanged.”
“Going – so soon?” exclaimed Louise, for her friend had risen.
“He is lying yonder,” said Madelaine. “I must go back. I could not stay away long from you though without a word.”
They stood for a few moments clasped in each other’s arms, and then in a slow, sad way, went hand in hand towards the door. As she opened it for her friend to pass through, Louise shrank back from the burst of sunshine that flooded the passage, and placed her hand across her eyes. It was a momentary act, and then she drew a long breath and followed her friend, as if her example had given the needed strength, and acted as an impetus to raise her from the lethargic state into which she had fallen.
In this spirit she went down with her to the door, when, as their steps sounded on the hall floor, the dining-room door was thrown open quickly, and Vine stood in the darkened opening, gazing wildly at the veiled figure of Madelaine.
“Van Heldre?” he said, in an excited whisper; “not – not – ” He could not finish his speech, but stood with his hand pressed to his throat.
“My father’s state is still unchanged,” said Madelaine gently.
“Then there may yet be hope, there may yet be hope,” said Vine hoarsely as he shrank once more into the darkened room.
“Mr Vine,” said Madelaine piteously, as she stood with extended hands asking sympathy in her grievous trouble.
“My child!” he cried, as he caught her to his breast, and she clung there sobbing bitterly. Then he softly disengaged her hands from his neck. “No, no,” he said dreamily, “I am guilty too; I must never take you to my heart again.”
“What have I done?” sobbed Madelaine, as she clung to him still.
“You?” he said fondly. “Ah! it was once my dream that you would be more and more my child. Little Madelaine!”
He drew her to his breast again, kissed her with spasmodic eagerness, and then held out a hand to Louise, who flew to his breast as with an angry, malicious look, Aunt Marguerite advanced to the end of the landing and looked down at the sobbing group.
“Good-bye!” whispered the stricken man hoarsely, “good-bye, my child. I am weak and helpless. I hardly know what I say; but you must come here no more. Good-bye.”
He turned from them hastily, and glided back into the darkened room, where Louise followed him, as Madelaine went slowly down toward the town.
Vine was seated before the empty grate, his head resting on his hand, as Louise went to his side, and he started as if from a dream when she touched his shoulder.
“You, my child?” he said, sinking back. “Ah, stay with me – pray with me. It is so hard to bear alone.”
Chapter Thirty Five
The Old Watchdog
The silence as if of death reigned for days and days at Van Heldre’s house, which, unasked, old Crampton had made his residence. In a quiet furtive way he had taken possession of the inner office, to which he had brought from his own house a sofa-cushion and pillow, carrying them there one dark night unseen, and at times, no doubt, he must have lain down and slept; but to all there it was a mystery when he did take his rest.
If Mrs Van Heldre called him to partake of a meal he came. If he was forgotten he ate one of a store of captain’s biscuits which he kept in his desk along with his very strong tobacco, which flavoured the said biscuits in a way that, being a regular smoker, he did not notice, while at ten o’clock he regularly went out into the yard to have his pipe. He was always ready to sit up and watch, but, to his great annoyance, he had few opportunities, the task being shared between Madelaine and her mother.
As to the business of the office, that went on as usual as far as the regular routine was concerned, everything fresh being put back till the principal resumed his place at his desk. Bills of lading, the smelting-house accounts bank deposits, and the rest, all were attended to, just as if Van Heldre had been there instead of lying above between life and death. From time to time Mrs Van Heldre came down to him to beg that he would ask for everything he wanted.
“I cannot help neglecting you, Mr Crampton,” she said with her hands playing about the buttons of her dress.
“Never you mind about me, ma’am,” he said, admonishing her with a pen-holder. “I’m all right, and waiting to take my turn.”
“Yes, yes, you’re very good, Mr Crampton, and you will see that everything goes on right, so that when he comes down he may find that we have not neglected any single thing.”
Crampton frowned, but his face grew smooth again as he looked at the little anxious countenance before him.
“Don’t you be afraid, ma’am. If Mr Van Heldre came down to-day everything is ready for him – everything.”
“Yes, of course, Mr Crampton. I might have known it. But I can’t help feeling anxious and worried about things.”
