The Haute Noblesse: A Novel. Fenn George Manville
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Nine
In Office Hours
“Now, my dear Mr Crampton, believe me, I am only actuated by a desire to do good.”
“That’s exactly what actuates me, sir, when I make bold, after forty years’ service with you and your father, to tell you that you have made a great mistake.”
“All men make mistakes, Crampton,” said Van Heldre, to his plump, grey, stern-looking head clerk.
“Yes, sir; but if they are then worth their salt they see where they have made a mistake, and try and correct it. We did not want him.”
“As far as actual work to be done, no; but I will tell you plainly why I took on the young man. I wish to help my old friend in a peculiarly troubled period of his life.”
“That’s you all over, Mr Van Heldre,” said the old clerk, pinching his very red nose, and then arranging his thin hair with a pen-holder; “but I can’t feel that it’s right. You see the young man don’t take to his work. He comes and goes in a supercilious manner, and treats me as if I were his servant.”
“Oh, that will soon pass off, Crampton.”
“I hope so, Mr Van Heldre, sir, but his writing’s as bad as a schoolboy’s.”
“That will improve.”
“He’s always late of a morning.”
“I’ll ask him to correct that.”
“And he’s always doing what I hate in a young man, seeing how short is life, sir, and how soon we’re gone – he’s always looking at the clock and yawning.”
“Never mind, Crampton, he’ll soon give up all that sort of thing. The young man is like an ill-trained tree. He has grown rather wild, but now he has been transplanted to an orderly office, to be under your constant supervision, he will gradually imbibe your habits and precision. It will be his making.”
“Now, now, now,” said the old clerk, shaking his head, “that’s flattering, sir. My habits and precision. No, no, sir; I’m a very bad clerk, and I’m growing old as fast as I can.”
“You are the best clerk in the west of England, Crampton, and you are only growing old at the customary rate. And now to oblige me, look over these little blemishes in the young man’s character. There is a good deal of the spoiled boy in him, but I believe his heart’s right; and for more reasons than one I want him to develop into a good man of business – such a one as we can make of him if we try.”
“Don’t say another word, Mr Van Heldre. You know me, and if I say as long as the young man is honest and straightforward I’ll do my best for him, I suppose that’s sufficient.”
“More than sufficient, Crampton.”
“But you know, sir, he ought to have made some little advance in a month.”
“No, no, Crampton,” said Van Heldre, smiling, “he has not grown used to the new suit yet: have patience, and he’ll come right.”
“That’s enough, sir,” said Crampton, climbing on to a high stool in front of a well-polished desk, “now for business. The Saint Aubyn has taken in all her cargo, and will sail to-morrow. We ought soon to have news of the Madelaine. By the way, I hope Miss Madelaine’s quite well, sir. Haven’t seen her for a day and a half.”
“Quite well, Crampton.”
“That’s right, sir,” said the old man, smiling and rubbing his hands. “Bless her! I’ve only one thing against her. Why wasn’t she a boy?”
Van Heldre smiled at his old confidential man, who still rubbed his hands softly, and gazed over his silver-rimmed spectacles at a file of bills of lading hanging from the wall.
“What a boy she would have made, and what a man I could have made of him! Van Heldre and Son once more, as it ought to be. I’d have made just such a man of business of him as I made of you. Going, sir?”
“Yes, I’m going up to Tolzarn. By the way, send Mr Henry Vine up to me about twelve.”
“Yes,” said Crampton, beginning to write away very busily. “I suppose he’ll come?”
“Of course, of course,” said Van Heldre hastily, and leaving the office he went into the house just as Mrs Van Heldre had made her way into the hall to cover up her bullfinch’s cage; and her hand was upon the bird organ when she heard her husband’s step, when, colouring like a girl, she hurried up-stairs.
Van Heldre crossed the hall and entered the morning-room, where Madelaine was busy with her needle.
She looked at him in an inquiring way, to which he had become accustomed during the past month, and in accordance with an unwritten contract.
“No, my dear, not come yet.”
Madelaine’s countenance changed as she saw her father glance at his watch, and she involuntarily darted a quick look at the clock on the chimney-piece.
“I’m going up to the works,” continued Van Heldre. “Back before one. Morning.”
Madelaine resumed her work for a few minutes, and then rose to stand where, unseen, she could watch the road. She saw her father go by up the valley, but her attention was turned toward the sea, from which direction Harry Vine would have to come.
She stood watching for nearly a quarter of an hour before she heard a familiar step, and then the young man passed smoking the end of a cigar, which he threw away before turning in at the way which led to Van Heldre’s offices.
Directly after, as Madelaine sat looking very thoughtful over her work, there was the quick patter of Mrs Van Heldre’s feet.
“Madelaine, my dear,” she said as she entered; “I thought you said that Mr Pradelle had gone away a fortnight ago.”
“I did, mamma.”
“Well, then, he has come back again.”
“Back again?” said Madelaine, letting her work fall in her lap.
“Yes, I was at the up-stairs window just now, and I saw him pass as I was looking out for Harry Vine. He’s very late this morning, and it does make papa so vexed.”
It was late, for instead of being nine o’clock, the clock in the office was on the stroke of ten as Harry Vine hurriedly entered, and glanced at the yellowy-white faced dial.
“Morning, Mr Crampton. I say that clock’s fast, isn’t it?”
“Eh? fast?” said the old man grimly. “No, Mr Harry Vine; that’s a steady old time-keeper, not a modern young man.”
“Disagreeable old hunks,” said Harry to himself, as he hung up his hat. “Bad headache this morning, Mr Crampton, thought I shouldn’t be able to come.”
“Seidlitz powder,” said the old man, scratching away with his pen, and without looking up.
“Eh?”
“Dissolve the blue in a tumbler of warm water.”
“Bother!” muttered Harry, frowning.
“The white in a wineglassful of cold. Pour one into the other – and – drink – while effervescing.”
The intervals between some of the words were filled up by scratches of the pen.
“Headache, eh? Bad things, sir, bad things.”
He removed himself from his stool and went to the safe in the inner office, where Van Heldre generally sat, and Harry raised his head from his desk and listened, as he heard the rattling of keys and the clang of a small iron door.
“Yes, bad things headaches, Mr Harry,” said the old man returning. “Try early hours for ’em, and look here: Mr Van Heldre says – ”
“Has he been in the office this morning?” cried Harry hastily.
“Yes, sir, he came in as soon as I’d come, nine to the minute, and he