“Naturally, ma’am, naturally; and I’ve been trying to take all worry away from you about the business. Everything is quite right. Ah!” he said as the little woman hurried away from the office, “if Miss Maddy would only talk to me like that. But she won’t forgive me, and I suppose she never will.” He made an entry and screwed up his lips, as he dipped a pen in red ink and ruled a couple of lines, using the ebony ruler which had laid his master low. “Poor girl! I never understood these things; but they say love makes people blind and contrary, and so it is that she seems to hate me, a man who wouldn’t rob her father of a penny, and in her quiet hiding sort of way worships the man who robbed him of five hundred pounds, and nearly killed him as well. Ah! it’s a curious world.”
“I’ve – I’ve brought you a glass of wine and a few biscuits, Mr Crampton,” said Mrs Van Heldre, entering, and speaking in her pleasant prattling way. Then she set down a tray, and hurried out before he could utter his thanks.
“Good little woman,” said Crampton. “Some people would have brought a glass of wine and not the decanter. Well, yes, ma’am, I will have a glass of wine, for I feel beat out.”
He poured out a glass of good old sherry, held it up to the light, and closed one eye.
“Your health, Mr Van Heldre,” he said solemnly. “Best thing I can wish you. Yours, Mrs Van Heldre, and may you never be a widow. Miss Madelaine, your health, my dear, and may your eyes be opened. I’m not such a bad man as you think.”
He drank the glass of wine, and then made a grimace.
“Sweet biscuits,” he said, “only fit for children. Hah, well! Eh? What’s the matter?”
He had heard a cry, and hurrying across the office, he locked the door, and ran down the glass corridor to the house.
“Worse, ma’am, worse?” he cried, as Mrs Van Heldre came running down the stairs and into the dining-room, where she plumped herself on the floor, and held her hands to her lips to keep back the hysterical sobs which struggled for vent.
“Shall I run for the doctor, ma’am?”
“No, no!” cried Mrs Van Heldre, in a stifled voice, with her mouth still covered. “Better.”
“Better?”
She nodded violently.
“Then it was very cruel of you, ma’am,” said the old man, plaintively. “I thought – I thought – ”
Crampton said no more, but he walked to the window with his face buried in his great yellow silk handkerchief, blowing his nose with a continuity and force which became at last so unbearable that Mrs Van Heldre went out into the hall.
She went back soon into the dining-room where Crampton was waiting anxiously.
“He looked at me when I was in the room with my darling child, Mr Crampton, and his lips parted, and he spoke to me, and I was obliged to come away, for fear I should do him harm.”
“Come away, ma’am! and at a time like that!” said Crampton, angrily.
Mrs Van Heldre drew herself up with dignity.
“My child signed to me to go,” she said quietly; and then with her eyes brimming over with tears, “Do you think I would not have given the world to stay?”
At that moment Madelaine came quickly and softly into the room.
“He is sleeping,” she whispered excitedly; “he looked at me and smiled, and then his eyes closed and he seemed to go into a calm sleep, not that terrible stupor, but sleep. Mother, come and see – it must be sleep.”
Old Crampton was left alone to begin pacing the room excitedly for a few minutes, when Madelaine came down once more.
“Pray go for Dr Knatchbull!” she cried piteously. “But isn’t he – ”
“We do not know – we are afraid to hope – pray, pray go.”
“She hasn’t spoken so gently since that night,” muttered Crampton, as he hurried down the street. “Poor girl! it is very hard; and this may be only the change before – No, I won’t think that,” cried the old clerk, and he broke into a run.
Chapter Thirty Six
Crampton Reports Progress
“Yes,” said Dr Knatchbull, confidently; “he will get over it now. Can’t say,” he said, rubbing his hands in his satisfaction, “whether it’s the doctor’s physic or the patient’s physique, but one of them has worked wonders. What do you say, Miss Van Heldre?”
“That we can never be sufficiently grateful to you.”
“Never,” cried Mrs Van Heldre, wringing his hand. “Bah!” exclaimed the doctor, “that’s what you people say now that you have got to the turn; but by-and-by when I send in my bill – and I mean to make this a pretty stiff one, Mrs Van Heldre – you will all be as grumpy as possible, and think it a terrible overcharge.”
“Well, really, Dr Knatchbull,” began Mrs Van Heldre, ruffling up like an aggravated hen, “I am quite sure my dear husband will pay any – ”
“Mamma, mamma, dear!” cried Madelaine, smiling through her tears; “can you not see that Dr Knatchbull is laughing at us?”
“No, my dear,” said the little lady angrily; “but if he is, I must say that it is too serious a matter for a joke.”
“So it is, my dear madam,” said the doctor, taking her hand, “far too serious; but I felt in such high spirits to find that we have won the fight, that I was ready to talk any nonsense. All the same though, with some people it’s as true as true.”
“Yes, but we are not some people,” said Mrs Van Heldre. “But now tell us what we are to do.”
“Nothing, my dear madam, but let him have rest and peace.”
“But he has been asking for Mr Crampton this morning, and that means business.”
“Well, let him see him to-morrow, if he asks. If he is not allowed, he will fidget, and that will do him more harm than seeing him, only I would not let him dwell on the attack. Divert his attention all you can, and keep from him all you possibly can about the Vines.”
John Van Heldre did not ask for his confidential clerk for two days more, the greater part of which time he spent in sleep; but in the intervals he talked in a low voice to his wife or Madelaine, not even alluding once, to their great surprise, to the cause of his illness.
“He must know it, mamma,” said Madelaine, sadly; “and he is silent, so as to spare me.”
At last the demand for Crampton was made, and the old clerk heard it looking eager and pleased.
“At last ma’am,” said Crampton, rubbing his hands.
“You’ll go up very quietly, Mr Crampton,” said Mrs Van Heldre. “If you would not mind.”
She pointed to a pair of slippers she had laid ready. The old clerk looked grim, muttered something about the points of his toes, and ended by untying his shoes, and putting on the slippers.
Madelaine was quite right, for no sooner had Van Heldre motioned the clerk to a chair by the bed’s head, learned that all was right in his office, and assured the old man that he was mending fast, than he opened upon him regarding the attack that night.
“Was that money taken?” he said, quickly.
“Is it right for you to begin talking about that so soon?” replied Crampton.
“Unless you want me to go backwards, yes,” said his employer, sharply. “There, answer my questions. I have nothing the matter now; only weak, and I cannot ask any one else.”
“I’m your servant, Mr Van Heldre,” said Crampton, stiffly. “Go on, sir.”
“That money, then?”
“Gone, sir, every note. Five hundred pounds.”
“Dead loss,” said Van Heldre; “but it must be repaid.”
“Humph! pretty opinion you seem to have of me, sir, as a confidential clerk.”
“What do you mean, Crampton?”
“Mean, sir? Why, that I did my duty, and stopped every note at the Bank of England, of course.”
“You did that, Crampton?”
“Yes, sir; and those notes are of no use to anybody.”
“Capital. Hah! that’s better. Five hundred just coming on the other misfortune worried me. Why, Crampton, that’s a white paper plaster for my sore head.”
“Glad you’re satisfied, sir.”
“More than satisfied. Now tell me: have the police any notion who committed the robbery?” Crampton nodded. “Do you know?”
Crampton looked at his employer curiously, and nodded again.
“Have they taken any one?”
“No, sir,” said the old man sadly.
“Hah! That’s bad. Who was it?”
“Well, sir, you know of course.”
“I? No!”
“You don’t know, sir?”
“I have no idea, Crampton. I heard a noise, and went in and surprised the scoundrel, but it was quite dark, and as I tried to seize him I was struck down.”
“And you mean to assure me, sir, that you don’t know who it was?”
“I have not the most remote idea.”
“Well then, sir, I must tell you it was him who had been robbing you ever since the first day he came to us.”
“Robbing me?”
“Well, not exactly of money in hard cash, but of your time, which is just the same. Time’s money. Always an hour late.”
Van Heldre turned upon him fiercely. “Crampton, can you let your prejudice go so far as to suspect that young man?”
“Yes, sir. I can… Suspect? No, I am sure. I doubted him from the first.”
“It is monstrous. You were unjust to him from the first.”
“I, sir?”
“Yes. But then how can a man who has never had a child be just to the weaknesses of the young?”
“I can be just, sir, and I have been. You don’t know the supercilious way in which that boy treated me from the day he entered our office. Always late, and as soon as he was settled down to his work, in must come that scoundrel with the French name to ask for him, and get him away. Why, Mr Van Heldre, sir, if I hadn’t been a law-abiding subject of her most gracious Majesty Queen Victoria, I’d have knocked that man down.”
“Pish!” said Van Heldre impatiently, as he lay back frowning, and looking very thoughtful. “I am sorry that you should have entertained such a suspicion about the son of my old friend.”
“Ah!” sighed Crampton. “Poor Mr Vine! It’s heart-breaking work, sir. It is, indeed.”
“Heart-breaking!” said Van Heldre. “It is atrocious. There, I will not speak angrily, Crampton.”
“No, sir. You must not; and now I’m going, sir. You’ve talked twice as much as is good for you.”
“Sit down,” said Van Heldre sternly.
Crampton, who had moved towards the door, slowly resumed his place.
“I am not too weak to talk about this terrible accusation. I am not going to say much now, only to ask you to throw aside all this prejudice and to look upon the mishap as an unfortunate occurrence. Come, Crampton, be a little broader. Don’t be so ready to suspect the first person you dislike, and then to keep obstinately to your opinion.”
“Better not talk any more,” said Crampton, shortly.
“I must talk,” said Van Heldre, more sternly. “Mind this, Crampton, you are wrong.”
The care, want of rest, and anxiety had produced a state of acidity in the old clerk’s organisation which had made him exceptionally irritable.
“Wrong, eh?” he said sharply.
“Yes; and I must call upon you to be careful to keep these fancies to yourself.”
“Fancies, sir?”
“Yes, fancies, man. I would not on any consideration have Mr Vine know that such a suspicion had existed in my office, and – ”
He paused for a few moments, and then held out his hand to the old clerk, who took it, and felt his own gripped warmly.
“Come, Crampton,” continued Van Heldre, smiling; “after all these years together, I trust we are something more than master and man. You have always proved yourself a friend in the way in which you have looked after my interests.”
“I’ve always tried to do my duty, Mr Van Heldre.”
“And you always have done your duty – more than duty. Now just go quietly down, and ask Henry Vine to step up-stairs with you. I must have this put straight at once. Crampton, you and my old friend’s son must make a fresh start.”
Crampton’s fresh countenance grew dingy-looking, and Van Heldre felt his hand twitch.
“Come, I tell you that your suspicions are absurd, and I must have you two work well together. The young man only wants a little humouring to make him all that we could wish. Go and fetch him up.”
“He – he is not here this morning, sir,” gasped Crampton, at last.
“Not here?”
“No, sir,” said the old man hastily; and he passed the hand at liberty across his face.
“I am sorry. I should have liked to settle this, now it is on my mind.”
Crampton looked wildly towards the door, in the hope that the coming of wife or daughter would bring about a diversion.
“Of course,” said Van Heldre suddenly, “you have not shown the young man that you have had this idea in your head?”
Crampton was silent, and as Van Heldre looked at him he saw the great beads of perspiration were standing upon his face.
“Why, good heavens, Crampton,” he cried, “you have not breathed a word of all this to a soul?”
The old clerk looked at him wildly.
“Ah! you are keeping something back,” said Van Heldre.
“Hush, sir, hush!” cried the old clerk in alarm; “for goodness sake don’t be excited. Think of how weak you are.”
“Then answer,” said Van Heldre, in a low whisper. “Tell me what you have done.”
“I – I did everything for the best, sir.”
“Henry Vine! You did not accuse him of this terrible affair?”
Crampton’s face grew gradually hard and stern. His tremulous state passed off, and he turned as if at bay.
“Crampton! Good heavens, man! What have you done.”
“I had to think of you, sir, lying here. Of Mrs Van Heldre, sir, and of Miss Madelaine.”
“Yes, yes; but speak, man. What have you done?”
“My duty, sir.”
“And accused him of this – this crime?”
Crampton was silent.
“Are you mad? Oh, man, man, you must have been mad.”
Crampton drew a long breath.
“Do my wife and daughter know?”
“Yes, sir,” said Crampton slowly.
“And – and they have spoken as I speak? They told you it was prejudice.”
Crampton drew a long breath once more.
“Don’t, pray don’t say any more, sir – not now,” he said at last pleadingly.
“They – surely they don’t – there, quick! Ring that bell.”
“Mr Van Heldre, sir. Pray – pray don’t take it like that; I on’y did my duty by you all.”